The memories arrived without an appointment, as always, while scrolling through the ghost of my old Facebook account. I don't know how it was still there after all those years, perhaps, it is my E-mail. It is nice to receive a friend suggestion from yourself though, a reminder. But, however, it was a boy, oh boy moment, it is both liberating sadness and a pleasant reminder.
They were, mostly, materials to complete some missing pieces I'm trying to re- study for " the problem of being me".
The very page that had drawn threats from the shadows, from the grim faces of terrorists, and from the sophisticated cold desks of the governmental tyranny. It was a container of words that cost me dearly. Now it came as a reminder of a day when I learned that the weight of my own body could be used as a mop for a dusty, bloody, floor of an empty building. A day where the taste of my own blood felt like an acidic bitterness. It was a where one of their attempts to kidnap me was successful.
Of course, as completion of the Divine ironic sense of humor, they have become the very governmental tyranny of today. A Pretty sarcastic result of a world governed by fools.
However, again, as I gone through those " un-willingly" saved ashes, which I didn't know that some still there, I found a blooming reminder running through the years. I thought I had forgotten; I thought I had been forgotten. But they were there, a memory of my own mind. A wild, untamable thing. No one, no thing, ever truly been able to tame that force of being a human inside me. no one broke that spirit, though many tried. From the early school days, to the manhood. I was always the same force that can't be controlled, modified, or convinced without truer base.
Believe it or not, once, I held dreamy, rosy thoughts about God. And that version was my friend, I thought. A pretty cheap one, a god no one believe in; they only know the cheater version of him. This was before I discovered the truth of how he been tamed and marbled, or perhaps, before I could bear the weight of the truth.
In those days, I used to write poetic thoughts. Trust me when I say I used to write excessively. Perhaps it was the fear of dying unknown that I ever exist. Or that part of me wanted to tell the world what truly happened there. I was adopted to move in the dim safety of the dark room. (The darkness is not a metaphor; it was literal). A time where we saved candles for true necessities. The dark, the undesirable friend, protected us from snipers and at times where the power cuts was such a grace. I was the only one allowed to use the candles when my ability to sleep abandoned me. And so, my forgotten Arabic words were a dream born under a fragile, dancing light. More of a rebellion against the suffocation of dark, both in people and in life.
Now, as I learned how to listen. I can hear how the brilliance of that wild excess of my soul had been tempered, maybe softened by fear, or, perhaps it is me getting old, a wisdom after reading all those books about us as human beings. History and science. But, nevertheless, there was a wonder, still, where did that spirit go? The one who once wrote long, impertinent letters to God, to Santa (when I was a child) to Jesus? The one who dared to invite a God to leave his almighty presence, his pride and his fake majesty, and simply get drunk with me... to share me the glass, to get drunk all night, to dare and rise a toast of hope... a pretty needed one, (what an idiot entity I believed in) ...
well, it was like the last song of Don Giovanni facing his own burnish. Maybe like Dante mapping all the roads of hell.
I still remember the taste of vodka (not shaken, not stirred, only with lemon and ice), the aroma of Jack Daniels blends, beautifully colored burning liquids (my favorite at that time). It was the only lullaby strong enough to grant me the mercy of sleep. When beings able to sleep was a mercy you couldn’t have. And when they failed, well, my words used to become better.
Then came the exile. The “generous” tyranny had finally allowed me to leave. The general offered his kindness for a price, along with a more merciful promise of the terrorist's reminder “Speak, and no one will be left to tell your story.” at least he was merciful he wouldn't rape them, but his invitation made me the owner of the most expensive passport in history.
And so I have been thinking, what was the seed of all those words that got me into such trouble? I traced it back, down to the root, and I found a single, complicated word, conscience.
My parents, in their grief through the years, offered balms for my wounds through that time. But when the storm settled, they remembered that they were the ones who planted that stubborn seed of responsibility, and it seems it was costly, too.
It is a funny, terrible thing, to be taught a thing you sometimes wish you could disown. To wish, for just a moment, that you could lie, that you could twist the world to your advantage without that inner painful compass always, always pointing towards a hurtful direction, but it seems like having the same results.
