
Beauty and Wonder
The sparkle in their eyes beckons, stealing your heart and tempting your modesty, along with all the piety and sanctity that reside within you. They are pearls that capture your gaze, surrounded by the whiteness of clouds and the enchantments of the heavens that obliterate your denials and defeat your defenses. Their eyelids seem to promise salvation, with brows that embrace treasures and regal noses that accept nothing but challenge and confrontation, while you stand powerless, your virtue vulnerable against such overwhelming beauty that borders on folly and madness.
Everything snatches your heart from your ribs, pulling you as if by fate. No matter how confident you are in your virtue, its strength falters at the first glance, surrendering all your armies, collapsing your towers and castles, and raising your white flags before this destiny that possesses you.
An enchanting beauty captivates your attention and curiosity, seizing you from your A to your Z, prompting you to shift your gaze from the glass of the window and the wonders beyond it to eyes sparkling with joy, marvel upon marvel, as miracles unfold while you ponder the exquisite creation of the Creator.
* * *
'We passed through the skies of Turkey, the homeland of the great rebel Nadhim Hikmat, the playwright, novelist, and poet who was imprisoned for nearly 17 years and exiled from his country until his death due to his struggle and his beautiful humanitarian poetry, siding with the poor and oppressed of his people. The poet whose jailers died, while his verses, poems, and anthems lived on.
Nadhim Hikmat, who died yet did not lose hope, famously said: 'The most beautiful days are those we have not yet lived… The most beautiful children are those yet to be born… The most beautiful poems are those I have not yet written.' He rebelled against the misery of his exile, just as he revolted against the injustice and suffering in his homeland.
Those days that have not yet arrived, or that Nadhim may not have experienced, perhaps not many others either, we await them for long, as they remain distant from us, or we hasten their delayed coming, fearing the aging of our hearts. This sentiment is beautifully captured by Nizar Qabbani when he said: 'O happy moments yet to come, could you take a
shortcut before our hearts grow old?''
In our journey, Turkey appeared from the sky like a bride just emerging from a bath. It was a sight of clarity intertwined with shadows, clouds and rain, diversity and detail, a beauty that invites you to linger in it both winter and summer. For the first time, I beheld a land like this, as if it were a piece of paradise. Turkey captivated me from the air—what a wondrous land! Such lush greenery spreading across vast expanses. A breathtaking nature, flawless in its beauty, leaving no room for flaws or deceit. Throughout our flight above its skies, we relished the view until the sunset, believing it to be the entirety of the horizon.
* * *
Night fell as we crossed into the borders of the Soviet Union—an entity once formidable and grand. We traversed the skies over the Black Sea, enveloped in darkness. From a distance, we glimpsed the lights of the city of Odessa in Ukraine, located on the Black Sea coast, separated from Kyiv, the capital, by over 400 kilometers.
We arrived at Kyiv, the capital of Soviet Ukraine. As I stepped out of the plane, I felt as if I were entering a freezer. The temperature was around 7 degrees Celsius, a chill I had never before experienced. I thought to myself, 'This is not an airport; it is a cosmic freezer.' The weather in Ukraine was uniformly cold, or similar to that, marking my first experience on land with such low temperatures.
After about an hour, we resumed our journey towards Moscow, the capital of the Soviet Union. Upon arriving at its airport, we were greeted by several high-ranking officers led by a general assigned to welcome us and accompany us during our visit, along with a translator of utmost nobility, courtesy, and refinement. They surprised us with a reception filled with warmth, care, and respect.
We were welcomed with a fleet of luxurious vehicles designated for delegations, waiting for us. Each pair of us was assigned a car. Even the red traffic lights were disregarded, despite the strict enforcement of laws and traffic rules there-perhaps because it was late at night. What a celebration, such a warm welcome and immense appreciation! It was something we had never experienced in our homeland, something we could hardly have imagined, even in our dreams.
