PANIC___POINT

ART | POETRY

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Interpreting the inability to write

"I once wrote an article titled Interpreting the State of Being Unable to Write by Presenting a Clear Example. That was in 1969, and they refused to publish it here. They told me, 'This is existentialism. What do you mean by that?'

In it, I complained that I suffer from the arrogance of health. And this arrogance of health has become a disease, because a strong memory is a disease, a clear vision is a disease, 20/20 eyesight is a disease, and being aware of the conditions around you—that is a disease. All of these are diseases that the modern person is expected to get rid of.

In the new world order, a person has to be blind, deaf, and mute, but he is allowed to hallucinate, right?

So anyway, I went to the doctor and told him, 'I suffer from the arrogance of health.' He gave me a medication—a health blocker, what they call an antidepressant. So I take it, and suddenly everything is beautiful. I mean, the world is in complete disorder, we have become the lowest in society on an international level, they pat us on the back while tearing us apart, and we respond by saying, 'Merci.'

So whenever an episode of arrogance of health strikes me, I go to my bed, take the health blocker—which is the antidepressant—and stare at the ceiling until I completely forget the world.

So what they call the new world order still has not reached my room, but it is welcome anytime if it wishes to come. I mean, knock on the door for five minutes, and we'll be there..."

Safinaz Kazem

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Hayat nedir ki, bir rüyadan öte?

Hayat nedir ki, içimizden geçip gitmiş bir düşten başka? Saatlerim ve günlerim, uykudaki görüntüler gibi kayıp gitti.

Gerçekten yaşadım mı? Şüphe neredeyse beni ele geçiriyor; Yoksa yaşadığım her şey, birbirine dolaşmış düşlerden mi ibaretti?

Bir gözün kapanıp yeniden açılması kadar kısa bir anda, Çocuk, saçlarına ak düşmüş bir ihtiyara dönüştü.

Güçsüzlük artık her adımımda yanı başımda yürüyor; Eğer hâlâ yürüyebiliyorsam, yılların yükü beni oturmaya zorluyor.

Sözlerim, onları çağırdığımda bana verdikleri ahdi bozdu;

Sayfalarım ve kalemlerim de sadakatlerini terk etti.

Gözlerim beni terk etti, işitmem de — ah, ne acı;

Ve bedenim, yüklerinin, hastalıklarının ve acılarının altında eğiliyor.

Rabbime olan kesin imanım olmasaydı — O ki eşi benzeri olmayandır —

Hayatımın yalnızca bir seraptan ibaret olduğuna inanırdım.

Issam al-Attar

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Konuştum, yanımda yaslı bir güvercin ağlarken:

Ey komşum, hissediyor musun kederimin ağırlığını? Aşk adına söyleyeyim; sen hiç tatmadın ayrılığın gece yarısı kapıyı çalan sesini, ve kaygılar da hiç uğramadı düşüncelerine. Geçip giden kuşların kanatları taşıyabilir mi bu hüzünle ağırlaşmış yüreğin yükünü uzak ve yüksek bir dala? Ey komşum, zaman bize karşı adil davranmadı; gel, gel de bu kederleri benimle paylaş. Gel de gör içimde güçten düşmüş bir ruhu, huzursuzca dolaşan, acıların gölgesine hapsedilmiş bir bedende. Nasıl olur da tutsak gülerken özgür olan ağlar? Nasıl olur da hüzün taşıyan susarken, kaygısız olan ağıtlar yakar? Gözlerim senden daha çok hak sahibiydi gözyaşlarına; ama benim gözyaşlarım kıymetlidir— felaketlerin en karanlık zamanlarında bile.

Abu Firas al-Hamdani

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What is life but a dream

What is life but a dream that merely passed through us? My hours and my days have slipped away like visions in sleep. Did I truly live? Doubt nearly overcomes me, Or was all that I lived no more than tangled dreams? In little more than the closing of an eye and its opening, The child has become an old man with silver upon his head. Weakness now draws close beside my every step, If I can still walk at all, the weight of years compels me to sit. My words betrayed the covenant they once had with me when I called upon them, My pages and my pens, too, abandoned their loyalty. My sight has failed me, and my hearing—alas for them, And my body bends beneath its burdens, sicknesses, and pain. Had I not possessed certainty in my Lord, who has no equal, I would have believed my life to be nothing but illusions.

