My Childhood - Loose Bloggers Consortium (LBC)

My Childhood - Loose Bloggers Consortium (LBC)

This is my very first post with the Loose Bloggers Consortium (LBC) including Rummuser, Anu, Ashkok, Gaelikka, Grannymar, Conrad, Padmum, Anki, Will Knott, Maria The Silver Fox, Noor, Paul, Plain Joe, Rohit and myself, where we have a Weekly topic to discuss.

I remember writing a blogpost here some time ago that partially talked about my childhood in a way.
Like everyone else, I wanted to grow up, no matter what that meant to anyone. At some point in my life, I really wanted people to stop telling me "You only get to understand this when you grow up". Sad how I can now repeat the same thing, only to myself though.
I thought the worst words you can tell to a broken heart were those words, no consolation or, like the quote in The Book Thief, any wordly tricks to make us feel better. Sometimes all you do need is an honest consolation for the pain, and then when reality strikes you numb, you'll surely get to learn what that consolation actually meant.

To be quite frank, I was one stubborn child, I knew that what I had in mind must happen. I knew that I wanted to be different, insanely different. I remember back then when I used to live outside Egypt (UAE), I had a friend who was way older than myself, and by that I mean that she was 19 or something. And I was 6.
She was my neighbor. She was Algerian, which means I was lucky enough to understand her language. She talked Arabic too well with me. (In case you don't know, Algerians talk French more than Arabic, because of the French colonization). Mum used to tell me off for the age difference between us.
Which makes me jump to the conclusion question: What difference did it make, if we had the same definition of a true friendship?
I probably will never forget how beautiful she was, how nice she was to me, as a child. We will never meet again, however, I will never forget how she taught me what friendship meant no matter how old.

I dreamt of being a Gynecologist. Reason? Because I knew too many women are shy enough to go to male doctors. Yes, dreams of a child are so innocent!
And then somehow, and I really don't know why or how did that start, my story with poetry took off.
It was every Friday. Coincidence? I don't think so!
There was a weekly newspaper dad used to buy, it had many writings of young poets. I used to collect them and guard them in my desk. Then I started writing them down on my agenda so that I may memorize them or read them whenever I wanted to remember war and martyrs, because most of them were about Palestine, the martyrs of Palestine, and war on Arabs.
I still remember a few lines of one of them:

أبُثُّ إليك وفاة العرب فهل يا نِزار توارى الغضب
أبُثُّ إليك وفاة أبي و أمي و أختي بِلامَ سبب
فهل يا نزارُتوارى النهار و هل يا نزار تموت الشُعب

I probably will never forget them!
I remember them more than I remember the very first piece I ever wrote. And I remember that back then, mourning the Arab world has become my ultimate thought.
Maybe that's the only reason for my poetry having this dismal touch?
Maybe..