Does the word strike the same fear in your heart as it does mine, reader; does it elicit the same disgust that such flesh-hungry men might dare invoke the name of God and his morals,
It does. In more words than I can express.
16 Matching Annotations
- Oct 2021
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What brings me back, again and again, to the war?
It's her life story, thats what bring her back to it. She has so much feelings, so many things she feels might explode if she didn't share them. even it means writing it on a piece of paper, through that, she's releasing some of the pain she felt.
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I was told, in a thousand different ways, that it was superior to Arabic, more accomplished, more intelligent, more likely to be taken seriously.
as it was told to all of us
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I want to make the writing as dissonant as I can, to recreate a sense of disruption, of an essential brokenness
She definitely succeeded. I felt every moment, ever feeling she wrote about.
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To become a story worthy of unfolding in the small confines of the mass media, you must earn your individuality by lifting yourself up and out of collective circumstance, either by the exceptionalism of your life or the spectacle of your death
It's not enough to just be yourself. you have to have an insane life story or something miraculous happening in order to gain yourself a name in mass media.
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And everyone around me drowning: how could I live with attempting to save myself alone?
Sometimes, that's the only option you have.
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They were light in English, yes, but also cumbersome and huge. Giant styrofoam shapes. When I carried them with me into the classroom or into the home of new friends, I had to struggle to fit them through the door.
Expected. Some people can't handle the reality of others. They can't handle the fact that others lead an extremely hard life, so they choose to ignore it for the sake of their own peace. Because once they're exposed to it, they will see the world for what it really is. A dark, harsh place. And many people aren't ready to face that reality.
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There are still no guarantees that anything will take root, or that the new body will not reject the new organ for being foreign.
This is so true. Because we don't always accept change or foreign feelings. we're so obsessed with our comfort zone that when a new, foreign change is to come, we immediately reject it.
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Translation is not just about transposing words from one language to another. But transplanting a feeling, a way of seeing the world, from one vocabulary of experience to another.
And she has done a perfect job in doing so
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I cry a lot while doing this work.
It would be inhumane if she didn't to be honest
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To translate a text is to enter into the most intimate relationship with it possible. It is the translator’s body, almost more so than the translator’s mind, that is the vessel of transfer.
I never thought of it that way. It's such a nice way to put it
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I see my mother pull out the key, ready to open the door, only to find a pile of rubble where our house once was. My clothes my journal my needlework our photos shards of our treasured blue cups ground into the dirt. Everything everything gone.
I can't even begin to imagine how she must've felt in that moment. She believed that she would go back to how everything was once and I can't imagine the disappointment and that sinking feeling in her heart
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My body vibrating, whether to the shattering of an earth drill or to the tension of what I read, I have witnessed them march in the streets calling for change, bury loved ones, resuscitate strangers, defy soldiers and snipers, wait in breadlines, pack their whole lives into vans and cars, undergo daily humiliation at checkpoints on their way to and from work, to and from university, which they have refused to leave or discontinue.
It's devastating that all this happens around us and we're so blind to it, and even when we do hear about it, we turn a blind eye to it, just because it's not happening to us.
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In the last few months, I have watched my city, Maarrat al-Numan, burn, I have watched my city, Raqqa, burn, I have fled Aleppo from the increased fanaticism of the rebels, I have fled Aleppo from the chokehold of the regime, I have fled Aleppo to Turkey, I have fled Aleppo to Lebanon, I have fled Aleppo not knowing if I will ever return, or what I might find if I do.
It upsets me how she never had a solid place to call home
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I have buried seven husbands, three fiancés, fifteen sons and a two-week old daughter
That is way too much loss for one single person to go through
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I have been threatened, beaten, strip-searched, thrown in prison, tortured and made to watch as my mother knelt weeping at the dirty feet of tribal leaders to beg for any information about my kidnapped father
It's only the first sentence and my heart is already broken.
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