مهرجان الشعر في اليوبيل ٤_a ، من كتاب اليوبيل الذهبي لثانوية جول جمال الرسمية

Jubilee Poetry Festival

Speech of Professor Suleiman Al-Essa / Introduction to the Poetry /

Dear and dear ones

In such a tape, details are lost, memory is lost, life is lost in the dust of time and the mists of years, but green raindrops, childhood memories. . The pasture with tears and blood carves itself on the marble of memory and does not die. That was thirty-five years ago, thirty-five years ago and I came to Latakia, dear and dear ones - when I carried with me the shade of the mulberry tree under which I wrote my first poems, in my small village. The little one lost behind the wires in the Orontes groves,
I came to my dear city as a child of millions of Arab children whom I do not know and who were snatched from their homes in the darkness of a black night, and were thrown into the streets of the black night, and they are still being snatched away.

It is the story of the general. . And you know the story. . brigade alone? !! It is the story of the great dead Arab body, which is being torn apart in the East. . And he is torn apart in Morocco, and in the north and south in every place where the pulse moves, greedy for this body once. For fear of the sleeping giant rising up in his bowels several times. .

I came to Latakia, my dear city, as a child in the eighth grade at the time / the second year of middle school / in this yard I played.
And in a room on the second floor, guarded by a huge tree by the window, I took my lessons for a year, and some of the year, the Second World War - dear and dear, was grinding the world, and we children of those days were not spared from its fire and fragments, and in the midst of the fire and fragments, we dreamed of freedom We carry the notebook and the pen in one hand...and the weapon against the colonialists is in one hand. . Our weapons are stones. From this school, this little Arab castle, we used to set off. . Towards the great dream, towards independence, towards evacuation, and independence was nothing but an Arab nostalgia, and Latakia was once only a city of the huge dream for which we lived the dream of the one Arab homeland, and the one Arab nation.

In a corner of the classroom a young Liwa poet was sitting, listening to his Arabic lesson once, and his French lesson once, but he was always caught up in his gaze and mind with a sad, silent question that devoured his head and occupied his little thought: Why did he usurp my country? Why was the mulberry tree forbidden in front of the house? . . Why is a foreigner ruling me? . . Our Arab homeland. . Why can't I see it?

Since those days. The young poet decided to fight by all means, to stop his life and his poetry, to remove from his chest the nightmare of the sad question, and to meet his great Arab homeland. Maybe it wasn't the years of your life, little one. enough to reach the beach. . And seeing this great dream, but what saddens life if we do not fill it with a cause. . With something precious, my bride of the wave, my dear city, my money and the memories now, after thirty-five years. I am now in your hands, traveling on the path that I started from the shade of the mulberry tree, in the Orontes groves from the courtyard of this high school. . Little Arab castle. The big one. . Jules Jamal High School. In your hands is your old student, O Bride of the Wave. Will you permit me to offer this faint prayer to you this evening? You are the one who dictated it and I wrote it. .