Letters from Guantanamo
BBC Wednesday, 27 September 2006.
from Sami al-Hajj... a man of peace.
In one letter Sami imagines cells like those at Guantanamo at the foot of the Statue of Liberty: "Inside there are creatures wearing orange clothing. It hardly seems possible that they are human (but) they breathe, just like we breathe, they have feelings just as we have feelings, sentiments and emotions..."
"Will one day the world stand for a moment of silence beside that colossal wreck saying, 'there used to be a stone statue here - a statue called Liberty?"
27.9.06
22.9.06
blessed.
Scene.
She cleared the table with furry, mumbling unflattering comments under her breath.
From the hills came the sun, strode down the paysage like a liberating army… shaking life from its slumber.
She looked out of the window, and felt… a little bit content perhaps, for her simple life, for her vineyard, for the quiet, for the sun… her minimalist existence.
To picture the world without her, and realize it would be exactly the same, weighs on her soul… even a fleeing flock of birds would leave more behind…
Insignificant. Light? Light? Free spirit. A little fairy wondering in the woods. Lonely. Rejected. Soon to be old.
She followed the sun to the ocean. Why do we love the ocean? Is it because it gives us the feeling of unlimited possibilities… how could we continue without possibilities… the possibility of something happening, someone coming, someone from the other shore, someone on the other shore… someone in the sky. Someone out there. On Mars, or beyond. Isn’t this why we are building space stations? She pictured herself running down the runway at Kennedy Space Center. running after the returning shuttle, waving a white handkerchief and asking “did you see him? Did you find him yet?”
Silence.
She cleared the table with furry, mumbling unflattering comments under her breath.
Unintelligible chatter flowed in from the TV. She turned it off, silencing and darkening the room.
Bright red light and monotonous light buzz broke into the room from the neon sign across the street. The room looked like a movie projection of her life.
She pictured people scrutinizing her in her living room, eyeing every object every line on her face… suddenly she felt compelled to feign happiness in front of her imaginary audience. She threw her shoulders back, wore a maniacal grin, and disappeared in the bathroom. Under the yellow brightness of the light above the mirror, she inspected her face looking for new wrinkles. She grimaced a lot trying to assess how many would appear in all possible facial expressions she might attempt during the day. Too many she reasoned, and started studying how and what she could conceal with the artful use of cosmetics. She pealed off her shirt, examined her breasts… suddenly, she realized that she is trying to salvage her youth. Salvage her youth.
Fear.
Furious mumbling. Table cleared. Floor crackled. Breathless.
He downed the rest of his coffee. grabbed coat and bag. and ran to start his day.
He stopped one second to think about the vineyard. about her dead body swinging from an olive tree, near a shore… another shore. No matter how deep he bares the scare… no matter… he thinks about her everyday, at least once… at least for one second. The sun running down the hills. Her body limp. Her breasts limp. swaying with the breeze… a white handkerchief clenched in her hand. She had a satisfied impression on her face… content, really… so serene… just like the vineyard… on a lazy summer day…
He shrugged off her memory, and brought back his thoughts to his wife… the image of her body last night, stretched out naked on the couch in the shimmering red light of the neon sign from across the street.. she looked so fresh. so young… and beautiful…
He felt… simply, blessed.
Scene.
She cleared the table with furry, mumbling unflattering comments under her breath.
From the hills came the sun, strode down the paysage like a liberating army… shaking life from its slumber.
She looked out of the window, and felt… a little bit content perhaps, for her simple life, for her vineyard, for the quiet, for the sun… her minimalist existence.
To picture the world without her, and realize it would be exactly the same, weighs on her soul… even a fleeing flock of birds would leave more behind…
Insignificant. Light? Light? Free spirit. A little fairy wondering in the woods. Lonely. Rejected. Soon to be old.
She followed the sun to the ocean. Why do we love the ocean? Is it because it gives us the feeling of unlimited possibilities… how could we continue without possibilities… the possibility of something happening, someone coming, someone from the other shore, someone on the other shore… someone in the sky. Someone out there. On Mars, or beyond. Isn’t this why we are building space stations? She pictured herself running down the runway at Kennedy Space Center. running after the returning shuttle, waving a white handkerchief and asking “did you see him? Did you find him yet?”
Silence.
She cleared the table with furry, mumbling unflattering comments under her breath.
Unintelligible chatter flowed in from the TV. She turned it off, silencing and darkening the room.
Bright red light and monotonous light buzz broke into the room from the neon sign across the street. The room looked like a movie projection of her life.
She pictured people scrutinizing her in her living room, eyeing every object every line on her face… suddenly she felt compelled to feign happiness in front of her imaginary audience. She threw her shoulders back, wore a maniacal grin, and disappeared in the bathroom. Under the yellow brightness of the light above the mirror, she inspected her face looking for new wrinkles. She grimaced a lot trying to assess how many would appear in all possible facial expressions she might attempt during the day. Too many she reasoned, and started studying how and what she could conceal with the artful use of cosmetics. She pealed off her shirt, examined her breasts… suddenly, she realized that she is trying to salvage her youth. Salvage her youth.
Fear.
Furious mumbling. Table cleared. Floor crackled. Breathless.
He downed the rest of his coffee. grabbed coat and bag. and ran to start his day.
He stopped one second to think about the vineyard. about her dead body swinging from an olive tree, near a shore… another shore. No matter how deep he bares the scare… no matter… he thinks about her everyday, at least once… at least for one second. The sun running down the hills. Her body limp. Her breasts limp. swaying with the breeze… a white handkerchief clenched in her hand. She had a satisfied impression on her face… content, really… so serene… just like the vineyard… on a lazy summer day…
He shrugged off her memory, and brought back his thoughts to his wife… the image of her body last night, stretched out naked on the couch in the shimmering red light of the neon sign from across the street.. she looked so fresh. so young… and beautiful…
He felt… simply, blessed.
9.9.06
Fire.
Time
once again,
closes its grip
on my broken world…
You wrapped my dreams
in a blanket, and took them
tenderly by the fire, by your fire…
and you waited… for the next morning.
The fire dies, mornings pass, and nothing
remains of that night but some ashes, a dream
and you… and I.
I can never forgive myself for making you cry…
I try but I cannot. For hardening your heart over the years
For all the screams. For the fights. For life. For you… and I.
For my hand on your back, for my hand on your chest,
keeping you erect,
while I slip away in the folds of another life…
another city…
another river…
another…
another…
another…
For you are the curator of all what we have…
and a lot we have…
to share with the others…
and we only have each other…
and a dream wrapped in a blanket by a dying fire…
For what once was… and will always be… US!!
Time
once again,
closes its grip
on my broken world…
You wrapped my dreams
in a blanket, and took them
tenderly by the fire, by your fire…
and you waited… for the next morning.
The fire dies, mornings pass, and nothing
remains of that night but some ashes, a dream
and you… and I.
I can never forgive myself for making you cry…
I try but I cannot. For hardening your heart over the years
For all the screams. For the fights. For life. For you… and I.
For my hand on your back, for my hand on your chest,
keeping you erect,
while I slip away in the folds of another life…
another city…
another river…
another…
another…
another…
For you are the curator of all what we have…
and a lot we have…
to share with the others…
and we only have each other…
and a dream wrapped in a blanket by a dying fire…
For what once was… and will always be… US!!
6.9.06
4.9.06
La chanson des vieux amants...
O mon amour
Mon doux mon tendre mon merveilleux amour
De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour
Je t'aime encore tu sais je t'aime
O mon amour
Mon doux mon tendre mon merveilleux amour
De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour
Je t'aime encore tu sais je t'aime
1.9.06
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