A comment on a Comment
Anonymous said...
I am an Arab christian and I totally agree with Raouf.
As for those who posted comments, the idea is not to debate on religions;
it is simply to suggest that all 3 holy books could have similar backward statements,
no matter what the interpretation is, and therefore it is not logical to criticize
one religion and pretend that others are more "civilized" ones.
Raouf, you're my hero!
Can I translate your passage so I can send it to non English-speaking persons?
Evy
Raouf comments
Yes Evy!
I like the way you describe yourself as "An Arab Christian"... It took me some years to combine Arabism with Christianity. First I consider myself an Egyptian atheist... Then commoner, then social justice fighter!
I think - though I am not very sure - that I am still a social justice fighter (if there is something like that) and proud also of my roots which are mainly in cultures descending from the ancient Egyptians, to Hellenism to Coptic, to Islam and Arabism. Now I like to think of myself as a pot of identities: born in Sudan and still keeping deep and pleasant memories about the places and peoples... And I have travalled and walked in Sudan so many times lately. And in three of my books Sudan is in the background. I wrote an in depth 16-article story about Sudan published in "El Quds" (London -November 2000)
Most probably, you are feeling the same about your identities.
I would like to read more about this and about you.
Why you do not begin now?!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
to Evy
Thursday, May 31, 2007
I am supposed to be completing my application form, and instead I spill this rubbish for you
If the truth, as Raouf says, can never be anything but hurtful and painful and harmful then the truth would alienate everyone.
Or rather that is what I fear and hence my typical nightmare:
I join a group somewhere, amongst which are some close friends. Some situation or incident provokes in me an hysterical response, in which I lash out and upset at least one friend, who I succeed in alienating along, of course, with the rest of the group, who subsequently and righteously turn their backs on me. This is the truth of alienation - it might seem interesting, but it is rarely genuinely desired. Scandalous and anti-social behaviour or displays of rage have been much glamorised and legitimised on film, but for many the fear of exposing themselves in such a humiliating and ugly way is so great, that we choose very carefully the 'embarrassing incidents' we relate publicly; those that we deem to be truly shameful we keep hidden inside where they remain, stupidly, corrosive.
Alienation is the hellfire that one is cast into by others. This is a nightmare I wake up from but I know will reoccur.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Lesson 1: cry more on public transport
It is a very curious thing that I tried to do everything conceivable to make me hate myself this morning, and instead, for the first time in weeks, I feel quite a lot of fondness for myself. My drunkenly weeping on the tube, then the bus, over the phone to my younger sister, and in the arms of my unsuspecting flatmate, made me such a pitiful sight in my own eyes too, that I don't have the heart this morning to also beat myself up about being a stupid fool. Is there a moral lesson to be taken from this night out where I embarrassed Andrea and was generally inappropriate? Yes, a strange one: I don't sincerely mean to destroy and prostitute myself - it is a complete sham, and it might be better in the future to cry over the phone when sober to my pregnant sister who I have been looking after for weeks and let her look after me a little, as I am tough but not that tough and my wretchedness will out itself somehow or another. And I am tired, and I am lonely Raouf. And I am not just feeling sorry for myself - I am trying be kind to myself and I don't properly know how! And I miss Egypt and I'm not sure what to do about that as I don't have the strength to go back now.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
You wanted something personal?
Raouf has accused me of not writing enough personal stuff on this blog, although I don't recall him spilling his guts...
I admitted to Andrea today that though I am no longer depressed, I am not happy. It is almost like a superficial physical discomfort that starts to manifest itself as actual suffering: something that begins as mere, comic discomfort - like suffocating in an ill-advised polyester dress in mid-summer, balancing painfully on broken heels and with no way to quench one's thirst or cool down - suddenly represents some more serious malaise, and becomes acutely unbearable.
The pressure just builds up and there is no release.
I had a brief fantasy: I would take four lovers and I would be fulfilled and happy and busy. But what if each of the lovers is in some way a disappointment. Then it would be better to have only one, or none, to deal with. I know you think love is bullshit, Raouf, and that I must unlearn my attachment to the idea of it, but something that I need I find is entirely absent in my life: some sort of comfort, some sort of ease, some sort of soothing presence that calms rather than provokes my ego. Tonight I do not want a thrill, I want a strong arm or shoulder.
Contagious Censorship
Recently I have been censored three times. Twice on that shitbook Facebook, and once on another blog. It is a mild and inconsequential form of censorship, and I don't yet qualify for a campaign by PEN... Nevertheless it makes me feel uneasy and a little angry. I have been wondering whether those subjected to state and religious and cultural censorship, internalise this urge to censor, and so perpetuate not only the silence on certain issues, but the lack of frankness, the distrust of piss-taking.
Friday, May 25, 2007
A lesson from Karamazov
A heartbroken friend who has been badly used and coldly discarded by a silly girl, asks me over and over again, how someone can be so cruel as to not reply to any emails - all of them cries from the heart beseeching her to have mercy on him.
It is true that love is mercy; it is not a democracy.
I told him that the lesson I took from Brothers Karamazov was that the people we most despise are often our own victims, not as we always assume, the people who have injured us.
Dostoevsky's old man Karamazov hates with a particular venom one local man: once long ago he cheated and harmed this man, and now his victim is a living reminder to old Karamazov's of his bad character and repellent behaviour. And so this other man is a nuisance, pitiful and worthy of his hatred.
We should remember this when we wonder why the Israelis and the Burmese government and the Americans so despise their victims and only wish to eradicate them so they can once again have a 'clear conscience'.