The Last Witnesses (Nobel Prize for Literature 2015)
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Much has been written about the heroism and exploits of war, and about the extent to which it is needed as a means of achieving goals that may be considered noble. But the constant question remains: Is there a justification for peace, our happiness, and even eternal harmony, if one small tear of an innocent child is shed for it?
In World War II, more than one hundred million people were killed, wounded, and displaced in the bloodiest war - so far - in our human history. Much has been written about the tragedies and consequences of this dark phase of our history. But how did the last living witnesses see her? Children of this war?
More than thirty years after the end of that war, Svetlana, in her book The Last Witnesses, brings the remaining heroes of that stage back to their childhood that lived through the war, to tell in their words the last words... about a time that would end with them...
In the introduction to his first collection of short stories, the Chinese storyteller Lu Xun says that he found himself driven to write because he felt intense loneliness. He was not able to forget, or, rather, he was not able to forget completely; So, he wrote stories about the past.
This is exactly what prompted me to write: overwhelming loneliness. I also failed to forget, so I wrote what remained in my memory about Syria before the war.
Sometimes, exiles write about nostalgia for a country they miss and wish to return to. This is not like the nostalgia of Syrians: the country has completely changed, and even disappeared. We long for a place that does not exist, except in memory. And memory, as you know, writhes, colors, and churns. I am no exception, and my memory does not claim to be completely faithful to reality, but I tried hard to write exactly what you dictated to me.
Hopes, dreams, and losses are all fading quickly, and so is the country, and what remains of it is in us: as if it were a half-smile, or a summer cloud, or a bright comet passing quickly, only to disappear completely moments later, before the eyes of curious, bored viewers, indifferent to its fate...
About the content of the book:
And you... you came different
To write your name on the papers of a lifetime
And to shake hands with my seasons and seasons
To build a memory of perfume on my forehead
And to give my heart a light that does not disappear with the passage of time.
So I wrote you as a title on my heart... “For your birthday.”
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