Thursday 10/April/2025 – 02:32 AM
A recent novel was published between the lemon and the writer Lubna Sabri Mahfouz, and it revolves around the victim of a fiftieth lady working, a photojournalist who is suffocated by the permissible ceiling, who continues to drop, pressing her with the phrase that is forbidden to photograph.
In her working and family life, she reached that moment from the necks in which she feels with all her prejudices that the change is inevitably, when she threatened the dismay of the dismay to return to its raid, I realized with experience that the change does not happen alone or suddenly suddenly preceded it by signs and some of the pursuit. She knows her endeavor this time is limited to changing her work. I tried it before “and”
The solution is to resign, but how did she dare more than 12 years ago to leave her work to turn the world after that, and her life opens up on horizons that she did not imagine? The sacrifice of a window opens to its interlocking memory between dreams of sleep, awakening dreams, and a reality that is not without the ambiguity of dreams. She sits in her chosen place on the Ben Baj in the room of her little son Omar, who bears the name of his martyr uncle and attracts the thread of the male.
She was the sacrifice of an ordinary girl, obese hair with wrinkles, not beautiful and not ugly, just normal. A secretary who dictates his orders with a cold metal voice, the daughter of a mother who receives her orders in a norm, usually. Always compressed, she does not release herself except when she is free to herself in the evening in her room and her hideout comes out from under the bed; Pregnant panels, paper, pens, feathers and colors. She draws incomplete paintings that you are unable to complete and when they are tired of them, they bury them under the bed. Panels of people who have passed through her life and perhaps let her down. She tries to express them, but she stands helpless in front of the features of a father, which she erased the length of absence, and a smile of an evasive preacher, perhaps the painting of the incomplete lips in the painting of Ahmed Ibn Tant Hoda, or an eye in half a face hidden in the darkness of the painting, may have carried the secret, the secret of her grandmother’s ability to choose the date of her death.
All of this was, of course, before she made the first resignation decision and turned her life, before discovering the camera that compensates her from me the facts and resorting to abstraction to draw what you cannot understand and before she touches her steadfast earth underground, that is, in short before Ahmed carved its new presence. But she had forgotten the seed of death that she sowed one day, her pierce and hid in a enchanted pocket when she realized that she had supernatural abilities; You can make the disease.
