Title: Excuse us rain, you aren’t a ruin train Abdulaziz Ali Omer
Author: Abdul-Aziz Ali Omer
Date: 08-03-2014, 09:49 AM
Excuse us rain, you aren’t a ruin train
Abdulaziz Ali Omer
Khartoum is trembling or so it seems this morning. The cold spell has n’t yet come. It is just touches of rains. Through the windows, the cool wind resonates the voice of Nazar Ghabani, the Syrian poet once watching from a balconey a rainy Khartoum . He and me pleaded this time not Beruit but Khartoum for drawing our faces in the note-book of rains. We wanted the city of the elephant trunk to blanket us in its afur coat. Alas! Its woolly cover is identical to the mortician translucent plasticsbags unable to hide the mass of building and human debris in the aftermath of recent floodings.
We are grateful for the magnanimous Arabs of Qatar for their Air-lifted trelief items that have been kindly deployed to several affected slum areas. The Qatri charitable contribution revealed in the broad day light the authorities slowness and neglegence towrds coping with a renwed catstrophic situation. It has also disclosed the falseness and futility of superfluous mottos such as self-suffiency that brought global siege and islolation.
In our country, country of thousands of sinecure party posts, we should join the emergencies chambers and emulate the Qatri modle of impressive and quick response to the calamity as it eventuates. In our planet, some countries issue sirens of caution and there are spontaneous evacuations to attenuate the predictable danger. We have seen stores ful of bales of housing and feeding materials , evidently an outside donation .The general public believe that they would be tampered with .
What concerns me why such service points didn’t initiate their work weeks before the recurrence of familiar disaster but emerged as the worst tribulation. It is too late. If there is an intellegence information that a certain Sudanese area is likely to be targeted , an armed troops would be called in earlier so why doesn’t this applies to hazards that face the ordinary citizens.
One of Sudanese besieged with water, snorted pointing to one of land crossings as huge pipes covered with cement and looks like a dam more than a bridge for pedestrains . We looked dizzingly and with fright at the heavy water beneath us that roared like sea.
On the other far side, some people bent to salvage their entombed possessions under the wreckage of mud of crumbled houses. Others hopped across the rubble, limped, shovelled sands or simply watched the horizon for a hint of fake dawn.
The lurid headline this morning is: Khartoum is drowning . What Khartoum needs to appear as developed and nice city is a caring humane heart but not big hotles. These big flowers that surround the weeds of poverty inundated with water makes it looks horrible.
It was a beautiful day. Warm but not humid. Salwa, an oriental girl leafed through Al-qudus Al-arabi Newspaper an article about living voices festival in South France. There , 81 poets denounced the un-ceasing agression against Gaza. Thus went their statement: we the assembled poets of the world in the Franch town of Sete , we raise our voices a loud in defence of human right and dignity. Poetry is the voice of conscience. Poet expresses the free will and the values of freedom. We regard what is happening as Gaza as a genocide”. There were knocks on the door. AS Salwa answred the door, two police men arrested her on the spot. Handcuffed to the wrist, she entered int othe police car, sat down and thought of what charge could be attributed to her and of numerous days of humiliation and torture in the offing.
She was awoke from her stray dreams by the creak of the gate of prison. Two stern-faced police men pushed her towards the interrogation office . on the way, she heard human groans through openings in the windows and cielings .She also saw some faces bruised with punches and livid blood smudges on their lips. She felt her rosy cheeks that dimpled when she smiled, a smile that made young blood swoon. She just felt cool beads of sweate that washed her like a shower of spring rain .
The two policemen led her into the investigator plush office. It was decked with a flag and on the desk there was an Arabic version of Roger Cohane book: In the eye of the Storm. The investigator quickly explained her far-fetched charge: a treason. The interrogator sifted through a file marked in her name . It identified her as the grand-daughter of an Arab nationalism cheerleader and one of history men in his county. In deference to that, the uniformed officer allowed to contact her rel;atives to tell them of her detention. After that, she was transferred to the State penitentiary , cell No:52 that accommodated 18 female in-mates but she was sandwiched among them.