At the end of the Second World War in 1945, following the surrender of Germany and Japan, we were living in a ground-floor apartment on Hammouda Street, just a few meters from the southwestern outer wall of Abdeen Palace. This was due to the lack of available accommodation in my grandfather’s building at 24 Mostafa Kamel Street in
By the grace and will of God, I have approached the middle of my eighth decade of life. I often recall moments, scenes, and people who brought me happiness, and I record some of them here.
I remember the first apple my eyes ever saw—it was large, with a bright, glossy red color. I was three years old at the time, in 1945. I was
And it is not only writers and intellectuals who have been swept into this snowball of hatred; it has grown to include Jewish rabbis themselves. Dozens of leftist Jewish rabbis in the United States were arrested after organizing a protest demanding immediate aid to Gaza and an end to the blockade on the Strip. The rabbis staged a sit-in
In the restless moments of waiting in Cairo, I wandered between the ebbing of words and the depth of ideas, torn between the ache of loss and the demands of study and the future ahead.
I spoke to myself once, then again, then again—until I found solace in patience and summoned my unyielding resolve.
I remained in the company of my
The Voice of Hunger
In the hut of the poor, even dreams are halved —
Torn between sighs and silence,
Like broken lullabies caught in cobwebs of the night.
How long will words remain alive?
When hunger drapes the body like cloth,
And sleep drips from a leaking ceiling,
While dreams hang sharp — nailed to
