04 November 2011
Silence.
I’ve always been fascinated by words and journeys. From a young age, I collected photos, postcards, letters, or whatever I could find that told a story about being on the road. When I was about fourteen years old, I found a letter my grandfather wrote—he passed away before I was born. It was about my family members who immigrated to Egypt. Excited, I showed it to my parents. My father was amused. My mother was emotional. My grandmother thought we should throw it away—she didn’t want people reading about him. Everyone wanted the letter for different reasons. Finally, my mother hid the letter. During our many moves, we never found it again. At that moment, I realized that writing was risky. It could infuriate. I later discovered writers were exiled or imprisoned because of what they wrote. What we read could take us into different worlds—I couldn’t remember the story in the letter because I read it fast, so I created my own version. It took me to the cusp of my imagination and emotions, to illusion and disillusion, to where what’s real and surreal, and where the sacred and unholy collide. I realized that writing has power, and that was exhilarating. It seems impossible for poets to stay away from the debates that surround them or be indifferent to their ghosts. Poetry can show others what has happened to them, and what they have lost or gained. It explores the human condition. It is a meeting place of society, history, and self. And when we write, we not only use language, we use silence.
Read the rest at BOMBLOG.
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