This thought always led to a deeper, more burning fire. I watched Europe, the USA, Canada, the NGOs, open their doors. And if I’m being honest, I saw how they welcome the families of the very darkness that hurt my life and my brother's. terrorists and their families were so welcomed in times they closed in front of the true people who been harmed. I felt rage going inside.
my rage is not that because they offer them shelter, of course not. I, too, have opened my own home, where ever I exist, to host the same wounded wolves. I saved many from death, offered compassion for the circumstances that broke them, and I helped them escape the very death I couldn't... but some times I feel the regret… It is not a rage of my doing. I would have done the same again and again. I am a stupid person.
My rage is not because of that, No, my rage is a hotter, more specific laser-ed sharp fire, it is surgically necessity for my own being, my own beliefs. It is the rage of watching their black hearts remain dark, how their weakness was only a temporary mask, never to charge the inner dark, shed the moment they gained a sliver of power. And so now, I see them supporting the same tyrannies they once escaped, and I feel a rage that eats me from the inside, I see the injustice of life. I feel like a fool. I feel I helped evil dress itself in my own kindness. My own well.
My regret continue, in the same manners, to open my own self to someone I thought was different, to allow them to fool me, nicely, with the same pretentious persona. They wanted me to believe that she was honest, and I allowed myself to imagine that their might be someone, some groups that believe. but it turned to be that I was a fool, and they were nothing but someone having the same madness of religious deception. Not any kind of course, but sort of fanatically one with the same manners.
Of course I was thankful that such experiences taught me the truth I needed the most. I didn't know that such beliefs has no color or regions, it is a world wide madness. The results of 100 years of brain washing ideologies.
Though I had discovered a difficult truth the hard way. people are the same in every part of the world. When you search deeply, you find the patterns. When you can see clearly you will become sure that the true architecture of the majorities built on politics, religion, and most importantly, the very personal history, the common culture, and the raw material of their experiences. And ,NO, no one can change that dark, it is only up the person themselves to face the true color of their own hearts. That usually leads to madness. Only the dark power of their own doing can change that, when they suffer the results of their own darkness.
There is also a hard truth. When people show who they are believe them; never try to create a better version of them. Their dark souls know better than you. Deep down in hearts, if any left, they know. Lairs are lairs, cheaters are cheaters, terrorists are terrorists, and criminals are criminals. Don't try to give them another character, they already perfected their own game.
People don't change unless they are forced too, they just wear different masks. what you see in between, that version of regretful believing in redemption persona, is only a calculation of their past failures.
Human make mistakes, however, One wrong step is a mistake, the second is a lesson, but the third is the metal of the person themselves. It should speak volumes. When see anyone brokenly nice, it is not because they tempered by fire, not because the learned the lessons, not because they want to change, it is because the pain of their past failure in getting away with it. It is an addiction.
This truth was sharpened the other day watching the news. my mind was a blank page, while thoughts drawing lost in its own lines. When you see the madness been supported, celebrated, there was an inexplicable pain bloomed in my chest.
(...)
How? How I reach a place where I don't want to scream.
Why? I have given so much. Why does this pain not leave me?
Then another conclusion came to take its place, it was quiet and absolute.
I have never felt at home in my life. Not truly. Not in every society I have lived in, I was a stranger, performing a desperate, endless ballet to belong. I wanted home when they belonged to the darkness, i wanted to build that home. But when I realized that such home can't be built, another journey started.
But now, I know their cultures, their true beliefs and how they “other” those who are not like them. I know, with a final, liberating clarity, that I do not want to belong to any.
I known societies from the far east to the far west from the far north the south, and I know there is only few left indicted human beings. in hope to find them, or they find me...
Mean while, the essence of life, I see now, is not to find a tribe, not to belong, but, rather to create your own belonging. A one built on thoughts never relates to mad entities, fanaticism or people. A one only built with conscience. To build a home within the four walls of your own unassailable spirit, and to live there, at last, by your own well.
Never letting anyone to change that.
" partial of the thoughts for the problem of being me"
Journal November.6. 2025