نجمة

يقف الظابط مذهولاً امام الحشود.

"من اين اتى هؤلاء، اين كانوا، وهل غابت عنهم بصمات الأعوام الثلاثين التي قضيت اغلبها اتدرج زاحفاً الى رتبتي هذه؟  كنت انتظر ترقيتي آخر هذا الشهر بعد انتظار اعوام اربعة. ربما تمكنّي زيادة الراتب أن استكمل جهاز ابنتي او اشتري للصغار جهاز الكومبيوتر الذي يحلمون به. ربما كانت لتضيف النجمة الجديدة على كتفي هيبة تستشعرها زوجتي التي منذ ما يشابه القرن باتت تتمنع كلما توددت اليها. ربما تسمح تلك النجمة لهذه القامة، او بعض منها بالانتصاب.

من هؤلاء الذين يملؤون الساحات ويظهرون اليوم على الشاشات باسمين .. من هي تلك الفتاة ذات الشعر الأجعد التي باتت تظن ان المكان والزمان ملكها؟ من تلك الأخرى تندد بالتعذيب في السجون؟  التعذيب.. هو ان تكون الفاعل والمفعول به اقول.. التعذيب ان تقف بين بدي ظابطٍ يكبرك نجمة او نجمتين .. يتخلص من ذل ظابط يزيده نجوماً عبر اذلالك.. فتعود انت الى مجنديك وسجنائك تحمل ذلك وذل مرؤوسيك.. هذا هو التعذيب.. هذه هي الأثقال التي تتطأطئ  تحتها قامتي. وتسأل نفسك، اين اتخلص من حملي هذا؟ اين أُخفيه حتى لا تراه زوجتي حين اعود الى منزلي هذا المساء؟

انا لم اختر ذلك، لم أختر ذلك.. قيل لي "كلية الشرطة المصرية"، أبي أرادني ظابطاً ليزهو بي. أبي ارادني ظابطاً كي اعيل عائلتي لأنه هو لم يتمكن من اعاله عائلته. رحمك.. وسامحك الله يا والدي.

ها هو امامي، احدهم. العلم المصري على كتفيه، في يده شعار لأسقاط ذلك الذي كان سيأمر بترقيتي وزيادة راتبي. ها هو يمر امامي باسماً مزهواً بقامته. ربما لو رأته زوجتي لأختارته دوني. نهار عملي انتهى لكن لا قدرة لي على العودة الى المنزل. ماذا اقول لها الليلة؟ كيف اخبرها عن غدٍ لا اعرف معالمه؟ لا زيادة في الراتب ولا في النجوم بل متاهة غموض تبتلعني. من سأكون غداً؟ من اكون دون النجوم على كتفي."

يُخرِج الظابط مسدسه. يتردد لثواني.. يصوبه على الحشود. يعود ويصوبه على صدغه. ترتجف اصابعه قبل ان تطلق النار.. على نجمة في وسط علم على كتف شاب يحمل شعاراً مطالباً باسقاط النظام

Beirut's De(con)struction

2008 - From my balcony

2010 - From my balcony

The beautifully calligraphed verse of the Quran in the horrendous gold frame has been hanging on that same old nail sine sometime in the late 70’s. It was bought by your aunt after the week you spent in the hospital, to protect the family from the evil eye. It was, with no doubt as she says, the cause of the series of illnesses all of you had suffered, and this particular verse would counter it. Your mother hung it then, on that spare nail, thinking that she will soon find a better location for it. You now have to remove it, after 30 some years, wondering if the family will still be protected.

Houses were just like women you thought, and the house were you were born and grew up has changed and taken shape just like your mother moved through phases of her life. Here was the house she arrived to as a bride in the early sixties. She was pretty then, with soft eyes, a small build and the certainty that life will be kind and generous with her. The cold of the new tiles of that second floor apartment welcomed her chubby feet on that hot summer day when she cleaned them for the first time. This was the same day the big sofa arrived, the fridge, and the stove. The high wooden bed, on which many secrets were shared and a whole family brought into being, came a week later. From then on, both the house and your mother started building up the layers of warmth and memory.

