Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
×
hey everyone, who ever cares :)
about to take a long vacation from DA
see ya all ,whenever
:iconfree-palestine:


:rose:
I've found some time to make some order in my gallery; by moving the less professional graphics and photos to scraps. guevara02.deviantart.com/scrap… , it'd look better and easier for browsing, I assume.

I'm thinking of registering for another account for my photographs. This might be better for the graphic gallery itself.


Peace upon you all
إلى منال وشاهر


تنأى عن الأرض
تنأى القطارات بالراحلين
وحدها
تستعير المناديل شكل الحمام.

****
المرأة المزروعة على باب غرفته كراية منذ أن أخذوه نحو البعيد تلملم وقع كلماته وأغنيات فيروز ورائحة العرق المالح عن بلاط الممر البارد وتخفيها في أماكنها السرية في جانب الصدر الأيسر, هنالك حيث تخفي المناشير والذكريات وكل ما يقض نوم الحكومة

**
يا عنفوان الموج
يا قامة الزيتون
و يا اسم الراحلين نحو القلب
نامي !
****
المرأة, تلملم عن الأرض قطرات دمعها المالح وتخفيها في ثنايا قميصه المكوي في الخزانة المغلقة منذ دهر
حين أخذوه, لم يتطلع خلفه, وحين اختفوا فوق الجبل, سقطت من السماء عصافير السمّن والأفق اضطرب بصوت العويل

****

حين زارته قبّل إصبعها بشفتيه الزرقاوين من وراء الشبك المتسخ والبارد, ولم يقل لها سوى : كيفك
وعندما عادت, غمست الإصبع المضيء في قلبها فانفطرت النجوم, وسكر الناس من وجعهم البهيج
بتعرف يابوسريع إنو صارلي سنة ما زرتش قبرك, وأكيد انت مش عتبان, أنا هيك بقول لحالي, لأنو اللي زيك مشغولين بقضايا أكبر بكتير من المجاملات, ولأنهم صاروا أعلى من العلاقات الشخصية, هم ما عادوا أشخاص, هم تحولوا لحالة, لقضية, وهالقضية متل كل القضايا ما بنتذكرها غير بالمناسبات الرسمية, وفي الأزمات الخاصة, وفي معرض تأكيدنا على انو نحنا بننتمي للحالة, بالضبط متل المخصي اللي بيفتخر بطول زب إبن عمتو

بس مرات, بدك تعرف, إنو بتذكرك, بالأحرى كتير بتذكرك, رفيق, بالذات لما أشرب, ولما يتحول العرق لضمير كبير, ابيض, وحاد في روحي. بتذكرك وببكي.

بتعرف يا رفيق, إنو إذا بكتبلك شي رسالة عالإنترنت, بتكون هاي المسألة كمان جزء من هالإستعراض, لأنو الشهدا ما بيشوفوا انترنت, بتكون جزء من استعراض الواحد لعلاقتو بكل الأشياء الطاهرة والنضيفة, ردا يمكن على كل هالوسخ اللي بيحوّطنا.

يمكن انت تحولت لأداة, لأ: أكيد انت تحولت لأداة, بإيدي وبإيد غيري انت صرت أول شي أداة بإيدي عشان أقدر أحافظ على توازني بحالة هالإضطراب المقيم اللي ضربت كل القيم والمبادئ بهالبلد
وإنت صرت, عموما, دليل بنستعيض فيه عن هالرعب الغير مبرر اللي بنعاني منو كلنا, كبشر, من الموت, انت صرت الجواب, عملناك أكبر من الموت عشان نشوف حالنا فيك ونقول: في طريقة الواحد يشق طريقو للخلاص الفردي عبر الفعل التضحوي في سبيل الجماعة. طريق أخرى ملتوية للسعي للخلود يمكن, بعد ما ديلمون ضاعت, والطريق بيناتنا وبينها صارت محوطة بالسلك الشائك والجدار والجندي والجندي الصديق وباليومي المقيت اللي معبينا.

بس اللي بعرفو بالمقابل إن هالأسئلة الوجودية ما كانت تشغل بالك, انت كنت زبال بسيط, عفوا: مناضل ماركسي ومثقف ثوري, وقبل كلشي وبعد كلشي : زبال, و إنسان قلبه أكبر بكثييير من قدرتو على التحليل والتنظير. رغم قدرتو على التحليل والتنظير.
باختصار وفي كتير حالات: إنت كنت الدليل الأسطع على إن الفذلكة الأيدلوجية هي أداة بيستعيض فيها الناقص عن نقصه, عن عدم قدرته للوصول لقوة المثال اللي إنت بتمثلها.
هياتني بلشت أنظّر, سامحني

تجاوزا لكل هالحكي, تذكرت بشي مرة لما سهرنا سوى بالطيرة, وقلتلي انو اللحظة الوحيدة اللي يمكن الانسان يكون فيها صادق مع حالو هي لما يكتب قصيدة صغيرة ومش معدة للنشر, مش معدة للخطاب, ومش صالحة للطباعة على ورق.

