Description
“And he sings… Sing, my friend, sing for those there, sing… and those there are singing, and the road is long… O you who walk it, raise your heads, sing despite the whips, sing, despite the chains, sing. Do not fear life… life kills those who fear it…”
And Hanna Mina, as if in his novel, sings to those who walk the long road, he sings the story of Fayyad, who became ashes in a moment of the explosive force erupting from the volcano of the homeland’s dreams… Hanna Mina wove it into images upon images: Bilal, the giant of faith in the face of the dwarfs of ignorance… and Hassan Kharrat, the guardian of Damascus, and the reactionaries who rule, and their rule will end. For this, Fayyad worked, and for this, he wrote… and for this, he went to the cellar, and in the cellar, he slept, and in his chest, they placed their rifles… and in his hands, they placed their chains. And in his body they planted their scalpels, and he didn’t utter a word. “I don’t know.” Today you die, and tomorrow you die, and fear dies, and then nothing. The road stretches on, and resolve stretches on… and the world around him is silent, and only the snow comes through the window… and the cold is here. And the room, with all its contents, screams in his face: “The cold, Fayyad, isn’t from the snow… the cold is from the village.” And between the rocks, a ghost crept along the same path as two years ago, but in reverse… Peace be upon you, land… and he bent down and kissed the earth… and stood and greeted Damascus. He closed his eyes in the bliss of rest after weariness; never again will Fayyad run away… never again will he run away.” Did Hanna Mina write a novel… or is it the philosophy of life flowing through its meanings, its pulse injustice, a cause, and victory?
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