I
am
not
of
this
world.
I
am
not
of
this
world.
I do
not belong to any part of this world.
I do
not belong to the Eastern parts of this world.
I do
not belong to the Western parts of this world.
I do
not belong to the Southern parts of this world.
I do
not belong to the Northern parts of this world.
I do
not even belong
to
the Central parts of this world.
I do
not belong to my very place of birth.
I do
not belong anywhere in this world.
Anywhere.
In
this world,
I
have no niche,
no
refuge,
no
shelter,
no
roots.
I am
a nobody in this world.
A nobody.
For
me,
there
is no hope,
there
is no home,
there
is no comfort,
there
is no world.
Why
should I, then, not mark the Black Circle?
I
saw your Draculian teeth, sir,
(as
you tried to smile).
I
saw your flickering tong, sir,
(and
I thought I heard you bleat, sir, but I was not surprised).
I
saw that blood-red glare in your eyes,
(and
was not petrified).
I
saw your nose bleed and your ears flap,
(and
for a moment, I thought I could hear you cry - was I wrong?)
I
saw how frail your body and limbs were.
I
saw your nipples, sir, protruding from your chest –
a
pair of tiny brownish eyes,
no
more or less blind than your other pair.
I
saw that black hole in your belly,
and
I saw your pubic hair arching
like
a big black tent,
like
a dark cumulous cloud
over
the world.
I
saw your penis, sir,
and
despite your age and maladies,
I
noticed
how
firm
your
erections
were.
And
as you penetrated the gaping mouth of that traitorous whore, sir,
(were
you counting on her fear, sir?
Or
was she too busy choking on your infertile seed
not
to take a bite from your precious organ?
Not
to even contemplate such a thing?
Or
were you gambling, sir?
Simply
gambling?
Or
were you that confident, sir,
of
what you have
accomplished?)
you
needed firmness, sir, you most assuredly needed firmness.
And
I saw your hairy buttocks, sir,
and
I saw your fleshy thighs.
And
I saw your flat feet, sir,
and
I saw
your
two
blackened
big
toes.
I
saw all that, sir. I saw it all.
I
saw it all.
I
saw you sir.
I
saw you out of all of your guises,
and
all of your clothes.
And
that child inside of me,
that
child
that
refused to grow up,
that
did not yet learn how to lie to himself,
(most
assuredly a miracle by our standards, sir.
You
have to admit that, sir.
You
have to admit that.)
had
to
mark
the
Black
Circle.
Millions of dollars were spent
on a
forgone conclusion.
Millions
of dollars
and
you had no challengers, sir,
nothing
to worry about,
nothing
to prove.
Nothing.
(Or
did you?)
No
one dares doubt the legitimacy of your rule
(twenty
eight year of oppression would lend legitimacy to incest,
not
to mention political authority).
No
one dares question any decision you make
(not
openly anyway, sir).
No
one dares do anything out of the limits you established
(ours,
as you well know,
has
always been a culture of submission:
isn’t
that the gist of Islam, sir?)
And
though
I
marked
the
Black
Circle
(and
how could I not mark the Black Circle?),
and
though I was quite sane at the time
(and
why should I not be sane, at the time?)
to
me,
it
was
not
an
act of daring,
or
folly,
(oh,
not at all.)
But
a simple reflection
of…the
Tao,
if
you will, sir,
the
Tao,
of
the way things eternally are inside of me.
You
could never have planned for,
or
foreseen,
such
an eventuality,
could
you, sir?
Could
you?
Yes.
Yes,
it was the Tao
that
made me
mark
the
Black
Circle.
You
are the Tough One.
You
are the Citadel.
I
am
the
torn
one.
I am
the insensitive bastard.
I
am
the
irrational.
You
are the One Who Lacks Faith In Her Lovers,
And
Eventually Deserts Them.
I am
the one who has faith in himself,
and
will never desert you.
You
are the Sensible.
I am
the in-spite-of-his-nose rebel.
You
are the Schemer.
I
am
the
hopeless
little
dreamer.
You
are the Accepted One
Who
Hides Her True Feelings,
And
Marks
The
Green Circle.
I am
the scorned one
who
wears his feelings on his sleeves,
and
nails
the
pieces
of
his
hearts
to
his heels,
and
marks the Black Circle.
You
are the Pretentious Winner.
I am
the alleged loser
who
marked
the
Black
Circle.
When
I marked the Black Circle,
the
security agent protested,
my
mother gasped,
my
father ordered me out of the country,
my
aunt denounced me as a betrayer of the family,
my
friends treated me as a lost soul,
and
fate showered its curses upon me.
In
one
simple
stroke
of
the
pen,
I
became
a
persona non-grata,
a
black sheep,
a
harbinger of ill-fortune and misery
to
all around me.
My
loneliness was finally legitimized,
and
consecrated.
It’s
all right, though,
it’s
all right.
It’s
all right.
Those
who did not understand were never actually meant to understand.
And,
though, those who could understand
might
never get the chance to understand,
it’s
still all right.
It’s
still all right.
To
each his own way to the watering hole.
To
each his own destiny.
To
each his own beginning and end.
To
each his own Black Circle,
which,
one
day,
he
has to mark,
his
own Black Hole,
from
which,
one
day,
he
has
to
emerge.
Oh
yes,
yes
indeed,
I
marked
the
Black
Circle.
No, I do not agree (with the nomination by
the Parliament of the President for a fifth consecutive term in office.)
Note: According to the
Syrian Constitution that was introduced by Hafiz Al-Assad in 1973 and still in
force in 1999, the people of Syria were called upon to cast their ballots in
secret. In practice, however, and throughout the reign of Hafiz Al-Assad, and
later his son Bashar, the process took place in the open and under the watchful
eyes of security officers. Unsurprisingly, therefore, and according to the
official figures released soon after Hafiz Al-Assad’s last presidential
referendum was held in February 1999, only 219 people out of the nine million
qualified voters in the country are said to have marked the Black Circle, while
917 people are said to have left the form unmarked. As for the rest, they all
marked the Green Circle signifying approval., or, to be more exact, submission.