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Fiction

Crime in Ramallah: Noor’s Story

By Abbad Yahya
Translated from Arabic by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp
In this excerpt from A Crime in Ramallah, Abbad Yahya's narrator Noor remembers his adolescence in Palestine, marked by the second intifada. 
Listen to Abbad Yahya read from Crime in Ramallah in the original Arabic.
 
 

At its peak, the intifada took over my parents’ lives. They weren’t explicitly affiliated with any one faction, but they tended to support anything Islamic, and the intifada fueled the continued rise of Hamas. My older brother’s wife was an activist, a leader in fact, and our family was very proud of her. I was never sure what my brother’s role was—I always had the feeling that he was a big shot in the Organization, but security considerations meant it couldn’t be revealed.

My father had a good relationship with Hamas because he was a shopkeeper and he would sell Hamas the provisions they then discreetly distributed to the poor. I suspected that my dad earned a tidy profit from Hamas, though he kept quiet about it all and managed to deflect attention through his generous donations to the needy—orphans, the destitute, and the families of martyrs and political prisoners.

Whenever anything of national importance happened—like the funeral of a martyr or a national festival—my family would always be there, every single one of them. From the way the organizers and activists interacted with them, I could tell my family members were key players in the movement, but I wanted nothing to do with it. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how smart my father was at keeping everyone satisfied, because we never had any trouble from the Occupation, or from the PA or Fatah. No one in our family was ever arrested or got mixed up in the infighting between the factions. My dad always knew when to come forward and when to stand down without losing face—a trader by nature. So perhaps that’s why he focused on everything outside the house, leaving domestic matters to my mom.

Mom was a pious woman and proud of her faith. The women of the neighborhood and prominent female figures from across the city would congregate at our house to discuss religious matters. Mom lavished hospitality on these devout women, and whenever any women came over who were politically involved with Hamas, mom would parade her eldest son’s wife in front of them. Of course, they all knew my sister-in-law. A single obsession guided my mother’s life: the “Organization,” or the “Movement,” as Hamas was referred to. Her beloved movement was the one thing that was always on her mind. I remember her delight, her almost drunken glee, every time she saw the daughters of her Hamas “sisters.” She’d gush about how beautiful and grown-up they were. Time and again, I’d heard her squeal, “Aren’t our boys lucky!”

Nothing made Mom happy like arranging marriages between the sons and daughters of the Hamas families, as if it were a way to secure the future of the movement and ensure its survival. Through the door to the sitting room where we received guests, I would often hear her singing the praises of one of the girls to the mother of an eligible Hamas brother. Mom knew full well that social ties were the most important things in politics, and anytime she hosted a meeting of women at our house, she would be showered with hugs and kisses.

My sister-in-law’s most important role, meanwhile, was finding new husbands for the widows of the martyrs. When a Hamas son is martyred, the movement takes over as protector of the widowed wife, and her future becomes a matter for Hamas, regardless of how she feels about it. My brother’s wife and her fellow activists saw this as a duty to be fulfilled, and they would work tirelessly to find a brother who would marry her. However, all the respect and special care that were lavished on martyrs’ widows vanished the instant they were married off. They might become a second or third wife to their new husbands, but the important thing was that they were married by whatever means possible. My sister-in-law achieved all this with her rare skills of persuasion coupled with her zealous enthusiasm for everything associated with the movement.

Whenever I think of my sister-in-law and her gang, I remember the day I peered through the keyhole and watched them in the sitting room, the day when I realized that the movement rested on their shoulders more than on the men’s. Given how she constantly drilled the sisters’ children and how, before she even asked “How are you?”, she would be testing them on how much of the Koran they knew of by heart, I am often surprised at the way people talk about “men of faith” and seem to ignore the “women of faith.”

My brother was happy with her. I’ve often tried to imagine his private relationship with her—this strong, passionate, capable woman in her prime, so mature in her figure and features—and her physical devotion to him, with her vast experience in everything.

Our family was blessed by its female members, women who were dedicated to serving the men and making them happy. This was always clear to see at the brothers’ weekly gathering every Friday morning around my parents’ dining table—you could see it in the men’s faces, sated with the pleasures of Thursday night. While on Friday mornings their lips never stopped reeling off the word God and muttering prayers for the Prophet, the night before they had indulged in the torrents of lust.

