رسم وكلماتروان الجنابي
كلّ ما يحتاجه المرء هو لحظة تجلٍّ واحدة فقط لتتأجّج نيران المقاومة. حينما ندرس الآخرين من حولنا، نستنتج أنّ الجميع يخوض معركة ما في حياته، ويقاوم. والمقاومة هي ليست نظرات العزم والإصرار الّتي تعكسها الأعين؛ بل، هي ملامح الصّبر والامتنان التّي تسكن أرواحنا: أيّ القدرة على ادراكنا لواقع الحال والسّعي نحومستقبل مشرق دون استعجال، مع الحمد الدائم للنّعم الّتي وهبها لنا اللّه تعالى. قد تأتي المقاومة على هيئة شعب يناضل في سبيل الحصول على حقوقه، ويهدف إلى التّخلّص من الفساد. وقد تتجسد المقاومة في صراع نفسيّ يداهم الفرد فيأبى الإنسان أن يدع الصراع يستولي عليه. إنّ قدرتنا على التّحمل هي ناتج جمع مواقفنا في الحياة مع قوّتنا و صبرنا بتوازن. ممّا يجعلنا ندرك أنّ عمليّة بناء المقاومة جهد فرديّ، وقد نحصد من هذا الجهد قوّة ومستقبلاً مشرقاً.
painting and story by Rawan Al Janaby
*Resilience of the flames
You have not seen me
In the ephemeral haze*
I contemplated the world around me, through the lens of the ignited fire. Although the flame secreted its warmth into the atmosphere; it only evoked a superficial, miserable warmth. In the reflection of the heat, I studied the pairs of eyes accompanying me.
Each pair was a set of twin orbs struggling in the web life weaved for them. Above everything else, the light highlighted the iron façade everyone hid behind. A mask that would eventually perish and rust. If only those veils were carved out of Titanium, eternally lasting. But who am I to speak? After all, I was a meek wave resisting the gruelling tides. Unfazed by this admirable, yet pitiful truth, I released a vexed sigh.
Snapped out of the cycle of thoughts, I sensed a playful nudge on my shoulders. The cheekiness of the gale was what I assumed it to be. However, I turned around to sense the essence of my mother, as it grabbed ahold of my ear. The whispers told me to follow their path. I was compelled, no, urged, by an unknown force that picked my legs up, making them stand. A force that moved my lips and made my vocal chords utter an excuse to leave the group.
I rushed into the woods. With every step I took, the spirit of the wind roared even louder. Although I may have forsaken the warmth and the laughing company, I found this skin-biting cold less of a burden and more of a pleasure. My feet swiftly flew into freedom through this stroll. It wasn’t your typical walk in the park, that I was certain of. It was more like a walk down the clouded side of memory lane.
Every roar of the gale screamed of a memory. All of them began heavily pouring down onto the surface of my mind. Mother’s warm smile. The gentle stroke of father’s hand against my hair. All the eruptions of laughter between my friends and I. Although there were many tears shed and many nerves struck/feelings hurt, my memories were defined by my gratitude for the light, not my dwelling in the dark. My gratitude for my health, my education, my family. All those who guided me through/along this path. I came to realise that in this clouded haze, the number of sunny days greatly surpassed the rainy days.
I gently closed my eyes, as the roars of the breeze became somewhat tame. I thought for once, what if the façades people wear aren’t what they seem to be? What if they’re just titanium shields we build over time? Shields with a base of gratitude. Gratitude for all the strength they procure after hardship.
The voice of the wind was quelled. When I opened my eyes, I was only met by a small ray of light, the piercing blade through the dimness of the woods, while my ears were soothed by a dream that spoke of hope and golden seams.