الثمن
”هب أن جلبة هائلة نشبت في الشارع حول أمر ما، وليكن عمودًا للإنارة يبتغي جمع من أصحاب النفوذ إزالته. يُسأل في الأمر راهب متسربل باللون الرمادي يحمل روح العصر الوسيط، فإذا هو يقول – بأسلوب الأكاديميين الجاف: ”لننظر بادئ ذي بدء، يا إخوان، في قيمة النور، إذا ما كان النور في ذاته حسنا—“ عندها يطرحه الجمع أرضًا، مبدين شيئا من الاعتذار، فيما يهرع الناس تجاه عمود الإنارة، ليسقطوه في غضون دقائق عشر، ثم يمضون مهنئين بعضهم البعض على واقعيتهم التي لا تمت بصلة للعصر الوسيط. لكن بمرور الوقت، لا تمضي الأمور بذات السهولة. فمن الناس من أسقط عمود الإنارة لأنه يريد المصباح الكهربي، ومنهم من أراد حديد الخردة، ومنهم من أراد الظلمة لأنهم يعملون السوء. منهم من حسب عمود الإنارة أقل من كاف، ومنهم من ظنه أكثر من اللازم، منهم من أراد تحطيم أملاك البلدية، ومنهم من أراد تحطيم شيء ما. لذا، فتدريجيًا وحتميا، اليوم وغدًا وبعد غد، تعود إلى الناس القناعة بأن الراهب كان محقا في النهاية، وأن الأمر برمته يقوم على فلسفة النور. فقط، ما كان بإمكاننا أن نناقش تحت ضوء المصباح، لابد وأن نناقشه الآن في الظلام“
جي كاي تشسترتن – الهراطقة (ترجمة المدون)
“Suppose that a great commotion arises in the street about something, let us say a lamp-post, which many influential persons desire to pull down. A grey-clad monk, who is the spirit of the Middle Ages, is approached upon the matter, and begins to say, in the arid manner of the Schoolmen, “Let us first of all consider, my brethren, the value of Light. If Light be in itself good—” At this point he is somewhat excusably knocked down. All the people make a rush for the lamp-post, the lamp-post is down in ten minutes, and they go about congratulating each other on their unmedieval practicality. But as things go on they do not work out so easily. Some people have pulled the lamp-post down because they wanted the electric light; some because they wanted old iron; some because they wanted darkness, because their deeds were evil. Some thought it not enough of a lamp-post, some too much; some acted because they wanted to smash municipal machinery; some because they wanted to smash something. And there is war in the night, no man knowing whom he strikes. So, gradually and inevitably, to-day, to-morrow, or the next day, there comes back the conviction that the monk was right after all, and that all depends on what is the philosophy of Light. Only what we might have discussed under the gas-lamp, we now must discuss in the dark.”
G.K. Chesterton – Heretics
Helplessness and Nothing Else
Translation: W. Scott Chahanovich
In the operation room one of the revolutionaries was resting. No direct link connected me to him. In front of the hospital there were a number of activists. Among them, I am always overwhelmed with the feeling I do not belong. I sat down on the sidewalk opposite the hospital in a desperate attempt to find some clear space in my mind so that I might rest and think about what is happening.
Questions, both public and personal, rained down upon my mind without answers. One of the activists reminded me that Malek (the blogger who had been injured) would lose one of his eyes; that he will emerge back into the world after a short period of time without one of his eyes. Each detail of each injury or loss of life seems painful. And that day, among those gathered, I was not capable of speaking or even writing about what pain I felt for short amounts of time. In front of the hospital most of the people were consumed by sending information by modern telephones. A pensive veil covered their faces as they thought about the fate of one of their friends, and at times they smiled.
After waiting a while, I asked a man working in the street where the nearest bookshop might be. There was, in the shop, a women and the Egyptian television. A police chief was there too, describing the injustice to which they had been subjected. And there was a young boy at the copy machine who was angry at all of those people in Tahrir Square. All three kept repeating one thing: “We want the country to get moving…we’re fed up”.
“Helplessness” is the first word I wrote after I found a paper and a pen in the bookshop. It was the only word that kept turning in my mind. A girlfriend of mine said it to me once when I explained to her my feelings about these conditions. I have written about this feeling earlier, yet I still have not found an exit from it: “indifference and spiritual remorse for this feeling”. One of the activists brought me back to Tahrir after the surgical operation had finished. Again, on the way to Downtown, I told her that I was going to Tahrir Square. She was incredulous. She said, “You’ve now started to go down to Tahrir?” I responded harshly, “I’m not going to protest…I am going to provide whatever help I can.” When I placed my foot down from the car onto the ground, I asked myself, “Am I really concerned about the situation of those who are in Tahrir? Or am I just doing this as an act of personal salvation?” I found no answer.
I feel dizzy in these situations. The ground spins and I do not know why and how to stop it. I remembered my dog, Plato. I decided to leave the Square for a while, to get away from the smell of thick smoke, in order to go check on him and to write, hoping that through writing there is an exit from this state of vertigo that follows silence and the feeling of Helplessness.
