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A surreal dialogue with the singer of lovers; Hussein Al-Mundhir “Abu Ali”

A tear is enough to make songs flow into the water

They arranged the seats one by one, set up the high platform, and dazzled the sky with dazzling lights.

The music played, but they did not take the singer out of the coffin.

The Palestinian man of joy said: Another neighborhood that will not disturb the owners of the graves.


After you left; The player hugged the oud, covering the instrument so that it could hardly be seen.

He began holding the string of the lute in his right hand, and holding the plectrum in his left, and began to strike the plectrum.

He presses the ends of the harpsichord… and sways his head, as if he is captivated by what he is playing, and sings with his eyes closed, lost in the melodies flowing between his fingers, lost in every stroke he makes with the plectrum.

And so he remained as he was, all night long, tuning and singing. When he finished, he placed the oud in its place on the sofa, and everyone noticed that the oud had no strings.


We will sit in the dark hall, watching what is happening on the wide stage, and listening to the words, melodies, and whispers, under the dim light.


But there is only you and me in the hall! Do you notice? I mean you and I, that is, me…you and me…why don’t you answer? Ha…speak, Abu Ali!

It doesn’t matter.. stay silent, but I can’t..

(Abu Ali stands in the middle of the stage, and there are shadows; seven on his right, and the same on his left. There are others, from five to six or seven people… as if they were a choir)

Singer: We dreamed of returning to Paradise! But we have returned, in part, to some of the weary countries, restricted to the point of helplessness and depression! Who gave them Jerusalem? Who gave them the coast for free? How do I return under their conditions, microscopes, and terrible blows? How will I sing after all this intended waste?.. I wish we were inanimate; Stones or trees…

Voice: Trees are not inanimate, then they cut them down for stoves in the winter, after they exhaust their fruit..

Abu Ali: How do we sing when a strange voice fills the ears?

Voice: This is the snoring of the mythical snake that ate the shepherd and his sheep, and that is the rustle of its feathers wafting between the valleys, searching for food.. We must hide..

Abu Ali: There is no place to hide…

(Indeed! There are rattles coming out of her stomach, and there is someone stuck in the dragon’s belly.)

Voice: Where are we?

Voice: I almost choked..

Voice: The viscosity is drowning me…

Voice: What life did this deal give us?

Abu Ali: You mean; We were at a party and we made a deal?

Voice: This was not in Jerusalem, but in your village, man.

Voice: Act as if you are outside the belly of the snake, as the symbol is greater than reality..

(Abu Ali enters and starts performing the song)

Voice: It’s a song like oxygen, and when it’s gone, I almost stop breathing!

Voice: Yes, it was expected that the square would catch fire in our country, but you have no foresight!

Voice: The burden falls on the owner of the broken chair, for he is the one who sold the martyr, the wounded, the prisoner, and the lover!

Voice: They are one; The killer and the one who mediated to bring about reconciliation.

Voice: The city was destroyed, and the fishermen were still on the shore

Voice: Let me rest. The overwhelming blue covers my eyes, and I can hardly see ghosts.

Voice: They replace the names with old, fictitious, obsolete ones.

Voice: They did not rain sticks on the olives, but rather burned them because they are historic and beautiful, and they do not want them to remain on their eternal throne! .

Voice: Where did you take the children, to the river or to nihilism and absurdity?

Voice: The gazelles were combing the sunset without space, and the wedding was resonant with the youth, but the owners of the rifles burned the house, violated the temple, and ignited infidelity in it.

Voice: They say that songs have reached a light never before achieved!

Your voice, Abu Ali, is a wild date in the silk!

Voice: Here are the young men hitting the clouds with their bloody feet and smashed skulls, and the flag did not fall!

Voice: Who turned the martyr’s husband into a dancing painting?

Voice: For a century, they have been standing in the funeral home… and the dead did not pray until they heard the songs of lovers!

Voice: Where did all that blood, money, votes and henna houses go?

(Abu Ali continues his third, fifth, and eighth song…and whenever he shouts his thundering mountain voice, the belly of darkness cracks and the imprisoned people emerge from it)

Voice: She married the first, and he became a martyr, so the second married her, and he was ascended to Paradise, with his abundant blood, and she kept distributing sweets..

(Abu Ali was on the pulpit, a pulpit, breaking the air, and eagles were born from his hands, but the horizon was narrowing… and narrowing…)

Voice: “Abu Ali” felt like the plain where the sea of green ears waves… and he did not have time to harvest the summer!

Voice: Because the rebel hugged his killer before he reached home..

Voice: Continue, Abu Ali! If we do not restore the country with song, we will not truly restore it.

Voice: Sing so we can walk, day or night, from here to here!

Voice: Sing for the prisoners of the ghoul and the tank… and the text.

Voice: Play for the purple sleeper in the stone.

Voice: And they sang to the swarms that fill the horizon, from the massacre to the tent..

Voice: Their reward was defeat, so let them enjoy shame…

Voice: They imprison corpses! Are there such people?

Voice: They threw the poet from the top of the star to the margins of mediocrity and oppression.

Voice: They hate our letters, our water, our barley, our clouds, our dreams, our houses, our trees, and our singing… and we love them so much… so much… that we gave them our history.

Abu Ali: O voices! Be silent until I finish my songs… Take the flour, the worn clothes, and the verbal eloquence… and leave us the melody that leads to the country!

Voice: You were always, O Abu Ali, leading us to the serenity of weddings and the gold of eternity, O good as the intentions of the storm… until the delta grew, the lightnings rose in the clouds and Venice was born.

Voice: With your songs, we used to raise the names of the martyrs at the intersections, alleys, and torches, storm the barricades, respond to the crazy bullets, and turn the prison into a castle filled with hell and madness..

Abu Ali: Light shines on the root of the songs! Despite all this betrayal, and the victory of Judas, do not despair, continue playing, and hit the walls with balled fists.


The next bunch of songs.. I will pick them from the volcano.


I was sitting in the extended arena filled with thousands of chairs, and there was a platform set up in front of the cheering crowd.

What was I imagining? Here is Abu Ali, with his full presence, thunder, lightning, and magic, lending his voice, which fills the galaxies, and the thousands that make up, echoing with him the roaring rhythm that takes hearts, extending from Beirut to Akka, and from thyme to the blood-soaked dream and weddings!


What a clear mystery! I mean your face, Abu Ali!

An innocent trap, cold embers, a healing poison, light and caustic like fire, shiny and dangerous like a sharpened blade, charming, elegant and tidy like a royal necklace… and you are a miraculous lover.

Whenever I see your face, I feel like I have emerged from a dream. I was ascending from the basement lit by torches, to a vast square! Then the sun caught me by surprise, and I saw you under the guillotine preparing, without panic, for the end! Your face was neutral, as if it were freckled wax…and I did not know that you were the one who killed the listener! Just because he’s flattering.


He once told me: I found myself standing between the stage and the audience, and he asked: Am I the singer or one of the audience? Why do I stand between them? Did I get off the stage to complete my role, or did I get up from my seat and go to run errands?

You promised? I need a hand to guide me…

I’m still standing!


If you choose art seriously…

You will get bored and run away.


He had hundreds of songs; One for fire, the second for wind, the third for water, and the fourth for earth.

He tried to remember who sang the fifth, for example, but he forgot!

His wife knew that it was hers, but she wanted to blame him because he often forgets and mentions Palestine.

Source: Maan News Agency


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