First love

Egyptian writer Hala El-Badry asked me to write a story about first love with 100 characters. Here is the result in English, also in Arabic translation by Hala. It will be published soon in Radio & Tv Magazine, whose deputy editor Hala is. Hala and her colleague, writer and president of Egyptian PEN Ekbal Baraka also participated in a meeting of Central-Asian and international women writers in August 2007, which I coordinated.

As I now watch the text, it seems some kind of mixture of "serious" prose and some more romantic genre, and it does not trouble me at all. Why should all genres be fixed and single-voiced? And why should we insist on avoiding influence of romantic fiction in serious prose? I do not understand neither points; I am in favour of hybrid texts and utilizing elements of various directions, even from romantic fiction (although not too much, and not in a too "sweet" way).

On a bright winter day in a skating field


I was skating rapidly througout the skating field. Other pupils were taking it easier and making small circles a bit further away. It was a very beautiful winter day in Finland: sun was shining against a very light sky. I was happy to have the feeling of speed in my feet, and being able to get rid of too many thoughts that were haunting my mind. Our professor was standing by the skating field. I skated by, and all of the suddenly my skates did not obey me any more and I was lying on the ice in front of the professor. Professor took a look at me, helped me up and hugged me strongly. Since I had no handkerchief, professor gave one for me. I took a deep breath and blew my nose. The sun was shining brightly, and I did not mind having been fallen down.


In this part of the town people never went to public hospitals, nor did they find their groceries in common super markets. They had their own private practices and little shops, where they socialized with their neighbours and relatives only, allowing even no look at other passers-by. In this part of the town situated also a certain house. It was a wonderfully decorated, beautiful house built in Jugend-style perhaps from the end of 19th century. Windows of the house were lit, obviously some people were there. I wondered who were living there, at least my professor, but with whom? My thoughts wandered, I took a longing look at the round window few hundred meters away in front of my eyes and remembered the skating field, a strong hug and coldness that turned suddenly into warmness, like I would have sipped chocolate after a long and thirsty trip in some deserted place. For a while I felt like I were at home. Maybe it was not the very first time, maybe second, or third. But it does not really matter, because they all were the same.


ترويها ريتا داهل كاتبة من فنلندا
يوم شتائى لامع فى ساحة تزحلق

كنت اتزحلق بسرعة على الجليد فى كل مكان داخل الحقل . وكان التلاميذ الآخرون يتزحلقون على مهل ويرسمون دوائربعيدة قليلا عنهم . كان يوما شتويا جميلا فى فنلندا . شمس لامعة فى مواجهة سماء براقة .كنت سعيدة باحساس السرعة فى قدمى . وبقدرتى على التحكم فى أفكار كثيرة اصطادت عقلى . كان معلمى يقف متفرجا على الحقل . وأنا أتزلج ثم فجأة رفضت زحافتاى أن تطيعانى فوقعت على الثلج أمامه . انتبه لى ثم ساعدنى على النهوض ، واحتضننى بقوة . لم يكن معى منديلا فاعطانى ، منديله . أخذت نفساً عميقًا ثم أفرغت أنفى . كانت السماء مضيئة ، ولم أهتم بأننى قد وقعت .
منزل جميل ذو زخرفة بديعة على طراز الجاجند من نهاية القرن التاسع عشر ربما
كانت نوافذ البيت مضأة ، من الواضح أن بعض الناس كانوا هناك . تسألت من يعيش هنا ؟ أدركت أنه على الأقل معلمى . لكن مع من ؟ نظرت طويلاً حول النوافذ . اتسعت مئات الأمتار أمام عينى . وتذكرت ساحة التزحلق ، وحضن قوى ، وبرودة تحولت إلى دفء فجأة . وكأننى استحلب شريحة شيكولاتة ، بعد رحلة عطش طويلة فى مكان ما صحراوى . للحظة شعرت وكأننى كنت فى بيتى .


ملاحظة :السماء فى فنلندا تكون مظلمة تماما ليلا ونهارا لمدة خمسة وستين يوما فى فصل الشتاء وباقى الشتاء تغرب الشمس عند الثالثة ظهرا تقريباً وهو ما يفسر أهمية لمعان السماء أو وصفها بأنها براقة ومضيئة . قوة الدلالة عند الكاتبة ريتا داهل أكثر من أى إنسان يعيش فى منطقة أخرى من العالم .

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