In my first book, Bumps, which consists of 30 bumps from my scribbles in my free time, you will find harsh bumps, bumps that require stopping, and speed bumps that are concerned with self-development and looking at life positively from many angles. Most of the articles I publish in colloquial form for ease of reading and reaching the heart of the reader before his eyes. I do not want to prolong the introduction to you, so your comments please me and your interventions please me. Perhaps they will guide me to a better path in my life and in my next book, Pitfalls 2, so do not deprive me of your communication.
Do you know how longing reaches its peak? When you continue, despite the arrows being directed at you professionally... arrows coming from the paths of no return, only to be caught by winds that also dig between your folds and write down the stories of the thorny autumn... and despite this, the hope of meeting is sweeping through all your insides... In our village, you find some people talking about the spring season as told in volumes of myths, and some of them painted a picture of it, lived in it and in its memory, and invented a lie in order to celebrate it with the lighting of the candles of the April cake. It is a cake that is made once a year, in April, and has remained sacred. How do we celebrate a spring that was only mentioned in volumes of legends?! Then I decided to be silent, but my pen was not silent yet. Between my letters I feel spring. Perhaps I have done the same as them. I also made up a lie in order to see from the silence of the letters what the previous ones in the search had gone astray from. Until I made the decision to search for him, but with a new identity and deeper convictions; To make it easier than trying to find it... Who?! Sheikh of our tribe; Through it, the spring to which we lost our way will be completed. Yes, it will be completed at the top of that mountain. In the middle of a search, you lose your dearest person, and you find yourself alone, complete. Perhaps I had found it among my letters at that time, and I knew where it was, or my subconscious was mocking me. But all I want to say in my right mind is: Honestly, I will not give up my new identity.
I married a song. I did this secretly for about five years.
When I heard it, the sun was setting, and I was in a heavenly expanse of an old house with milk-colored walls. I knew from the first beat that it was her, the song of my life. I only hesitated a little, and because I had never heard before about a legal ruling or a moral reason that prevents a woman from marrying a song, I made up my mind and married her.
Every night I put two headphones in my ears, and Yas Khader sings to me “Han wa Ana Ahn.” I adjust the tremors of my soul to the tremors of the sad Iraqi melody, and I drink Yas’s voice through all my pores. The song cauterizes my heart, and it melts, pouring tears, rain drops, and dew beads, and then it snows. Have mercy on me gently, and I will give birth to butterflies, starlings, and daffodils.
I smile before I sleep, and many women smile with me. I may not know them, but I know that they are like me. A song may revive them, or a song may kill them.
About the Hana London short stories collection
In many stories, she talks about place and man, how he is affected by what is around him, and how the relationship arises between the hero and the events and fluctuations of life.
Man, freedom, and the eternal conflict with the other, concepts and meanings of the constant and the variable.
Writing that concerns everyone and touches their existence is the goal of writing here.
The history of the place and the dreams of its heroes. The stories here also mean the biography of the place, its characters, and their dreams.
Houses without doors:
The book is considered a message addressed to society to beware of intruding into social relationships and giving too much confidence to reveal the secrets and problems of family and marital life, which allows the sick of souls and demons of humanity to spread their poisons to tear apart safe homes.