Issam al-Attar

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وَمَا الحَيَاةُ سِوَى حُلْمٍ

وَمَا الحَيَاةُ سِوَى حُلْمٍ أَلَمَّ بِنَا قَدْ مَرَّ كَالْحُلْمِ سَاعَاتِي وَأَيَّامِي هَلْ عِشْتُ حَقّاً؟ يَكَادُ الشَّكُّ يَغْلِبُنِي أَمْ كَانَ مَا عِشْتُهُ أَضْغَاثَ أَحْلَامِ فِي مِثْلِ غَمْضَةِ عَيْنٍ وَانْتِبَاهَتِهَا قَدْ أَصْبَحَ الطِّفْلُ شَيْخاً أَبْيَضَ الْهَامِ يُقَارِبُ الضَّعْفُ خَطْوِي إِنْ قَدَرْتُ عَلَى خَطْوٍ وَيُقْعِدُنِي أَثْقَالُ أَعْوَامِي وَخَانَ عَهْدِي بَيَانِي إِذْ دَعَوْتُ بِهِ وَخَانَ عَهْدِيَ أَوْرَاقِي وَأَقْلَامِي وَخَانَنِي بَصَرِي وَالسَّمْعُ وَيْحَهُمَا وَالْجِسْمُ نَاءَ بِأَسْقَامِي وَآلَامِي لَوْلَا يَقِينِي بِرَبِّي لَا شَرِيكَ لَهُ لَمَا حَسِبْتُ حَيَاتِي غَيْرَ أَوْهَامِ

عصام العطار

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انا الحُسنُ إن نادى الجمالُ باسمي I am beauty itself—when beauty calls my name

تلعثمَ الوصفُ وانزوى في فمي description falters and withdraws within my lips

وانا الليلُ إن نامت نجومُ الدجى I am the night—when the stars of darkness fall asleep

أظلُّ متألّقاً دون أن أنثني I remain ever radiant, without ever bending or fading

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Ona ne söyleyeceğim?

O bana gelip sorarsa ne söyleyeceğim… Onu mu nefret ettiğimi, yoksa hâlâ sevip sevmediğimi?

Ne söyleyeceğim, parmakları yeniden uzanıp saçlarımdan geceyi toplayıp ona özen gösterdiğinde?

Ve nasıl izin vereceğim yaklaşmasına, kollarının belimde uyumasına?

Yarın gelirse… mektuplarını ona mı vereceğim, ve yazdığımız en güzel sözleri ateşe mi atacağız?

Sevgilim… ben gerçekten onun sevgilisi miyim? Ve bu terk edilişten sonra sözlerine inanabilir miyim?

Onunla hikâyem yıllar önce bitmedi mi? Hatırası güneşin solan iplikleri gibi ölmedi mi?

Aşk kadehlerini çoktan kırmadık mı— öyleyse kırdığımız bir kadeh için neden ağlayalım?

Rabbim… onun en küçük şeyleri bile beni yaralıyor— öyleyse şeylerden nasıl kurtulayım, Rabbim?

İşte köşede unutulmuş gazetesi, işte birlikte okuduğumuz kitap.

Sandalyelerde sigaralarının izleri, köşelerde… ondan kalan parçalar.

Neden aynaya bakıp duruyorum da ona hangi elbiseyle karşılaşacağımı soruyorum?

Onu artık nefret ederim diye mi numara yapacağım? Ve göz kapaklarımda yaşayanı nasıl nefret edebilirim?

Ve ondan nasıl kaçabilirim—o benim kaderimken? Bir nehir akışını değiştirebilir mi hiç?

Onu seviyorum… neden sevdiğimi bilmiyorum, hataları bile artık hata değil benim için.

Yeryüzünde aşk, terk ettiğimiz şeylerin bir parçasıdır— onu burada bulmasaydık, onu icat ederdik.

O bana gelip sorarsa ne söyleyeceğim… onu mu seviyorsun diye? Ben… onu bin kere seviyorum.

Nizar Qabbani

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أَقولُ وَقَد ناحَت بِقُربي حَمامَةٌ

أَيا جارَتا هَل تَشعُرينَ بِحالي مَعاذَ الهَوى ماذُقتِ طارِقَةَ النَوى وَلا خَطَرَت مِنكِ الهُمومُ بِبالِ أَتَحمِلُ مَحزونَ الفُؤادِ قَوادِمٌ عَلى غُصُنٍ نائي المَسافَةِ عالِ أَيا جارَتا ما أَنصَفَ الدَهرُ بَينَنا تَعالِي أُقاسِمكِ الهُمومَ تَعالِي تَعالَي تَرَي روحاً لَدَيَّ ضَعيفَةً تَرَدَّدُ في جِسمٍ يُعَذِّبُ بالِ أَيَضحَكُ مَأسورٌ وَتَبكي طَليقَةٌ وَيَسكُتُ مَحزونٌ وَيَندِبُ سالِ لَقَد كُنتُ أَولى مِنكِ بِالدَمعِ مُقلَةً وَلَكِنَّ دَمعي في الحَوادِثِ غالِ

أبو فراس الحمداني

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I have a boat in the sea

I have a boat upon the sea—my soul has sailed with it. My hands are its oars, my eyes its lanterns, my ribs its ribs.

