أَرواحٌ في قاعِ النهر
بقلم: د. ندى مأمون محمد إبراهيم
ترجمها إلى الإنجليزية عبد اللطيف غسري
طريق منزلهُ يُوازي مَجرى النهرِ العتيق ورِحلة سيارته اليومِية تَمر على تِلك القَنطرةِ التاريخية الواصلةِ بين ضفتي النهر... القنطرة كانت تذكارا لجُنودِ الحربِ، حتى يَتذكر أَهلُ المدينة خَيبتَهُم وعجزهم عن استِرجاعِ أَرضِهم المنكوبةِ كُلما مرو فوق النهر ... هذا النهرُ الذي ابتلعَ مئاتٍ من البشر أَيام الحَرب، و ابتلع معهُم أَحلامَهم ... و كرامَة مَسلُوبة دفنت معهم في القَاع ... فَتح نافِذة سيارته، و هو يَعبرُ القَنطرةَ مُسرعًا و مُحاولًا إخراجَ ناموسةٍ مُتطفلة تَسللت عَبر زُجاجِ السيارة ، لم تَرحمهُ من قرصَاتِها المُزعجة... نظر إِلى يدهِ المحمومةِ بِالقرصات، و استوقَفتهُ تلكَ الندبةُ الغائِرة على شكل هلالٍ في ذراعه ... (هلالُ العار) ... كما كان يُسميه ...
يومها كان ما يزالُ شابا يافعا لم يَتعد التاسعةَ عشرةَ من عُمره ... قصف المدينةِ المكثِّفِ ذلك اليوم أَعمى بصره و بصيرته ... تَرك جده المقعد على كُرسيه يُقاوم الِاختناق برائِحة البارُود... و أُختًا صغيرةً لم تَتعد السابِعة، تضم بينَ يَديها دميتَها، و ترنُو إِليه بِعينٍ دامِعة ... نَجى بِنفسه دُونهما، كان يعتقدُ أَنهُ الْأَجدرُ بالنجاةِ إِن خيرتهُ الحربُ بينَ رُوحهِ و رُوحيهِما... انشغل عنهُما في البحثِ المُتعجِّلِ عن أَوراقِه، كان يسمعُ شَخير روح جدهِ المستغيثة، و يَرى زرقة وجهِ أُختهِ الجائِعة للَّ (الأَوكسجِين) ... لهُما النَّجدةُ من الرَّب -هكذا قال لِنفسه -
شَظايا قذيفةُ يدويةُ أَلقَاها جُندي ثَائرٌ ألحقَت بِذراعه الضرر فَتناثر الدم من جُرحِ غائر، و تفتت العظم ... لم يستَطع حينها انتِشال أَوراقهِ الثُّبوتِية وجواز سفرِه من بين الركام و القذائِف المشتعِلة... أَلمهُ العظيم أَسكره ... و نِيران القذائِف الحاميةِ دفعتهُ إِلى الخارج ...
فَرَّ من المكان كما الجُرذ المريض ... بِلا هَوية ... بِلا إِنسانِية... و التذكارُ مَوشُومٌ على ذِراعه بِرسم خبيث ، تطل على حافتيه ملامحٌ روحَين لم تُسامحاه على فعلته...
لعن تلك النامُوسة القلقة التي لسعته، و أَطلقت دُخان الضمير ...أَغلقَ شباك السيارة بعد أَن طردها و سحب كم قَميصه يُداري بِه تلك الندبة الملعُونة ...
حافة النهرِ العتيق تعكسُ لمعانه على زُجاجِ سيارته ...
بعد أَربعة عشرَ عام من الحادِثة - لم يُغادر فِيها البلاد-، ولم تُغادر الْأَروَاح التي خذلها مخيلته ،تمنى لو أَنهُ لم يعبر القَنطرة ... لو أَن رُوحه سكنت قَاع النهر كما فعل موتى مدينته ...
القاعُ مُوحش ، بارد... لكن في تربتِه خليطٌ دماء و كرامَة.
هُناك ترقدُ أَرواح بِلا نُدوبِ انتقتهُم الحربُ طواعِية كتذكار لمجد لم يستَرد.
رُوح جدهِ و روح أُختِه تسكُن معهم ...
الجُرذان وحدها من تسكنُ شُقوق القَنطرة . ****************************
الكاتبة :د. ندى مأمون محمد إبراهيم 2023.
The Souls in the River Bed
A short story by Dr Nada Maamoun Mohamed Ibrahim
Translated from Arabic by ABDELLATIF RHESRI
The road to his house ran in parallel with the ancient river stream. In his daily journey by car, he crossed that historic bridge that linked the two river banks.The bridge was a memorial for the war soldiers, so that the city inhabitants would always remember their disappointment and inability to restore their doomed city whenever thay crossed the river which had swallowed hundreds of humans during the war, and their dreams as well. Their usurped dignity had also been interred with them into the bottom of the river. He opened the car window while he was crossing the bridge fast, trying to chase out a parasite mosquito that had sneaked into the car through the glass pane. It kept relentlessly pricking him with its annoying stings. He looked at his hand that had become reddish because of the stings. That deep crescent-like bruise on his arm caught his attention; the "disgrace crescent", as he used to call it.
Back then, he had been a nineteen-year-old young man. He had been nearly blinded with that intense blitz on the city. He had left his disabled grandpa on his chair facing the risk of being suffocated with the gunpowder smell, and a seven-year-old little sister who had been holding her doll in her hands and staring at him with tearful eyes. He had escaped alone and left them both, believing that he had been the only one worthy of survival as he had been forced by the war to choose between their souls and his own. He had forgotten about them as he had been busy searching hastily for his documents. He had heard his grandpa's hoarse call for help and seen his sister's cyanosis due to her desperate need of oxygen. "God help them" said he to himself.
A rebel soldier has thrown a manual old shell and it had hit his arm inflicting tremendous harm on it, so blood had began to ooze abundantly from a deep wound. He had not, then, been able to pull out his identification papers and passport from under the debris and the
burning shells. He had got intoxicated with his excruciating pain, and been forced out of the place by the hot flames of the shells.
He had escaped from the place like a sick rodent; without identity or human dignity. The souvenir was maliciously tattooed on his arm on whose edges two souls were looking out, not forgiving him for his deed.
He cursed that annoying mosquito that had stung him, and caused the smoke of conscience to rise.
He shut the car window after he had chased it out, then pulled down his shirt sleeve to cover up that cursed bruise.
The brightness of the ancient river was reflected by its edge on his car glass pane.
Fourteen years had passed after the incident, and he had never left the country nor had the souls' images left his mind; those souls whom he had let down, until he wished he had not crossed the bridge. If only his soul had dwelt into the river bed just like his city's dead ones had done before.
The bottom was dismal and cold, but its soil contained a mixture of blood and dignity. There were lying some souls without bruises, selected by the war to remain as souvenirs of a glory that had never been restored.
His grandpa and sister's souls were lying down among them.
Only rodents were dwelling in the bridge cracks.
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