Zareen, The Novel Of The Place

I feel, and whenever a book arrives in my hand from inside the occupied homeland, that I am taller, more knowledgeable and glowing with what I possess, and that my heart dances with joy, and that my eyes roam with great joy and happiness, because the lines of the book carry what comforts and delights the soul, and its predominant speech is a conversation It revolves around places (villages, cities, prairies, paths, rivers, forests, mountains, hills, and valleys), and it is the hadith that corresponds to our dreams, stops them and brings them down. It is the noble symbol that was built with the sweat of the fathers and grandfathers, and with their minds that derived from the sunrise its civilised sunrise. Often the folding of these books coming from the occupied homeland forms multiple and different forms of daily suffering with the enemy, because the confrontations with it since 1917 until today, have been shed It bled a lot and dearly, and expanded the areas of sadness, pain and graves at the same time, and took many of our people in a generational sequence to the underworld, the world of prisons and detention centres, where grandparents, fathers, sons and grandchildren gathered, and this did not happen in any spatial spot. in the mundane world.

I say this as an initiation of a brief talk about the novel of the Palestinian writer Safi Safi (Zareen), which preoccupied with the Palestinian place that the Israeli destroyed from the hands of its people, a bloody and ruthless destruction, making it into rubble equal in its silence and isolation to the cemeteries, but he did not realise, this hateful enemy, until this rubble was folded A national culture rooted in the glory of the ancients. It is the culture of the fathers and grandfathers who built villages to border valleys, mountains, rivers, lakes and forests, a culture that speaks of the builder’s hands that made the earth paintings of beauty comparable to the beauty of the paintings of clouds, thunder, lightning, rain and stars that the heavens boast.

The novel (Zar’in) has its apparent hero as the place, and the narrator who talks about it is the memory, rather the memories of these men, regardless of their ages, who went on a national march towards the village of (Zar’in) to find out what its ruins say after it was destroyed by the Israelis, in a brutal moment (and more) moments of the Israeli’s brutality, and how much longer its ugliness) to know the social spirit that was, and the national identity manifested despite the destruction, and the popular culture spoken by the doors of broken homes, and what the paths that lead to fields, caves, hilltops, trenches and springs concern them; The memory in this novel is the one that narrates (through the plurality of voices) what was revealed by two times, the first of which is the past and the might and might of the act in it, and it has become fields, streams of water, paths, stone houses that are more like castles, and shady trees long with their fields and fruits, and what I knew I collected it from tales and secrets, and secondly, the current time that the Israeli wants is a time of a rupture of knowledge, in which the Palestinian leaves his history and identity after destroying the place, just as birds’ nests are destroyed.. But the journey (the return full of tears and hope together to the destroyed Zir’in, brutally with mines, bombs and bulldozers), repeats The reconstruction and furnishing of memory is not only with the richness of the past and the spirit of the present, but also with the richness of dreams that burn more and more from generation to generation.

The scene of facing the village / the rubble, is the scene of an embrace whose secrets are known only to lovers, for every stone, gate, cave, tree, deserted hakoura, a broken urn, a path devoured by thorns, a rocky slab used to spread wheat stalks, a deep rocky fountain, and a bridge bent on nostalgia A small window swarming with the call, a wall whose stones glisten with a luminous blue, and herbs that come back fertile every spring, inspecting their people, as they are scenic with low, but audible, voices swirling with tree branches and shouting with a caustic burn (Oh, my God), the remains of a minaret built of bricks, and the remains of The bell tower of the church is close to the houses and the forest, and the remains of words written on the walls whose letters are thirsty, and the remains of mirrors next to the doors. A scene, (and at the moment the eyes were filled with tears, as they bury the ashes of one of their ancestors, they kept them for years) removes the oppression and devastation and puts it aside.. It shows the meeting of the people of the village with what is left of the village, which is a lot; A meeting that does not resemble a picture other than a picture of a lover’s embrace, longing for his beloved, who in his arms became sending clouds, joy, the chirping of birds, and captivating chatter.

The novel (Zareen) is a novel full of longing, longing, and tears, a novel that declares that the return is undoubtedly coming, and that in sitting with the past (even if it was ruined) the data of the present becomes evident, so that the people of the village chart the most complete path towards the coming days.