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In 'Volga Grad,' we also ventured into the dance hall, accompanied by the esteemed Russian general assigned to us. This entertainment might have been an unexpected addition to our scheduled visit. The dance hall spanned two floors: the upper floor was more expensive, offering superior service, and its patrons exuded a sense of decorum and sophistication. In contrast, the lower floor was frequented by teenagers and young adults. After spending some time on the upper floor, I felt shackled and restrained. It was as if my freedom was suffocating. The formality I was compelled to adopt weighed heavily on me, and I began to feel boredom and monotony creeping in. I didn't want to remain a mere observer, like a statue or a mummified man stuck on the chair. I yearned to seize those beautiful moments rather than let them slip away under the guise of decorum and pretentiousness. I requested permission from the general to descend to the lower floor. There, a vibrant chaos of life awaited me. The dance was astonishingly exhilarating. After some hesitation, and perhaps some discontent from an official, I was granted permission, although I was cautioned to remain aware of my surroundings and to guard my money, as thefts occasionally occurred there. He reminded me not to linger. I descended to the lower floor, eager to dance with a girl. What once seemed a distant dream was now within reach. In 'Volga Grad,' the women were beautiful, and the girls even more so. I wanted to steal half an hour—or even just a few minutes—of their time. Each minute here felt dense, equivalent to the lost opportunities of my squandered life. Oh, the sorrow of my wasted years! I wanted to shout: Time, pause for a moment! I want to dance with a girl until I am intoxicated. Dancing grants the spirit a realm of joy and happiness. How tragic it is for those who do not dance… and how tragic for me, I mused. For the first time, I felt an emptiness within me, a cosmic void larger than the galaxy. I yearned to unload this burden of emptiness and dance until I soared high among the distant stars. I wanted to dance until I was dizzy, to compensate for worlds that had eluded my dreams and confessions. A wild desire surged within me to liberate my soul from chains heavier than iron. I wished to unleash my spirit, even if just for a fleeting moment, to soar in the vastness of the horizon and the expansive sky. That day, the sky was clear. I lived through great suffering, enduring much deprivation that shadowed my weary, burdened life. I came from a land where many elders still forbid singing and dancing, denying us joy and celebration. They are so rigid that they fit Nietzsche's description of a 'wretched and sickly kind… a herd that gazes malignantly upon life, their eyes filled with malice for this earth… Their feet are heavy, and their hearts suffocate in humidity… How can the earth be light for such a type?' I spoke to myself as I absorbed the scene before me: I, who was buried in shyness, must not waste these moments that may never return. Life is far too short, and I do not want to regret the youthful days that slipped away, nor squander these life-soaked moments. The world here sings, dances, and lives fully in every dimension. Beautiful moments in every sense! I, bound by iron and fire, have wasted my dearest years, and what remains of them drifts into oblivion. I felt a profound loneliness and estrangement at the table, like an orphan missing all affection. An endless internal void surrounded me, while joy overflowed around me. Regret settled in my heart for what had passed, occupying my corridors and corners. My disappointments felt like a black hole, vast enough to swallow all the world's failures. I sensed my grand hopes withering, each day adding to the desolation, as my life faded without acknowledging its modest aspirations. Black holes devoured my hopes and dreams, and my existence wept like a young artist, wounded and sorrowful. Time passed without my having danced with a girl. I was tormented, practicing the madness of dance to the rhythm of my aching love. I came from a land burdened by darkness, where shame loomed like mountains. Who could lift the weight of age-old burdens from my chest? In my homeland, the call for singing and dancing is condemned as an invitation to vice and depravity. The harshness of repression here deserves punishment. Yet, alas, I do not know how to dance; I have never learned. All I know is to chew on my losses and lament the days that have slipped away. In the courtyard, my friend Faisal Al-Khudairy was inspired by dance, and his companions excelled in its various forms—Lahji, Zubairi, Dhalae, and military dances, among others. 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I spoke to myself in the absence of all my friends: I would try to muster my courage and gather my bravery to ask a girl to dance with me. Yet the language stood as an insurmountable barrier preventing me from conveying my feelings and desires. I longed to dance with that enchanting beauty until I reached the heights of madness. Since I had not learned to dance, I would let the rhythm of the music guide my steps as best as I could. I wanted to hold that beauty close to my yearning heart, freeing my trapped emotions from their rusty walls. I desired that girl to soothe the turmoil beneath my ribs, to extinguish the flames of love that burned within my veins. I envisioned a girl's hand gently embracing me, a tender hand encouraging me to take a leap, patting my shoulder, which felt so heavy. I yearned to swim in her orbit until I became dizzy and melted into her embrace like a comet on fire. I tried to summon my courage to ask a girl to dance with me. I attempted to recall the few Russian words I had gathered from my colleagues. A Russian word here, another there—I tried to piece them into a sentence or phrase that expressed my request: 'Excuse me… could you dance with me?' What a significant plea! I prayed for the heavens to respond, but they did not… I resolved to dance with one of them. I touched her shoulder with my trembling fingers to catch her attention, hoping she would turn to me, even just partially. She turned toward me with surprise and wonder. She spoke to me in words I could not understand. I challenged my shyness and attempted to convey my request in Russian: 'Excuse me… could you dance with me?' I do not know what happened! As soon as I uttered my request, she and her friends erupted in laughter. I was bewildered! I had no idea what I had done! Why were they laughing? My request should have been familiar enough that she could decline, and I would understand and appreciate her refusal. I could even grasp it from her demeanor, even if I didn't understand her words. But to laugh and include her friends in that laughter was utterly unexpected. When I tried to reiterate my request, I found myself unable to repeat it. I felt like someone climbing a steep mountain, unaccustomed to looking down from its height—how could I ascend? I felt dizzy as I struggled to recall what I had said. Words slipped away, shifted, and transformed into something entirely different. My tongue stumbled on the fourth attempt, failing to convey the meaning I had intended, leaving me utterly lost in my speech. They conversed among themselves, some laughing, others smiling, realizing I came from a faraway land and was a stranger. My face turned a deep shade of crimson from embarrassment, and I understood nothing of the conversation. I was unsure how to manage my blunder! How could I escape the trap I had inadvertently set for myself? Then a lifeline appeared: the English word 'sorry,' which I uttered as I retreated, cursing myself and lamenting my misfortune, dragging the tail of my disappointment back to the table. After a moment, one of my colleagues descended from the upper floor and informed me that the Russian general was asking for me and wanted me immediately. At that moment, it was my rescue from a potentially prolonged embarrassment, especially since smiles and glances had not ceased while I was sinking in humiliation. I returned to my seat on the upper floor, dragging my disappointment and defeat with me. One of them asked what had transpired. I recounted the story, and he laughed, saying, 'You didn't ask her to dance; you asked her to get in the car with you!' I laughed at myself and my situation, my alienation, until I felt a bit light-headed.


