Toubib Or Not To Be

  Aya Anouar

Pourquoi vouloir arracher les racines de leurs terres ? Vous vous êtes déjà posé cette question ? Car moi, oui, elle me hante depuis toujours. Nous avons une histoire millénaire et une culture parmi les plus anciennes au monde. Un patrimoine riche et diversifié, quoi demander de plus pour être fier ? Mais la sombre réalité n’effleure en rien la logique. Nous vivons dans une société qui rejette son identité, que ses ancêtres ont défendue corps et âme contre toute invasion, qu’elle soit arabe ou occidentale. Leur esprit a été envoûté par des idées absurdes, telles que la revendication d’un héritage arabe qui n’est pas le nôtre. Il faut cesser de se bercer d’illusions : le sang amazigh coule dans nos veines, quelle que soit la région dont nous prétendons venir. Le patrimoine génétique de ce peuple ancestral réside en chacun de nous. On se doit d’honorer leur mémoire en préservant des siècles d’héritage culturel et en assurant sa transmission à notre descendance. Notre langue, nos traditio...

The way I lead my life is nothing but a peculiar form of this thought experiment that come to life: a shadow-like creature, overarching and overwhelmingly strong. The more I try to chase it, the harder it strikes back, inevitable and imminent, dragging me with its claws all the way back to everything I swore I'd try to grow out of. It finds its way to me in the small and big joys and wins alike, the heartaches, the nights spent crying, the times I'm taking part in something I love, following me everywhere regardless. Inescapable. It's emblazoned in the cracks of whatever state of mind I find myself in. I seek it during the aftermath, interrupting the course of the experience in doing so, almost as if I were creating a barrier of opposition to the purpose of it all, although I never recall myself indulging in those activities with a goal like that in mind. I constantly find myself demanding an audience for my sadness, my joy, my despair, and my enjoyment. For my mere existen...

عندما تنقشع سحب السماء، وتكفّ الأمطار والثلوج عن الهطول، وتبدأ براعم الأشجار وبتلات الزهور بالتفتح، وتضحى الشمس واضحةً في الأفق مرسلةً أشعتها الدافئة نحو الأرض، حينها نكون قد ودّعنا ضيفًا عاصفًا وباردًا، ليحين وقت استقبال أخيه الدافئ والناعم، الربيع. لطالما كان الربيع رمزًا للجمال والتوازن، إذ إنّه يمثل عودة الانسجام والاستقرار بعد فترةٍ صاخبةٍ ومضطربة، فهو الفصل الذي ينتظره الجميع بكلّ الصبر كي يتمكنوا من الاستمتاع بالعالم دون خوفٍ من تقلب أحوال الطقس. نعم، الربيع يمثل تلك المكافأة على صبرٍ دام لأشهر ضد بردٍ وصقيعٍ قارصين، ضد فترةٍ تكون مصحوبةً في غالب الأحيان بكثير من العقبات والتعاسة، ضد شبحٍ مظلمٍ وكئيب يقيد الروح ويثقل فؤاد ضحاياه، ليخيَّل لهم أنهم غرقوا في سوادٍ عاتم ولا سبيل للخروج منه. لطالما كانت حياة الإنسان مليئةً بتلك اللحظات التي يخيم فيها اليأس كسحابةٍ سوداء تحجب النور وتطفئ الأمل، وتخمد الشغف حتى يتحول إلى استسلامٍ وانكسار. لا تؤمن ضحيتها بالخلاص منها ولا من قسوتها. يكون رجوع الأحوال لما هي عليه أمرًا شبه مستحيل، والفناء ببؤسٍ وسط ذلك الظلام أمرًا لا محالة منه. لا يخيل ل...

In a manner of speaking, I question the silence. A silence I erased in the hopes of understanding. But you say everything by saying nothing. In a manner of speaking, I crash the silence, my words like tidal waves come crashing in, crashing with them what's left unspoken, shattering the vows you whispered to the wind. In a manner of speaking, my words hunt the silence. The shadows are retreating, but I only fear silence. God is silent. The absence of God is my religion. In a manner of speaking, I listen. God is taking shape. I listen to the whistling in the dark, echoing the forbidding words, the enigma of nature, written in fractals, a quiet signature of God. In a manner of speaking, I pray. I shiver to the horrors of guilt, of confusion and illusion. I pray to the trees, for I am rooted. I pray to the sun, for I am burning. I pray to God, for God is within me. In a manner of speaking, I write to you. Words flowing to me, words filling my throat, words submerging my existence. The ...

Cursed is the neck that carries the silver medal. Before one is to proclaim that, well, the silver medalist is indeed a winner, one must pause…ponder. One must walk upon a metaphorical red carpet, wait behind the bronze medalist to climb that metaphorical podium, and waste away as every member of this accursed metaphorical arena announces you the first loser. I am not an athlete, nor am I ever inclined to be one. My physical prowess is limited to running after buses and away from the rain; however, I can proudly admit that I have been a silver medalist on many occasions in my life. As a matter of fact, so has every person I have ever met. In truth, we have all carried that mantle. So allow me to paint you a picture. You are ten when you are diagnosed: gifted. That’s what they call you, that’s what they are going to continuously whisper behind your back before you inevitably plummet, an Icarus who burned out too close to the overachieving sun. But I digress, you are gifted, and whether ...