The plan was that I would wait until I was older before I followed in my brothers’ footsteps, with my sister-in-law finding me a bride, just as she had for nearly everyone in our family. She would always present the potential bride to the mother of the young man in question, letting the girl flaunt her knowledge of the Koran, and emphasizing her pious and God-fearing nature and that of her family. Then, my sister-in-law would drop in some comment about her physical integrity, as though it just slipped off her tongue accidentally. “The girl’s all in one piece,” she’d say. “From her hair down to her toes, she’s—pardon me—a virgin—God, forgive me!” Her apparently spontaneous “pardon me” was of course intended here to trigger a waterfall of associations where naked virgins splashed and frolicked.

Well, the whole thing about me getting married wasn’t to be.

At the height of the intifada, I chose to stay at home, unlike all the other guys my age. I didn’t go to any rallies and I didn’t throw any stones. I felt too young. I was afraid of the outside. I was happy to stay in and use helping my mom with chores as a pretext to steer clear of what my classmates were doing. I would help mom wash the dishes, mop the floor, and hang out the laundry.

Why didn’t I go out with them? Was I really just afraid? I don’t know. Perhaps what my classmates were getting up to simply didn’t inspire me, it didn’t turn me on. At school, I could see the thrill in their eyes, and in their bodies, as they boasted about their clashes with the Israelis at the city gates, as they described the smell of gas, the flaming tires and the blood, showing off about how brave and strong so-and-so had been.

A few months in, they were picking up empty shell casings from beneath the demonstrators’ feet. The demonstrations no longer got anywhere near the Israeli checkpoints at the city gates; now they were contained within Palestinian territory. There were a lot of weapons being brandished, a lot of threats being shouted, and there was a lot of waiting around.

The intifada uprising shifted from the streets onto the TV. We would all sit there watching Al Jazeera and Abu Dhabi, trying to keep track of what was happening and who had been martyred, trying to make sense of all the arrests, the shelling, the operations, the shooting and the casualties. Everyone was glued to their TV sets, watching events unfold. We’d laugh for an hour, then sob for hours.

With every assassination of a Hamas leader, my family entered an undeclared period of mourning, which meant that attempting to do anything vaguely normal brought nothing but trouble. I remember my older brother’s reaction once when he was sitting in front of the TV watching the morning’s news. There had been a major assassination operation, and as the names of the targets scrolled across the screen, his face seemed to crack, as fault lines of grief and rage spread across his features. His wife was sitting at his side, trying to comfort him, but she couldn’t hide her emotion, her tears. This was a seismic shock that shook them both to the core.

My brother got up to get dressed and head out. Dad asked him where he was going, but he didn’t answer. I spent the whole day watching TV, enduring endless patriotic songs about martyrs’ bodies and bullets, convinced that the next news item I’d see would be about an explosion or an operation in an Israeli city confirming my brother’s involvement. I couldn’t sleep until I knew he was back home with his wife.

I hated the television and I hated the long hours that everyone had to spend at home, and this was even before the paralyzing days of curfew. I hated it when everyone amassed at our house, robbing me of my privacy. I hated everything, and I especially hated the intifada.

At night, when everyone was asleep, I tried flipping between the satellite channels in search of anything other than news of shooting and casualties. My favorite channels and all the ones at the top of the list had been overrun by death, and it was only on some of the very last channels and the hidden ones that I found movies and music videos. I explored these with the sound off so my mom and dad wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t want them to discover that I was browsing through forbidden territory at the very moment when the channels where our blood was to be coursing were the news and the streets. I craved many things, but nothing that was going to be sated anytime soon.

From A Crime in Ramallah. © Abbad Yahya. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp. All rights reserved.

English Arabic

At its peak, the intifada took over my parents’ lives. They weren’t explicitly affiliated with any one faction, but they tended to support anything Islamic, and the intifada fueled the continued rise of Hamas. My older brother’s wife was an activist, a leader in fact, and our family was very proud of her. I was never sure what my brother’s role was—I always had the feeling that he was a big shot in the Organization, but security considerations meant it couldn’t be revealed.

My father had a good relationship with Hamas because he was a shopkeeper and he would sell Hamas the provisions they then discreetly distributed to the poor. I suspected that my dad earned a tidy profit from Hamas, though he kept quiet about it all and managed to deflect attention through his generous donations to the needy—orphans, the destitute, and the families of martyrs and political prisoners.

