سيبوا رمضان في حاله

دلوقتي كل من هب ودب ووقع وقب بيعمل مسلسل. اللي بطّلوا تمثيل تلفزيوني السنة دي عملوا مسلسل، واللي بطّلوا تمثيل خالص برضه السنة دي عملوا مسلسل. طول ما إحنا ماشين في الشارع يُفَت المسلسلات مغرقة الدنيا... عددها يمكن يكون أكتر من إشارات المرور أو حتى العربيات نفسها. حاجة بجد *******!! (تثير الجدل طبعاً)

مش هضحك عليكم... أنا عمري ما كنت متابعة جيدة للتلفزيون (مع إني حافظة كل أغاني التترات). طول عمري أسمع وأشوف كده من بعيد المسلسلات اللي بتنزل في التلفزيون. بس كنت بسمع دايماً عن مسلسل أو إثنين بالكثير في الموسم. من ليالي الحلمية والمال والبنون وزيزينيا... لإمرأة من زمن الحب وغيرهم، مسلسلات بتناقش قضايا عائلية وإجتماعية مهمة ومعظمها على الأقل كانت بتعرضها بطريقة طبيعية وغير مبتذلة. كان منهم اللي بييجي في الصيف واللي بييجي في الشتا... ومنهم كمان اللي بييجي في رمضان، وأهو يسلّوا صيام الناس بالنهار ولمّة العيلة بعد الفطار (القافية غير مقصودة). وكان آخرهم مسلسلين في الشهر الكريم....

ودي كانت آخر فترة تابعت فيها مسلسلات.

أما بقى بعد ما دخل الدش (عقبال عندكو) والقنوات بعد ما كانت إتنين وتلاتة  بقت عشرين وتلاتين ومية ومتين، المسلسلات كمان إتضربت في عشرة ومؤخراً في مية. مافيهاش حاجة... ما هي الناس لازم تتسلى برضه. لكن نفسي أفهم حاجة بقى، ليه المية وشوية مسلسل دول لازم كلهم يبقوا في رمضان؟ هو مش رمضان على حسب ما أفتكر كان شهر الصوم والعبادة والصلاة؟ مش ده برضه الشهر اللي بتتسلسل فيه الشياطين؟؟ والله ده إحنا اللي بنتسلسل على الكنب قدام التلفزيون من كتر المسلسلات.

بدل ما كنا بنقعد مع بعض على السفرة نفطر، بقى كل واحد بياخد طبقه ويقعد قدام التلفزيون يلحق المسلسل اللي حبك ييجي بعد الآذان على طول، أو لو المسلسل  بييجي بعد الفطار بـشوية يبقى نكَروت بقى العيلة والصلاة وكل حاجة ونلحق الحلقة قبل ماتضيع علينا. ده غير طبعاً الإعادة في نص الليل اللي برضه بنشوفها بدل ما نصلي تهجد ولا نقرأ قرآن، والإعادة اللي بالنهار اللي ممكن تضَيّع صيامنا أصلاً من كتر الحاجات العجيبة اللي بنشوفها... حاجة حزينة بصراحة.

بس كل دي حاجات مجرد حزينة  مش أكتر، وييجي إيه الحزن جنب حرقة الدم؟ اللي يحرق الدم بجد بقى.. إننا في الشهر الكريم ده مبقاش عندنا أي مشكلة نعمل مسلسل عن قصة حياة رقّاصة... رقّاصة!!! ليه طيب؟ ما فيه 12شهر غير رمضان ممكن نحكي فيهم قصتها (ده على أساس إن الناس مهتمة قوي تعرف). طب بلاش الرقّاصة. ليه نعمل مسلسل عن واحدة كل اللي بتعمله إنها بتلبس قصير ومفتوح وبتجوز رجالة كتير؟ أو عن التحقيق في قضية قتل واحدة سمعتها مش كويسة... لأ والموضة بقى إن العادي هو؛ ستات بترقص وبتردح طول الوقت...رجالة بتشتم شتايم بشعة وبتضرب وبتسكر...وعلاقات مش تمام وسرقة وقتل.. كل أنواع الإجرام والسوقية والوحشية وحاجات تانية كتير سيئة. كل ده في رمضان...ليه؟! ما إحنا شغالين مسخرة وقلة أدب طول السنة في السينما والتلفزيون... ما ينفعش تسيبوا رمضان بس في حاله؟

الخلاصة أيها الممثلين والمخرجين والمنتجين الكرام، ما حدش طلب منكم تعملوا مسلسلات دينية. بس يا ريت تعرضوا مواضيعكم المهمة والخطيرة في أي شهر تاني غير رمضان. وسيبوا لنا بقى الشهر الكريم ده نتعبد فيه ونقرب من ربنا شوية، الموضوع مش صعب. وشكرا.

  

Leaving..

This story was published in Campus magazine, July '12.

