On the fifteenth of December 1981, a violent explosion shook the center of the Lebanese capital, Beirut, and shook the heart of our grieving poet Nizar Qabbani. A car bomb targeted the Iraqi embassy building there, flattening it. His wife and girlfriend “Bilqis” were among at least 60 martyrs among the ruins of the embassy,
From a bleeding heart, Nizar Qabbani wrote:
“Bilqis.. my pain.. and the pain of the poem when the fingers touch it..
Do you think, after your hair, the ears will stand up?”.
This is some of what Nizar Al-Mujua wrote in a poem full of pain, about what his friend Dr. Youssef Idris is considered the most beautiful and kindest literary message of sympathy from a friend who feels the friend’s pain. He wrote the following:
Excuse me, Nizar! I don’t want to harass you by my writing, but what should I do when comfort itself becomes painful, what should a friend do when a disaster befalls his friend that he expected from his worst enemy? What should I do, Nizar, if I don’t even know your address in Beirut to send to you, and if I do, I don’t know if it still exists or if all the mailboxes in Beirut explode and disappear has ?
I’m confused, angry and sad, I don’t know what to do. Your seat, Nizar, in front of the ruined Iraqi embassy awaits a miracle to restore to you the legend shattered by the wicked. You are the free bound, bound, helpless even to open your mouth, the breath of your sitting was the same as my imprisonment with my feelings towards you, the helplessness of the raging madman, my hands are tied, my mouth is chained, and my plane is chained, and I don’t know what’s more serious, my sadness for your belt or my sadness for you, or my sadness for your whole life that collided with our Arab tragedy, until we all plunged into its mud and dived until the mud covered the energies from our noses, and we could no longer?”
Youssef Idris says in another passage: “You have seen it a lot in your poetry, but you have never reached a tenth of what I or anyone else felt, as if you were talking about another Belqis, who deliberately hide her light and roll from the eyes of men; People’s eyes are always jealous, otherwise explain to me, by your Lord, according to what scientific law do you think this should happen to you? Lay flat and try to explain, I accept, even obvious lies I accept. To die like this from your Belqis, die like the situation that happens only once in a million times, to be an employee in an embassy and embassies are supposed to be the safest and most secure places, to be the embassy with pounding cannon bombs and in broad daylight, not a hideout dynamite or an airplane that flashed and threw in the sky. He carried it and disappeared before an eye could see it, no, this time cannon bombs inevitably took time to work, which was enough to stop the attack immediately. Any explanation, what is happening to us, us and us?
He goes on to say: “It is not death, even if the dead were a lover, and Balqis is rare. It is not death until a person finds a behavior towards him, to comfort, to neither comfort nor shed tears of helplessness. It is never death. And if his victim is one of his fiercest victims, especially Belqis, your muse, you are the delicate poet who really cries the death of a bee, for ugliness in the ugliest embodiment, and to embody treason in the most despicable way. , and the most horrible tragedy is immorality, not death but a sign Divine, her victim is true in your case, but the victim had to in her innocence, purity and be chastity, like the bride of the Nile, like the moment of prayer, like the first smile of a child, an able sign of God Almighty, He wanted to show us where we have reached, how we have become and how much our brutality has become as I mentioned in Your poem is brutal The brutality of monsters tremble and panicked, converted from his brutality, startled and fled. It is never a coincidence. Nothing in the universe happens by chance. That we have all become very hard, so that it is no longer enough for God to threaten us with hell, but rather a greater hell must be established in our earthly life itself, a hell that does not make sense of the facade of monsters cannot escape, even if they are like us humans.
Youssef Idris continues in his sympathy with the tooth of a pen of pain, saying: “You left me, with your poem about Bilqis, Nizar, in great confusion. And you depict for us the reality to which our differences have led , the reality of our image in the mirror, who among us is distressed, and how many tragedies have occurred and revolve around us, but no one touches them or realizes their existence, you have expressed in your grief a silent majority that no one find not to express it, as most Egyptians love the lives of those who are entirely from danger, and you alone have chosen to be stung by danger and scream, and woe to a nation whose poets are changed in shouts and curses poured out on it, and what a hell in which your enemies antagonize you and your friends stab you! What a wonderful feeling, feelings and words when Youssef Idris writes: “Your poem terrified me.
Everything that was said in it horrified me, and most of all horrified about my vision of the future, the future of our nation through it. Oh God, make what we see and what we live a nightmare. Inevitably, we will wake up from it and discover that it was just a nightmare. It was embodied for us by a poet’s poem. As for you, Nizar, any words with you or with you completely reveal the absurdity of any words we have come to say. You can roar wounded more than two hundred and fifty lines of steel sadness, if it has the flames of anger and “throw it” on a nation whose heart is stoned in repetition. The intentional mourning and tragedies until it no longer condemns what happened to the Iraqi embassy and Bilqis, and every Bilqis and every innocent, child or old woman, that a nation does not move what happens to him every day what happens to us every moment happens for evidence that either it is really dead, or its hearts are hardened, the enemies succeeded in petrifying Their hearts are on themselves until their existence and non-existence are the same.
Youssef Idris concludes his condolences to Nizar Qabbani, saying: “Because I know, and you too, dear beloved child, know that it is never like this, but rather this is how they wanted us to be, and this is how they wanted us to see ourselves helpless and chained, and we have neither the freedom nor the ability to express our movement, we suffer and suffer silently To the extent that we eventually petrify, and as a person a wild petrify and becomes the cruelest of all animals, and with the mentality of this savage he no longer cares to hurt or suffer. This cannot have left you in the greatest void, to a nation whose womb of thorns and dynamite is made, it is only the greater will of God, to put pressure on your heart, Nizar, because everyone mourns and cries, but only poetry is capable of mourning and roaring. Your wound, O Nizar, our wound, O every Nizar, roar, as long as death has become our fate from which we cannot escape, let us die while roaring.