Whenever anything of national importance happened—like the funeral of a martyr or a national festival—my family would always be there, every single one of them. From the way the organizers and activists interacted with them, I could tell my family members were key players in the movement, but I wanted nothing to do with it. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how smart my father was at keeping everyone satisfied, because we never had any trouble from the Occupation, or from the PA or Fatah. No one in our family was ever arrested or got mixed up in the infighting between the factions. My dad always knew when to come forward and when to stand down without losing face—a trader by nature. So perhaps that’s why he focused on everything outside the house, leaving domestic matters to my mom.

Mom was a pious woman and proud of her faith. The women of the neighborhood and prominent female figures from across the city would congregate at our house to discuss religious matters. Mom lavished hospitality on these devout women, and whenever any women came over who were politically involved with Hamas, mom would parade her eldest son’s wife in front of them. Of course, they all knew my sister-in-law. A single obsession guided my mother’s life: the “Organization,” or the “Movement,” as Hamas was referred to. Her beloved movement was the one thing that was always on her mind. I remember her delight, her almost drunken glee, every time she saw the daughters of her Hamas “sisters.” She’d gush about how beautiful and grown-up they were. Time and again, I’d heard her squeal, “Aren’t our boys lucky!”

Nothing made Mom happy like arranging marriages between the sons and daughters of the Hamas families, as if it were a way to secure the future of the movement and ensure its survival. Through the door to the sitting room where we received guests, I would often hear her singing the praises of one of the girls to the mother of an eligible Hamas brother. Mom knew full well that social ties were the most important things in politics, and anytime she hosted a meeting of women at our house, she would be showered with hugs and kisses.

My sister-in-law’s most important role, meanwhile, was finding new husbands for the widows of the martyrs. When a Hamas son is martyred, the movement takes over as protector of the widowed wife, and her future becomes a matter for Hamas, regardless of how she feels about it. My brother’s wife and her fellow activists saw this as a duty to be fulfilled, and they would work tirelessly to find a brother who would marry her. However, all the respect and special care that were lavished on martyrs’ widows vanished the instant they were married off. They might become a second or third wife to their new husbands, but the important thing was that they were married by whatever means possible. My sister-in-law achieved all this with her rare skills of persuasion coupled with her zealous enthusiasm for everything associated with the movement.

Whenever I think of my sister-in-law and her gang, I remember the day I peered through the keyhole and watched them in the sitting room, the day when I realized that the movement rested on their shoulders more than on the men’s. Given how she constantly drilled the sisters’ children and how, before she even asked “How are you?”, she would be testing them on how much of the Koran they knew of by heart, I am often surprised at the way people talk about “men of faith” and seem to ignore the “women of faith.”

My brother was happy with her. I’ve often tried to imagine his private relationship with her—this strong, passionate, capable woman in her prime, so mature in her figure and features—and her physical devotion to him, with her vast experience in everything.

Our family was blessed by its female members, women who were dedicated to serving the men and making them happy. This was always clear to see at the brothers’ weekly gathering every Friday morning around my parents’ dining table—you could see it in the men’s faces, sated with the pleasures of Thursday night. While on Friday mornings their lips never stopped reeling off the word God and muttering prayers for the Prophet, the night before they had indulged in the torrents of lust.

The plan was that I would wait until I was older before I followed in my brothers’ footsteps, with my sister-in-law finding me a bride, just as she had for nearly everyone in our family. She would always present the potential bride to the mother of the young man in question, letting the girl flaunt her knowledge of the Koran, and emphasizing her pious and God-fearing nature and that of her family. Then, my sister-in-law would drop in some comment about her physical integrity, as though it just slipped off her tongue accidentally. “The girl’s all in one piece,” she’d say. “From her hair down to her toes, she’s—pardon me—a virgin—God, forgive me!” Her apparently spontaneous “pardon me” was of course intended here to trigger a waterfall of associations where naked virgins splashed and frolicked.

Well, the whole thing about me getting married wasn’t to be.

At the height of the intifada, I chose to stay at home, unlike all the other guys my age. I didn’t go to any rallies and I didn’t throw any stones. I felt too young. I was afraid of the outside. I was happy to stay in and use helping my mom with chores as a pretext to steer clear of what my classmates were doing. I would help mom wash the dishes, mop the floor, and hang out the laundry.

