Do you know how longing reaches its peak? When you continue, despite the arrows being directed at you professionally... arrows coming from the paths of no return, only to be caught by winds that also dig between your folds and write down the stories of the thorny autumn... and despite this, the hope of meeting is sweeping through all your insides... In our village, you find some people talking about the spring season as told in volumes of myths, and some of them painted a picture of it, lived in it and in its memory, and invented a lie in order to celebrate it with the lighting of the candles of the April cake. It is a cake that is made once a year, in April, and has remained sacred. How do we celebrate a spring that was only mentioned in volumes of legends?! Then I decided to be silent, but my pen was not silent yet. Between my letters I feel spring. Perhaps I have done the same as them. I also made up a lie in order to see from the silence of the letters what the previous ones in the search had gone astray from. Until I made the decision to search for him, but with a new identity and deeper convictions; To make it easier than trying to find it... Who?! Sheikh of our tribe; Through it, the spring to which we lost our way will be completed. Yes, it will be completed at the top of that mountain. In the middle of a search, you lose your dearest person, and you find yourself alone, complete. Perhaps I had found it among my letters at that time, and I knew where it was, or my subconscious was mocking me. But all I want to say in my right mind is: Honestly, I will not give up my new identity.
في كتاب مُحاط بالمرضى النفسيين، يكشف إريكسون عن مخاطر التعامل مع هؤلاء الأشخاص. وتصل تقديراته إلى أن 2% من سكان العالم مختلّون نفسيًا يخالفون كل توقعاتنا السلوكية؛ يفتقرون إلى الإحساس بالشفقة والتعاطف، ويميلون إلى التلاعب بالآخرين بلا ندم من أجل خدمة أهدافهم.
Owned houses and others are rented, fleeting and temporary dwellings, between which the writer moves across different Syrian cities, turning the houses into stations, or rest stops that allow her to contemplate the context of her life, her choices, and the source of her desire to remain between closed doors. The subjective nature of the book turns it into a kind of personal testimony, but Nour Abu Farraj is betting that her memories may intersect to a large degree with the experiences of middle-class young men and women from the 1980s generation in Syria, who lived a relatively stable life, before the war came and made a difference in their context. Forcibly expel them from their safe spaces.
In the face of the transience and uncertainty that war brings, description becomes a tribute to the fleeting; This is why the book tries to remind readers of the long time it takes to build a house, in the symbolic or structural sense, but it nonetheless warns them against becoming captives to the place, and encourages them to carry their homes as souvenirs, or small luggage on their long journey.