The airport was vibrant and busy. Laila looked at her watch and realized she still had forty-five minutes to her flight. She relaxed in her chair and played with the ticket in her hands, remembering the words she had written in the letter she left on the console at her parents' house that morning. She had written that letter a few months back when she decided that she couldn't take in any more pressure.

Her stomach pains were back, but different this time. They were knots of anxiety, along with butterflies from the childish excitement she was feeling. She remembered the last time she had that feeling; it was about 20 years ago when she stood on the stage in the school choir for the first time – she was only seven.  She felt it again a few years after when she was one of the finalists at the art competition in her school. She was 12 at the time, with promising talents and life full of arts and music. It was only one year later that her parents told her it was time to take her studies seriously and quit all the "child's play".

She did as she was told without questioning mummy and daddy; as it was an accepted fact in her family – parents knew what's best for their kids, full stop. She did take her studies seriously from then on and her life changed significantly, with her parents taking control of her every step. Her enthusiasm and interest in every activity there is, turned into a quiet, composed manner and solitary studies in the library. In just a few years, she was a straight A student with no more than two or three close friends.

Laila recalled her inexplicable stomach pains; the ones she later realized happened every time she did something against her will - just to please her parents. The first time she had to let go of art competitions, and the application she wrote for a business school she did not want to go to. She bitterly remembered acing the courses she loathed just so she wouldn't disappoint her father and the elective courses she couldn't apply for because she was "nicely" advised to focus only on her finance and economics. She recalled starting a career in investment banking that she had never been looking forward to, and reaching a success in it that she had to pretend to be proud of.

The last few months in her so-called successful career were like preparing for a revolution. Her stomach pains were getting too much to bear and she knew just what the right cure for them would be. She had developed an interest in fashion design earlier in her college years; a hobby she did not dare confess, not even to her friends. She used her researching skills to find herself the right schools of arts – abroad! Putting her savings together – and they were a lot, seeing as how she had just a couple of friends and no significant other; she applied for an Arts school in France and booked her ticket three months in advance. She made arrangements to stay with a foster family and packed light so as not to get her parents' attention. Experience had taught her that there was no use confronting them or trying to convince them of her dreams – they would never understand.

Heart-breaks were inevitable, Laila knew that; but she was tired of it being hers. She wrote a careful letter, making sure it's sensitive enough, especially for her mum. She said goodbye to the house that had witnessed her oppression and the burial of her inner self for years, promising it that she would not come back until she was an established fashion designer with her own business and a stronger character to face her oppressors with. The thought gave her a pang of guilt, which she subsided at once. She had every right to think of her parents as the prosecutors of her dreams and thus her whole existence...

Laila was awoken from her daze by the sound of the electronic voice calling for her flight. She got up and walked slowly, imagining all the amazing experiences that were yet to come and the butterflies and childish excitement that will come with it. She boarded the plane and never once glanced behind.

Dear Daddy, I am letting go.

Dear Daddy,

I am writing this to tell you that you are a great father… No, really, I don’t think there is ever a dad as kind and as giving as you are. There is just one problem; I am not your type of girl. (Yes, the famous line “it’s not you, it’s me” works here too).

I can’t deny it, you are a real genius. You know everything about almost everything, and you know it better than anyone else does; which makes most people look up to you and admire you, me included. But your knowledge concerning your daughter - me, I’m sorry to say, has stopped growing since the late 90’s. You don’t know what I’m going through most of the time, or how I’m feeling or what my dreams are or if I have a plan to see them through. All what you know about me is based on assumptions that are mostly, well….wrong!

You’re always telling me to study this and that or work in whatever field you think is good or play a certain sport or a take a certain course. All of these things you’ve been pushing me to do might very well be real good – just not for me, dad. For years and to this very day, you had me striving for all the wrong reasons. I find myself wanting to be better and to do more and to rise higher, not for my own self actualization but for making you proud of me. Sadly, it never happens.

I have reached a point where, whenever I have a decision to make, I try not to come to you for advice, because I know you will only demean it, demean me. Whatever progress I make in something that I truly believe in, I am very reluctant to show it to you or tell you about it. And when I do, guess what? You’re not even interested. And when you are, you criticize the hell out of it, “constructively”. Let me tell you something dad; too much “constructive” criticism ends up being immensely destructive!!

So here it is pups, my final resolution to our very complicated relationship; I am going to listen to you like I’ve never listened before. I am going to accept your criticism with an open heart when - and only when - I feel that it will move me forward, not shatter my confidence to pieces. I will no let you get to me like I always did. I will also stop trying to make you proud. From now on, I’m going to work and live to the best of my abilities; and sometimes I’m not even going to give it my all, because simply, I might not care that much.   

Lastly, I want to thank you for everything that you taught me and everything that I am because of you. I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am or who I am if it wasn’t for you. And thank you for all the things I’ve learnt from you even when you didn’t teach them to me, I think they were the ones most effective.

Anyways, I love you dad, but I’m letting go now, so please let me be.

Love and respect,

Me :)