"أين يُمكِن لرجل وامرأة أن يتصادفا؟ على حدود متراخية، أو في مروج مترامية، مقعد دراسة أو طاولة عمل، ميدان أو زقاق، حفل أو عزاء، في طائرة أو حافلة. أمَّا إن كان أحدهما كاتبًا؛ تتلعثم الأبجدية، وتنفتح أبواب عوالم سحرية، فيلتقيان في أكثر الأماكن غرابةً، وأشدها مهابةً، مثلًا: في البلد الذي يَمنع النُّطق بالحا
Like a serene scene trapped inside a crystal ball in an eternal moment of peace, the Syrian city of Homs appeared, calm and full of secret dreams.
It is crossed by a curious river that tries to rebel a little and break the dull, monotonous crystal, and it is called the Orontes.
Then the war came and the city was fragmented, and the butterflies flew with their dreams into the flames.
Every day of war passes, bringing with it dozens of stories worth telling. This novel takes us around the city, to learn more stories about it and its residents, a city that has become full of stories.
The story of a final basil seedling where Father France parked his old bike before he was killed. And the stories of library owners that were stolen.
A kiss from a friend that he printed on the glasses of (Wael Qastoun) after he wiped the bloody dirt from them
The mystery of the lover who covered the walls of the gloomy cemetery in Bouha (Lulu, I love you).
A sad hand under the rubble of a house that no longer exists.
There is no fair narrative in times of war, but the language remains an apology to the city
Two percent 02%: There is nothing louder here than the sound of the trees’ light, not monotonous, under the sound of turbulent air between the breeze at times and the wind at other times, under a sky whose blue is gradually dissolving, turning to gray due to clouds that gather quickly from every direction and direction, as if they were the pillars of a war that had been called for an urgent and emergency meeting.