Why didn’t I go out with them? Was I really just afraid? I don’t know. Perhaps what my classmates were getting up to simply didn’t inspire me, it didn’t turn me on. At school, I could see the thrill in their eyes, and in their bodies, as they boasted about their clashes with the Israelis at the city gates, as they described the smell of gas, the flaming tires and the blood, showing off about how brave and strong so-and-so had been.

A few months in, they were picking up empty shell casings from beneath the demonstrators’ feet. The demonstrations no longer got anywhere near the Israeli checkpoints at the city gates; now they were contained within Palestinian territory. There were a lot of weapons being brandished, a lot of threats being shouted, and there was a lot of waiting around.

The intifada uprising shifted from the streets onto the TV. We would all sit there watching Al Jazeera and Abu Dhabi, trying to keep track of what was happening and who had been martyred, trying to make sense of all the arrests, the shelling, the operations, the shooting and the casualties. Everyone was glued to their TV sets, watching events unfold. We’d laugh for an hour, then sob for hours.

With every assassination of a Hamas leader, my family entered an undeclared period of mourning, which meant that attempting to do anything vaguely normal brought nothing but trouble. I remember my older brother’s reaction once when he was sitting in front of the TV watching the morning’s news. There had been a major assassination operation, and as the names of the targets scrolled across the screen, his face seemed to crack, as fault lines of grief and rage spread across his features. His wife was sitting at his side, trying to comfort him, but she couldn’t hide her emotion, her tears. This was a seismic shock that shook them both to the core.

My brother got up to get dressed and head out. Dad asked him where he was going, but he didn’t answer. I spent the whole day watching TV, enduring endless patriotic songs about martyrs’ bodies and bullets, convinced that the next news item I’d see would be about an explosion or an operation in an Israeli city confirming my brother’s involvement. I couldn’t sleep until I knew he was back home with his wife.

I hated the television and I hated the long hours that everyone had to spend at home, and this was even before the paralyzing days of curfew. I hated it when everyone amassed at our house, robbing me of my privacy. I hated everything, and I especially hated the intifada.

At night, when everyone was asleep, I tried flipping between the satellite channels in search of anything other than news of shooting and casualties. My favorite channels and all the ones at the top of the list had been overrun by death, and it was only on some of the very last channels and the hidden ones that I found movies and music videos. I explored these with the sound off so my mom and dad wouldn’t wake up. I didn’t want them to discover that I was browsing through forbidden territory at the very moment when the channels where our blood was to be coursing were the news and the streets. I craved many things, but nothing that was going to be sated anytime soon.

From A Crime in Ramallah. © Abbad Yahya. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2017 by Ruth Ahmedzai Kemp. All rights reserved.

نور

في عز الانتفاضة، كان أهلي مشغولين بها، ليس لهم انتماء تنظيميّ واضح، ولكنهم منحازون لكل ما هو إسلاميّ، وكانت الانتفاضة صعودًا مستمرًا لحركة حماس. زوجة أخي الكبير كانت ناشطة، بل قيادية، وتعتز العائلة بها، وكنت أشك بنشاط أخي، زوجها، لطالما شعرت أنه شخص مهم في حماس ولكن الظروف الأمنية لم تسمح بإظهار ذلك.

والدي بحكم عمله تاجرًا وصاحب محال تموينية، كانت علاقته بحماس طيبة، يشترون المساعدات التي يوزعونها على الفقراء منه، ولكن بطريقة متوارية، بدا لي أنه يستفيد من حماس كثيرًا ولكن دون أن يظهر ذلك، ويمكن مداراة الأمر بتبرع سخي يقدمه أبي للأيتام والفقراء وعوائل الشهداء والأسرى.

لم تفوت العائلة بكل أفرادها أي مناسبة وطنية كبرى، جنازات الشهداء والمهرجانات الوطنية الجماهيرية. ومن طريقة تعامل المنظمين والنشطاء مع أفراد عائلتي تأكدت أن لنا مكانة مميزة، ولكنني لم أنشغل بها. بعد سنوات أدركت ذكاء أبي، فلم ينلنا أي سوء من الاحتلال أو من السلطة أو فتح، لم يعتقل أحد من العائلة ولم يدخلوا في الصدام الداخلي بين الفصائل، كان ذكيًا يعرف متى يتقدم ومتى يتراجع دون أن يخسر، تاجر بالفطرة. ولذلك ربما كان منشغلًا بكل ما يقع خارج البيت تاركًا البيت لأمي.