Yemenat
5 days ago
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The Houris of Paradise
I have never entered a place like this before… It is the circus—an aura of magnificence and splendor. The architectural design is dazzling, adorned with decorative touches and other elements that make you feel, amidst the spectacle, that you are at the very center of a grand universe. For the first time, I witnessed performances that resembled fantasy… What was once impossible became a reality before my eyes, what was distant became within reach, and the farthest was just a stone's throw away. It was the first time I saw the houris of paradise up close, without any signs saying 'Keep Out.' Astonishment engulfed me from the very first moment, holding me captive for two uninterrupted hours. Every detail here captivates you until the last moment… Here is God calling you instead of you calling Him… Here is God who loves beauty, and here, poetry holds its prominent place and presence: 'You are beautiful, and you love beauty; How is it, then, that your servants do not cherish it?' I beheld the houris of paradise with my own eyes, just as that dervish saw his Lord… God in His utmost beauty… In His presence gather His lovers and beloveds—Jalal Al Deen Al- Rumi and the kingdom of love, the miracle-worker Shams Al-Tabrizi, the Imam of Sufism Ahmed Ibn Alwan, the Sultan of Lovers Ibn Al-Farid, the pioneer of mysticism Al-Husayn Ibn Mansur Al-Hallaj, and the great Sheikh Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi, along with the righteous and reformers seeking God through love, life, and beauty. Beauty crowds this place, and you become a part of it… I felt as if I were in the very heart of this universe, the mother of miracles… My gaze wandered throughout the space… I sensed that the cosmos surrounded me from every direction… Oh God, what is this beauty!! Wonder resides here, and the captivating beauty calls you to invoke the Lord of the Worlds and His forgiveness. Here, God reveals Himself to me more beautifully than I ever imagined… Astonishment carries me on its wings, enveloping me in every direction… I blend into the scenes I behold, and I can no longer distinguish between the east and the west. Every point in this place could simultaneously be east and west… The compass here is broken and does not work… Only the compass of beauty seizes the viewer's consciousness, operating with efficiency and precision. A dome gathers the scattered directions like a cosmic lens… As I gaze intently at the houri of the skies flying through the space, I struggle to collect my senses, which seem to soar with her. I reach a state of ecstasy where I can no longer distinguish between the heights and depths of this place. My eyes fixate on the waist of another enchanting figure, and the rings spin around her, becoming grander than the rings of Saturn. I, along with my rapture, become one of her circles, circling around her waist. A dream and a knowledge that leaves me dizzy. Everything here is enchanting, harmonious, and captivating… The music, the movement, the lights, the makeup, and the stories painted by the acrobats… The sound effects complete each other… Everything sparkles with brilliance, magic, beauty, and lightness. Precision and artistry blend seamlessly with endless wonder. There are diverse circus performances, some dancing and thrilling, others acrobatic, juggling twenty eggs and stones. Young men and women, professionals at the peak of their craft, present what they have mastered and what they have creatively achieved. It's as if the Creator fashioned them from a more supple material than mere dust. Everybody here molds itself as desired, dazzling you and stealing away the independence you always cherish within. Bodies intertwine like a dough of resin, and your gaze wanders to the point of losing distinction between hair and the soles of feet. Youthful figures present scenes that drown you in astonishment… Bodies here function like spindles, others form like dough, and some fold like ropes, shaped and tied as their owners wish. In every performance, you witness a miracle, followed by a storm of warm applause, great joy, and soaring spirits. It's not just our hands clapping; our hearts and souls join in, spreading throughout the cosmos of this place. Young men and women, in the bloom of youth, perform mesmerizing acts that transform the hall of your heart into a beautiful exhibition space. A lightness unmatched by sight, flexibility that forms without restraint. The moving spots of light dance with the protagonist of the show here and there. Professionals to the point of genius, each delights you with their unique performance—houris soaring to the heights of the stage, returning safe and sound. They fly without wings, in a space too small for a bird. Gymnastic leaps, animal taming, walking the tightrope, and performing on it… Here, the impossible is present. The tamers enter the arena with the grace of a breeze and the surprise of astonishment, leading the beasts into the space, tamed and docile, as if fate has befriended them and brought them to the threshold of humanity. Each group enters according to their designated segment of the show. A performance for lions, another for tigers, a third for elephants, and many more… Each performs according to the meticulously scheduled program. The wonder and amazement follow one another, as does the focus… Here, not a second escapes you, and you don't regret losing it in vain. No regrets here, no biting of fingers… Regret only arises when you remember your wasted time, the many days that passed in vain without return or benefit.