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مدينة تخص المرء وحده

مدينة تخص المرء وحده
ترجمة شادي الحسيني
كيرياليسون ... كيرياليسون ... كيرياليسون
صوت الفرملة و صرير القطر و هو بيبطأ غطِت على نداء الراجل. ما ركِبش. المحطة في قلب المدينة ما بتهداش و فيها تبادل ما بيخلصش للركاب اللي بيطلعوا و بينزلوا في النور النيون البارد. رجع ينادي تاني:كيرياليسون ما تحركتِش من مكاني. فاتني القطر و أنا باتفرج على الراجل اللي كأنه موجود هنا بس عشاني. ما حدش تاني حيفهم. بالنسبة لهم ده مجرد واحد من اللي جننتهم المدينة.
الجيزة، 1999
ضوء خافت متسلل ما بين فروع الشجر و صابب من الشباك منورلي و أنا باوضب صور جدتي، صور لوشوش بقت مألوفة. كُلها وشوش تعبانة و مُبتسمة،وشوش شايلة حاجة أتقل من اللي ملامحها تقدر تشيله. نقدر نسميهم "وشوش مصرية أصيلة". حتى الأطفال، كأن السنين إللي قدامهم و تجاعيدهم متحددة على وشوشهم. صور جدتي كانت مفرجاني على القاهرة اللي عمري ما كنت حاعرفها لوحدي: القاهرة اللي لسا لحد دلوقتي ما وصلتش لأطرافها. إتصاحبت على وشوش دهشور و المنصورية و كرداسة و جزيرة الدهب و المنيل و الدقي و الجيزة و مصر القديمة.
وشوش أصدقاء جدتي و وشوش قرايبي و وشي، و الأماكن اللي كنا ب…

A City of One's Own

A City of One’s Own
Kyria Lysoon… Kyria Lysoon…Kyria Lysoon
The man’s chanting is drowned by the pulling of the brakes and the screech of the train slowing down on its tracks. He does not get on. The station at the heart of the city is never empty; there is a never ending exchange of travelers getting on and off under the cold florescent light.
Kyria Lysoon, he chants again.
I do not move. I miss the train as I look at this man who seemed to have been there just for me. No one else would understand. For them, he is just another man driven mad by his city.
Giza, 1999
By the dim light peeking through the tree branches and pouring through the window, I am arranging my grandmother’s photographs of faces which have become so familiar to me. The faces are all worn out, smiling; carrying something heavier than their features could carry. They could be called ‘authentic Egyptian faces.’ Even the children seem to have their years and wrinkles outlined for them.
My grandmother’s photography was a wind…

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Would they find her if they start digging, little brown Sugar?
She was so small before she died. Before laying her in the earth, I felt her furred body longer. More stiff. It's not longer Sukar, mommie said. The little one is no longer there.
An early morning phone call.
Assurance that Auntie Mona will be up. We're both early risers.
I know it will be a matter of 5 minutes till I reach the garden.

In the middle of everything happening inside me, I am slowly accepting that I no longer have a claim to that place.
Those who I belong with are moving elsewhere.
The thought of having to start a new relationship with another building is exhausting. I don't know how easy it will be for me and the new walls to be able to listen to each other.
Sukar is on my mind since last night. I keep thinking that when I left her there, I left her knowing that she will always be near.
That little brown thing that lived inside my pullovers and sweatshirts.
Now this image of the crack in the cement which ma…

January Suns

A Step Closer to God
March
If you ask, you will never lose the way.
I take after my mother in this, the constant questioning about one's whereabouts in the different cities – even in one's own. We moved calmly, enjoying the warmth that had finally come. The sun made the city glare back. It's one thing to ask about a place you know and a completely different thing to ask about a place to which you have no name. We asked and laughed and followed other tourists.
That climb. 1000 steps. The slopes. The steps. Slopes. Steps.
We'd take breaks, Sherin and I and take a picture, or just laugh.
As we rose above the city, we could see it better. From all around as we rose in that spiral of steps and stones and slopes amongst the green. The turquoise squares, rectangles and circles which turned out to be swimming pools on roof tops.   Right before that last part, with all the steps, we stopped. With this woman whose bed I have shared my bed when my heart was broken, who has shared with me…