كانت أمي تتباهى بتدينها، تجمع نساء الحي ووجاهات المدينة في المنزل للحديث بأمور الدين، ولا تتردد في الإنفاق بسخاء على المؤمنات وضيافتهن، وحين تجتمع لديها الناشطات سياسيًّا في حماس تستعرض زوجة ابنها البكر أمامهن، فالكل يعرفها. تلك كانت تحيا بهوس واحد وحيد، التنظيم، الحركة. كنت أرصد هوسها بكل ما له علاقة بحركتها، شاغل حياتها الوحيد. وأذكر جيدًا كيف كانت تنتشي وتملؤها سعادة غامرة حين ترى بنات أخواتها في الحركة يكبرن وعليهن ملامح النضج والجمال، سمعتها مرارًا تجاملهن وتقول: “هيك بنتطمن ع شبابنا”.

لم يكن يسعدها شيء مثل تدبير الزيجات بين شباب الحركة وبناتها، كأنها تشتري بذلك مستقبلًا للحركة وتضمن استمرارها. ومن خلف باب غرفة الضيوف كنت أسمع تغزلها بإحدى الأخوات أمام أمّ أحد الإخوة. كانت تعرف جيدًا أن الروابط الاجتماعية أهم شيء في الحياة التنظيمية، ولذلك تنهال بالقبلات والأحضان على أمي بعد ترتيبها لأي اجتماع نسائي في البيت.

وأخطر مهمات زوجة أخي تزويج زوجات الشهداء، تصبح الحركة وكأنها حمو أو حماة زوجة الشهيد ابن الحركة، ومستقبلها شيء يخص الحركة، لا مشاعر ولا رغبات. هنالك زوجة أخي ومثيلاتها من ينظرن إلى الأمر كمهمة ويبحثن سريعًا عن أخ يتزوج أرملة الشهيد، كل الاحترام والعناية الخاصة الذي تناله أرامل الشهداء يختفي عند تزويجهن، يمكن أن تكون زوجة ثانية أو ثالثة لأحدهم، فالمهم أن تتزوج بأي طريقة، وزوجة أخي، تجعل كل هذا ممكنًا بطريقتها النادرة في الإقناع وحرارتها العجيبة في كل ما يخص الحركة.

حين أفكر بها وبمن يشبهنها، حين أتذكر اليوم مراقبتها وأخواتها في غرفة الضيوف من خرم مفتاح الباب، أعرف أن الحركة تقوم على عاتقهن قبل الرجال، وحين أتذكر توجيهاتها المستمرة للصغار، لأبناء وبنات الأخوات، وسؤالها المستمر لهم كم صاروا يحفظون من القرآن، قبل السؤال عن أحوالهم، أستغرب كيف ينشغل الناس بالحديث عن “رجال الدين” دومًا ويغفلون عن “نساء الدين”!

كان أخي سعيدًا بها، ولطالما تخيّلت علاقتهما الخاصة، امرأة بهذه الحرارة والقوة والاقتدار، وبنضج بالغ في ملامحها وجسدها المكرس لأخي، وبالخبرة الطافرة من كل شيء فيها.

عائلتي سعيدة، بنسائها قبل أي شيء، بنسائها المكرسات لخدمة الرجال وإسعادهم، هذا ما لا تخطئه عين في اجتماعهم صباح كل جمعة على مائدة أمي وأبي. تلك الوجوه كانت قد شبعت من ملذات ليالي الخميس، هذه الأفواه التي لا تتوقف عن ذكر الله والصلاة على النبي في تلك الصباحات، كانت تنغمس ليلًا في كل سوائل الشهوة.