هياتني كتبتلك شي صغير, كتبتو وأنا قاعد مع حالي ومعك, ومتل ما بتحب: ما نشرتو على ورق, كتبتو بقرنة كتير صغيرة وصعب حدا يلاقيها

1.
وحيدة
لكنها تغني

2.

أجمل من هذي الحياة
موتنا الكثير
الموشى بالهتافات
والياسمين

3.
"عيسى"

يسكن جذرك بطن الأرض
تحبل عين الشمس بعمرك
نسغ الشجرة
يصعد فيك

صدفة
تموت
واقفا
وأخضرا
ومديدا
كشجرة

4.
يسيل البكاء من اصابعها
يضوع العشب
بالمسك كفيّها,بالحناء
تحضن الرخام البارد
"ولا تحسبن"..
ترتعد الوردة في الكف

يخفق القلب العميق تحت التراب
والرخام
والزمن المتراكم
منذ استشهاده
lots of things to do..
hope to see ya all soon
I'm starting a new group thepalestinians.deviantart.com…
hope it succeeds to grap some attention to the Palestinian cause and push forward Palestinian Deviants to move forward to express Palestine
this server pisses me off!!

I've submitted several deviations more than 18 hours ago, and they did not show up yet !!
Theyr'e on their way to you: photos from Ramallah and Jerusalem


allahu akbarrrr
(la akbar wala teezi bas 3am batmanyak :D )

Translation to English:
"I love eating mansaf "
_________


The Above is the begginning of a poem I wrote today, it's name is "teezi" (which means hypocrodincalgondilistationally imblazed by others - in a short verse- ) , I'll translate it later and publish it on my refegerader (yel3an rab el engleezi  shoo se3eb)
Offt
refregerader, I mean that white box that you put the things in so they can be cold, ya3ni in arabic "tallajeh", as our great grandfathers (such as m7ammad hassan el mabayda)  used to call it (any way she wasnt answering the phone ) <-- yel3an rabha : she was dashering (ya3ni falteh, or in other words "circeling for the release of her hair) .
Any ways, what was I talking about ??

have a good night
I'm working on collecting some of my old graphics in order to submit them in da,
I'm Leaving DA
Be safe all
A poem by :
Mahmud Darwish
====
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope.

*
A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent
For we closely watch the hour of victory:
No night in our night lit up by the shelling
Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us
In the darkness of cellars.

*
Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.

*
On the verge of death, he says:
I have no trace left to lose:
Free I am so close to my liberty. My future lies in my own hand.
Soon I shall penetrate my life,
I shall be born free and parentless,
And as my name I shall choose azure letters...

*
You who stand in the doorway, come in,
Drink Arabic coffee with us
And you will sense that you are men like us
You who stand in the doorways of houses
Come out of our morningtimes,
We shall feel reassured to be
Men like you!

*
When the planes disappear, the white, white doves
Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven
With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession
Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white doves
Fly off. Ah, if only the sky
Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].

*
Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting
The sky from collapse. Behind the hedge of steel
Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank—
And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in
A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass...

*
[To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim's face
And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the
Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle
And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way
to find one's identity again.

*
The siege is a waiting period
Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.

*
Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment
Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.

*
We have brothers behind this expanse.
Excellent brothers. They love us. They watch us and weep.
Then, in secret, they tell each other:
"Ah! if this siege had been declared..." They do not finish their sentence:
"Don't abandon us, don't leave us."

*
Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes.
And fifty olive trees...
Added to this the structural flaw that
Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.

*
A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved
For my clothing is drenched with his blood.

*
If you are not rain, my love
Be tree
Sated with fertility, be tree
If you are not tree, my love
Be stone
Saturated with humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love
Be moon
In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon
[So spoke a woman
to her son at his funeral]

*
Oh watchmen! Are you not weary
Of lying in wait for the light in our salt
And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound
Are you not weary, oh watchmen?

*

A little of this absolute and blue infinity
Would be enough
To lighten the burden of these times
And to cleanse the mire of this place.