No guiding star appeared for those aboard, nor did the eyes of loved ones glimpse its shore.

The waves collide against its course, and I push it onward with the beating of my heart.

I have a boat where the grief-stricken sit beside the carefree, the ruined beside the strong, songs beside artillery thunder, girls in military boots,

No bed remains mine for long. No roof grows accustomed to sheltering me.

Even my loved ones I cannot touch. And when they say “settling down,” I hear only “departure.”

No illusion deceives me for long. No star misleads me for long.

I have a boat in every sea, a footstep in every land, and distance itself is my dwelling.

Mourid Barghouti

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Exile Prolonged

You are beautiful like a liberated homeland, and I am weary like an occupied one.

You are sorrowful like the defeated who still resist, and I am awakened like a war on the verge of breaking out.

You are longed for like the ceasefire of an air raid, and I am heart-wrenched like one searching through ruins.

We are both untamed as vengeance, and both gentle as forgiveness.

You are strong like the pillars of a courthouse, and I am astonished like one wronged.

And whenever we meet, we speak without end—like two lawyers— about the world.”

Mourid Barghouti

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زيتونتانِ عتيقتانِ على شمال الشرقِ في الأولى اختبأتُ لأخدَعَ الراوي وفي الأخرى خَبَأْتُ شقائق النعمانْ إن شئتُ أن أَنسى... تَذَكَّرْتُ اُمتلأتُ بحاضري، واخترتُ يومَ ولادتي ... لأرتِّب النسيانْ تَتَشَعّبُ الذكرى. هُنَا قَمَرٌ يُعدُّ وليمةً لغيابه. وهناك بئرٌ في جنوبيِّ الحديقة زفَّتِ امرأةً إلى شيطانْ كُلُّ الملائكة الذين أُحبُّهُمْ أخذوا الربيعَ من المكان، صباح أمسِ، وأورثوني قمَّة البُرْكانْ أَنا آدمُ الثاني. تَعَلَّمْتُ القراءةَ والكتابةَ من دروس خطيئتي وغدي سيبدأ من هنا, والآنْ إن شئتُ أن أَنسى... تذكّرتُ انتَقيْتُ بدايةً، وَوُلِدْتُ كيف أردتُ لا بطلاً... ولا قُرْبانْ تَتَشَعَّبُ الذكرى وتلعَبُ. ها هنا زيتونتان عتيقتان على شمال الشرقِ في الأولى وَجَدْتُ بُذورَ أُغنيتي وفي الأخرى وَجَدْتُ رسالةً من قائد الرومانْ يا إخوَةَ الزيتونِ أطلُبُ منكمُ الغفران أطلب منكمُ الغفران

محمود درويش

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Two ancient olive trees

Two ancient olive trees to the northeast. In the first, I hid to deceive the storyteller, and in the other I concealed the anemones. Whenever I wished to forget… I remembered. I filled myself with my present, and chose the day of my birth… to arrange my forgetting.

Memory branches and multiplies. Here is a moon preparing a feast for its own absence. And there, a well in the garden’s southern edge escorted a woman to a demon.

All the angels I loved carried spring away from this place yesterday morning, and bequeathed to me the summit of a volcano. I am the second Adam. I learned reading and writing from the lessons of my sin. My tomorrow will begin here, now. Whenever I wished to forget… I remembered. I chose a beginning, and was born as I desired: neither a hero… nor a sacrifice.

Memory branches and plays. Here stand two ancient olive trees to the northeast. In the first I found the seeds of my song, and in the other I found a letter from the commander of the Romans:

“O brothers of the olive trees, I ask your forgiveness, I ask your forgiveness…”

Mahmoud Darwish

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Hinduism and Its Prophecies About the Coming of Prophet Muhammad

Hinduism has always been one of the oldest religions in the world, spanning from its origins to the present day. It does not trace its roots to a single, specific founder but rather evolved over many centuries. One of its direct predecessors is the historical Vedic religion of Iron Age India, which is why it is often referred to as the world’s oldest living religion. Hinduism incorporates spiritual and moral values alongside legal and organizational principles, with multiple deities associated with different aspects of life—each region has its own god, and every profession or natural phenomenon has its own deity.

One of the systematic classifications of Hindu texts divides them into Śruti (divinely revealed scriptures) and Smriti (remembered scriptures). These texts explore theology, philosophy, mythology, rituals, and temple construction. Among the most revered scriptures are the Vedas, Upanishads, Puranas, Ramayana, Bhagavad Gita, and Agamas.