كان المخطط أن أصبر قليلًا حتى أنضج، أن أسير على خطى إخوتي وأقلدهم، أن تتدبر لي زوجة أخي عروسًا، كما تدبرت لكثير من العائلة، تقف أمام والدة الشاب الموعود وتحرص على أن يسمعها، تتحدث عن التزامها الديني وأخلاقها وحفظها للقرآن وأهلها الطيبين، ثم بحركة غير متوقعة، وكأنها زلة لسان، تقول: “بنت كاملة، كل شي فيها كامل، من شعرها لحتى أصابع رجليها، يا ربي سامحني، حورية … أستغفر الله”.

كانت “أستغفر الله” تلك، شلال إيحاءات تستحم في مسقطه حوريات عرايا.

هذا ما كان مفترضًا، ولكنه لم يكن.

في عز الانتفاضة، اخترت البيت، على عكس كل أقراني، لم أخرج في مظاهرة ولم ألق أي حجر، كنت في نظر نفسي أصغر من ذلك، كنت أخاف من الخارج، أحب البيت، أتذرع بمساعدة أمي بأعمال البيت للهرب من شؤون الفتية الآخرين. أساعدها في غسل الصحون وفي شطف الأرض وفي نشر الغسيل.

“لماذا لم أكن أخرج؟ هل كنت خائفًا؟ لا أدري، ربما، لم أجد شيئًا مما يفعله أقراني يستهويني أو يثير فيّ حرارة، في المدرسة كنت أشعر بالإثارة تفور من أبدانهم وأعينهم وهم يتحدثون عن المواجهات على مداخل المدينة مع الإسرائيليين، عن رائحة الغاز والإطارات المشتعلة، وعن الدم. يتباهون بشجاعة فلان وقوة علان.

بعد أشهر صاروا يلملمون الرصاص الفارغ من بين أرجل المتظاهرين، لم تعد المظاهرات تصل إلى الحواجز الإسرائيلية على مداخل المدن، صارت المظاهرات داخلية وفيها الكثير من الأسلحة والتهديد والوعيد والانتظار.

تحولت الانتفاضة من الشارع إلى التلفاز. نظل كلنا نشاهد القنوات التلفزيونية، أبو ظبي والجزيرة، لمعرفة ما يجري، شهداء واعتقالات وقصف، ثم عمليات وإطلاق نار وقتلى، دوامة، والكل أمام التلفاز يتفرج، نضحك لساعة ونبكي لساعات.

مع اغتيال كل قائد من حماس كانت العائلة تدخل حدادًا غير معلن، يجعل ممارستنا لأي شيء عادي فعلًا يستجلب ندمًا. أذكر ماذا حل بأخي الكبير يومًا وهو جالس أمام التلفاز يتابع أخبارا وردت في الصباح الباكر عن عملية اغتيال كبيرة، حين بدأت أسماء المستهدفين تظهر على الشاشة بدا وكأن وجهه يتشقق غيظًا وحنقًا وحزنًا، جلست زوجته قربه وحاولت التخفيف عنه ولكن انفعالها وبكاءها هي أيضًا كان يحيلهما إلى كتلة ستنفجر.

نهض أخي لبس ملابسه وهم بالخروج، سأله أبي إلى أين فلم يجب. ظللت طوال ذلك اليوم أراقب التلفاز يبث الأغاني الوطنية المليئة بالأشلاء والرصاص، متوقعًا أن أقرأ خبر انفجار أو عملية في إحدى المدن الإسرائيلية متأكدًا أن أخي سيفعلها، ولم أنم إلا حين عرفت أنه مع زوجته في بيتهم.

كرهت التلفاز وكرهت الساعات الطوال التي يضطر الجميع لقضائها في البيت، هذا قبل أن تأتي أيام منع التجول القاتلة. كنت أكره اجتماع الجميع في البيت، كانت مساحتي الخاصة تتقلص وتكاد تختفي. كرهت كل شيء، وكرهت الانتفاضة.

في الليل حين ينام الجميع، أحاول التنقل بين القنوات الفضائية بحثًا عن أي شيء آخر غير الأخبار والرصاص والقتلى. القوائم المفضلة وأوائل القنوات كلها للقتل، وما يقع في آخر الأرقام أو في قوائم متوارية هي قنوات أفلام وأغان، استكشفتها كلها دون صوت، حتى لا يستيقظ أبي أو أمي ويكتشفا أنني أبحث في محظورات محرمة في حين يسيل دمنا في القنوات الإخبارية والشوارع. كنت عطشًا إلى أشياء كثيرة ولا شيء يروي.

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