*
It is up to the soul to come down from its mount
And on its silken feet walk
By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime
Friends who share the ancient bread
And the antique glass of wine
May we walk this road together
And then our days will take different directions:
I, beyond nature, which in turn
Will choose to squat on a high-up rock.

*
On my rubble the shadow grows green,
And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat
He dreams as I do, as the angel does
That life is here...not over there.

*
In the state of siege, time becomes space
Transfixed in its eternity
In the state of siege, space becomes time
That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow.

*
The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day
And questions me: Where were you? Take every word
You have given me back to the dictionaries
And relieve the sleepers from the echo's buzz.

*
The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse
I did not look
For the virgins of immortality for I love life
On earth, amid fig trees and pines,
But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it
With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure.

*
The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations
Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph
How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me.
I first, I the first one!

*
The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I have changed.
I put a gazelle on my bed,
And a crescent of moon on my finger
To appease my sorrow.

*
The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement that does no harm, in fullest liberty!

*
Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart's health,
The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease:
The disease of hope.

*
And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior
And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me.

*
Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to
The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the
Blackness of this tunnel!

*
Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me
In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces:
Greetings to my apparition.

*
My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me,
A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees
A marble epitaph of time
And always I anticipate them at the funeral:
Who then has died...who?

*
Writing is a puppy biting nothingness
Writing wounds without a trace of blood.

*
Our cups of coffee. Birds green trees
In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall
To another like a gazelle
The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us
Of the sky. And other things of suspended memories
Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid,
And that we are the guests of eternity.

Translated by Marjolijn De Jager
just try seeing this
it might interest you
www.concert4palestine.org/goli…
Waiting for a glimpse
Is that something too much to ask for?
On this date, before 3 years..
I met her. The shine of my life. the grace of my existence. The Only possible clue that, in this messy misery, there's a ray of light.

Tribute to her...

"Ghost"

Can't you see I'm trying to write?
To get my thoughts down, to give my life meaning
I understand that the world revolves around you,
And your beautiful deep brown eyes.
Still honey run deep, a hum from within,
But I still need to write
How else can I express these feelings?
I'm probably the warmest place in the room
Which is why I have been so graciously chosen
I should feel privileged
Graced by your presence
Just  three years  since you appeared, was it fate that you landed here?
My beautiful ghost
Hoity toity lady
Leave me to write


Special "R"

I thought I'd found it all in you,
Someone on my level,
Kindred
Talk with no words, from inside to inside
Terrified
I may never find this again
How can I live with that thought?
Now that I have tasted the sweetest love
Simple, I cannot accept any less,
The others have nothing on you, how could they?