With over a billion followers, approximately 890 million of whom reside in India, the Indian subcontinent is home to 96% of the world’s Hindu population. This makes Hinduism the third-largest religion globally, following Christianity and Islam.

But did you know that some of these ancient texts may contain prophecies about the coming of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him)? Yes, what may come as a surprise to many is that certain sacred Hindu scriptures mention the arrival of a great figure, described in ways that astonishingly match the characteristics of the Prophet of Islam.

In the Vedas, which are among the holiest Hindu scriptures, we find references to a mighty figure called "Kalki Avatar," the last messenger sent to humanity, a man from the desert, known as the truthful and trustworthy, who rides camels, eats lawful food, and has ten thousand devoted followers… Do these traits sound familiar? Yes, they bear a striking resemblance to the descriptions of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him).

But that’s not all. The Bhavishya Purana, one of the Hindu books of prophecies, speaks of a foreigner coming from a barren land, preaching the message of monotheism, breaking idols, and spreading justice among people. In another passage, the name "Muhammad" is mentioned explicitly as a messenger of God.

But how have Hindu scholars responded to these texts? Some have attempted to interpret them differently, while others have seen them as proof that Islam is not foreign to India but was, in fact, foretold in ancient prophecies about the future of mankind.

What’s even more fascinating is that India itself became home to millions of Muslims, as if this land had been prepared to receive the message that its sacred texts had foretold thousands of years ago.

This is not just a random analysis; it is a subject worth deep reflection and study. Could these prophecies have a real historical basis? Why haven’t they been widely discussed before? And could these texts serve as a bridge to communicate with Hindus and help them understand Islam on a deeper level?

hayahbook

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You came—an elder wandering heaven’s bloom, or were you but a wind with a fractured tune? Know this: the sun is born of my own sphere, and Mars still sails the orbit I steer. I stand—defiant, fierce, untamed, my verse resounds with pride proclaimed. How many times I’ve met my fate’s frontier— with raids that made History bow in fear.

Sakina Al-Sharif

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In the Embrace of Stillness

Here, I offer the night in sacrifice and sing to the eternal clock of time. Here, I receive the moon’s quiet counsel, its light a whisper upon my soul.

Here, I slay poetry at the edge of dusk, only to breathe it back to life when the spell of dawn descends.

Here, I melt the light until it yields, and pour its shimmer into the eyes of flowers. Here, sorrow rests upon my heart, stealing the hope I keep in waiting.

Within me, melody flickers and burns, drawing its secrets from my blood. It sculpts visions from my eyes, and my stars awaken to its trembling strings.

Then it drowns me— in that exquisite sorrow, where illusion blooms, and the world becomes my song.

Mohammed Al-Thubaiti

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At the Entrance of Alhambra

At the entrance of Alhambra was our meeting— How sweet a rendezvous not thought of before!

Two soft black eyes in perfect frames, enticing, Kindling afterglows from ages long afore.

“Are you a Spaniard?” I asked her, inquiring. She said: “Granada is the city where I was born.”

Granada! Seven centuries awoke from slumbering, In her eyes, after the clothing of sleep they wore.

And the Umayyads, with banners lifted, flying— Their horses streaming by, unnumbered, they pour.

How strange is history—how it is to me returning! A beautiful granddaughter from my lineage of yore.

With a Damascene face, through it I was seeing The eyelids of Sheba and the neck of Suad once more.

I saw a room in our old house, softly gleaming, Where Mother used to spread my cushions on the floor.

And the jasmine, inlaid in its stars, was shining, Beside the golden singing pool—a picture of splendor.

“Damascus—where is it?” she said. “You will see it gleaming In your flowing hair, a river of golden-black ore;

In your Arab face, in your mouth still storing The suns of my country from the days of Arab lore;

In the perfume of Generalife, with waters streaming, Its Arabian jasmine, its sweet basil, and citron odor.”

She came with me, her hair behind her flowing, Like luscious ears of grain in an unharvested meadow.

The long earrings on her neck were glittering, Like Christmas Eve candles that sparkle and glow.

Behind her, like a child, I walked—she was guiding, And behind me, history: piles of ashes, row after row.

The decoration of Alhambra I almost heard pulsing, And the ornaments on the roof—I heard their call grow.

She said: “Alhambra! Pride of my ancestors, glowing— Read on its walls my glories that shine and show.”

Her glory! I anointed an open wound, festering, And in my heart anointed another that refused to go.

If only my lovely granddaughter had a way of knowing— The ones she meant were my ancestors of long, long ago.

When I bade her adieu, when I knew I was going, I embraced in her Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād—that Arab hero.

-Nizar Qabbani