I wonder, thy  soul

Special, Special soul,
I wonder what I did before you came
Who did I speak to?
The way I talk to you?
Who mopped up my stray thoughts?
Or threw them back with a twist?
How did I cope before you came?
What did I give?
How did I think straight?
Who helped me to turn tears to a smile?
Or helped me realize how lucky I am?
Especially to have found you
Beautiful friend
Thank you.
Today, I "deliver" to you three graphics about Naji Al-Ali
Naji Al-Ali was assassinated in 1987. The small child turning his back to us is called Hanthala which means bitterness in Arabic. Below is an article that Naji Al-Ali wrote about how he created Hanthala. "Tanabel" means morons, devout of any sense.
"I had friends with whom I shared my work, protests, and prison days until one day they became "tanabel" running businesses and buying stocks. I was worried about myself from turning to a "tanabal" too and being consumed. In the Gulf I gave birth to this child and offered him to the people. He is committed to the people that will cherish him. I drew him as an ugly child, with hedgehock-like hair because the hedgehock uses its hair as a weapon.
Hanthala is not a fat spoilt comfortable child, he is bare footed like the other bare feet from the refugee camps. He is an icon that protects me from wrong and disarray and despite his looks he has a pure heart with a conscience that smells like musk and unbar and for his sake I am ready to kill anyone who intends to harm him. His hands are clasped behind his back as a sign of rejection during a phase that this region is undergoing with "solutions" offered by the US and "the system". I made the shape of his hands after the October war when I smelt the scent of developments in Kissinger's briefcase.
Hanthala was born at the age of ten and will always remain ten. At that age I left my country and only when Hanthala returns to Palestine will he grow up and exceed the age of ten. The rules of nature do not apply on him. He is an exception and things will only be natural in his case when he returns to Palestine. The child is a symbolic representation of myself and the group who lives and endures the situation we are all in. I offered him to the readers and called him Hanthala as a symbol of bitterness. In the beginning I offered him as a Palestinian child and with the development of his awareness he had a patriotic and a human outlook.
What are the political duties of a caricature drawing? Incitement, preaching the birth of a new Arab human being. Incitement is a historically well-known operation and is it not right to say what is right in front of a Sultan? Caricatures set life bare in front of it, spreads life on strings in the open air, public street, capturing life wherever found and taking it to the surface for the world to see where there is no opportunity to hide the gaps and flaws of life. In my opinion, caricatures preach hope, revolution and the birth of a new person.
The picture is the element of the suppressed because they pay a high price for their lives carrying on their shoulder the burden of mistakes committed by authorities. Everything they have was difficult to get and everything that is tough and cruel is surrounding them. They struggle for their lifes and die young in graves without coffins, they are always on the defensive in order to continue living. I am with them in the dungeons observing and feeling the pulse of their hearts, the flow of blood in their veins and I look helpless with no power to stop their bleeding or to carry some of their burdens. My weapon, the expression of caricatures, is the most noble profession.
I derive my facts from the poor people. Their children died as martyrs and they still sacrifice for Palestine. I started drawing on the walls of the refugee camps and the clubs when political awareness started finding its way among the people of the refugee camps. Demonstrations took place which helped us by coinciding the protests with the Algerian revolution in the 50s and with the July revolution in Egypt.
I defined my duty by grasping the same people in the refugee camp, in the south and the Nile. That's how I express myself and I am one of the tools of this great nation. My drawings are not for exhibition they are an expressive language. I gamble with my spirit to utilise them for the sake of my country and my cause. I learnt to draw in prison when other prisoners learnt handcrafting, poetry et cetera, and there I drew on the walls of the prisons.
The martyr Ghassan Kanafani who visited us in the club and saw my drawings, took some of them and published them in the magazine "Freedom". This is when I felt the importance of caricature drawing. After prison I went to the Gulf. I worked as a farmer, mechanic, electrician, but drawing was my obsession. I approached the magazine "al Tali'a" in Kuwait and worked as a cleaner and editor (with all respect to the editors). We would print the words and sweep at the same time and I managed to obtain some space in the magazine.
A caricature that expresses the price of tomatoes is a political message in my opinion. I draw for Palestine. When I left Palestine and lived in the refugee camp Ein Al-Hilwe, me and my companions obsession was returning to Palestine. We were children and that did not prohibit us from thinking about our cause and think of the ways of which we would be able to return one day. Any artist will die, whenever he is placed out of his home. The artist that does not resume his work with the people will not reach his goal. I am a man who carries his tent on his back and my people are the poor.
In Kuwait I was pregnant with Hanthala and I gave birth to him. I was afraid that the waves would take him away from me, far away from Palestine. Hanthala is loyal to Palestine and will not allow me to be different. He keeps me from cowardice and taking steps back. When will the people be able to see his face ? When Arab dignity will be unthreatened, and regained its freedom and humanity. However, the greatest struggle is continuity in spite of all contradictions. He is witness to a generation that did not die and he will not leave life ever. He is eternal.
Hanthala, who I created, will not end after my end. I hope that this is not an exaggeration when I say that I will continue to live with Hanthala, even after I die."
its my first time to the sea since 3 years, Its so funny that seashore is 1 hour away from me while I cant reach it, the Israeli occupation military orders are preventing us as Palestinians from going out of our cities, towns, and refugee camps. A whole people are detained inside separate cantons since 6 years, even more.
As I said, I've seen the sea; it's great to look at a horizon that isn't polluted by the fascist occupational orders, to touch the sea that free people all around the world were touching, to feel you're a part of this planet finally. As a Palestinian, a guy who lives under the last occupation case in the 21st century, it was like a miracle.
There was it; the whole of it, a window that enables you taking a peek @ her majesty "freedom"
I'm ashamed of my feelings, I wasn't happy there, I couldn't do anything but to remember grief and sorrow, my personal grief, my long lasting sorrow, remembered Issa, my comrade who was killed by an Israeli sniper in April 2001, he used to say "I'm thirsty to a sea"
For his soul, for his wishes, for the sake of my conscious, I couldn't take it anymore, couldn't enjoy it. So I got back to my prison, from the same dangerous way I came from, behind the backs of soldiers of the "Democratic tower of the middle east": Israel
I'm recording some vocal poems  by modaffar el nawwab, new poems such like Muhammad al dorrah, and RPG7
to listen to those poems you'll have to visit alhijaz forum
66.186.211.236/vb/index.php?s=
look for the participant تشي غيفارا or توأم روحي in the literature section