The kitchen has almost reached perfection. There is nothing that has not been exhaustively used, and not an ingredient missing or without the appropriate shelf or jar. The pots and pans seem to have the ability to cook the exact amount that is needed for the family, and when they cooked more, the family had to expand; new children, new friends, nephews, nieces, lovers, wives, husbands, and grandchildren. Your mother measures nothing and follows no recipe. The pans seem to tell her how much of each ingredient to use, and if by any misfortune she had to cook in somebody else’s house her dishes always seem to fail. Some of those plates on the shelves are older than you. They have been downgraded though, from being fancy china only used for guests your mother sought to impress, to a couple stand alone dishes, complete sets of which have been broken over the years. That odd plate that remains is used only by her, for the fruit she has in the early evening on the balcony. Your memory resides in the corners of that kitchen, just like it does in every corner of the house; early morning labneh sandwiches for breakfast before school, the all too many bowls of lentil soup you had every winter, cold yogurt Ayran in hot summer afternoons, your attempts at contributing to the cake your mother was making.. they were all there, with the smells lingering in the pockets of memory you had well preserved.

You almost can’t go further, you think they might as well take it down with all it contains. But they want you to go through this - you need to hand them an empty house. You need to peel of the years these walls have witnessed layer by layer, and give it back to them clean and blank. Even cleaner than when you received it; you now have to empty it even out of hope, of the prospect of a tomorrow. The living room now looks empty without the sofa, which might be the only piece of furniture sturdy enough to survive the move. You are hoping your mother would be just as strong. You almost never imagined it could look that empty. Too small for a family of six, the room seemed to have expanded beyond its walls. The shelves have gone all the way up to the ceiling, heavy with what you and your siblings attempted to, or were forced into, filling your brains with; Marxist ideology books, with the necessary accompanying literature of Gorki and Tolostoy, Saadeh next to Aflaq. Nietzsche, Ghazali and Saadawi. All that you have devoured at one point and despised at another, many hidden behind not so elegant photo frames and vases, sitting on pieces of crochet knit by some grandmother. Munif, Kanafanni, Steinbeck, Orwell, and Marquez. The poetry of Drawish next to Lorca’s, al-Feytouri, Najem and to your dismay, Kabbani. And there were the ones you had forgotten all about, introduction to botany, principles of demography, and notes from the history 101 class. The cards you received for your teenage birthdays next to notes from a meeting of what seems too distant of an activism time. Stacks and stacks of archaeological evidence of how your and your siblings’ handwriting and life aspirations have changed in the past 40 years.

The living room had also claimed the balcony. One old sofa sits on the edge of it, the same one that has witnessed your damned first cigarette. In the other corner is the closet that was your sister’s when she was a baby, and become the space for all the odd things; empty plastic pots of all sizes, old table covers, rusty tools, pieces of cloth, wool, and needles. What a treasure box this was when you were a child! what toys have these shelves created again and again.

It was in the small space between the closet and the balcony edge where you hid as a child. That is where you went for solitude, for silence, for individuality. That is where -right before your mother came with a sandwich and the juicy sweet cucumber you adored- you had cried, convinced that had you died right that moment, nobody will notice. That was where you felt safe, protected by the proximity of the liveliness and noise coming from the living room and liberated by that piece of sky the balcony gave you. The sky had shrunk over the years, as the surrounding buildings were getting taller and taller. It is on that balcony corner that you wish to be today. Only that space would have felt safe now. But you are on some other balcony, watching your childhood house and years of memory, dribbling down like a string of beads that was just ripped apart.

2008 - From my balcony

2010 - From my balcony

                                                             

  

This post is one of several published by fellow female bloggers on #PhotosFromMyCity. The idea of a shared monthly theme came up in an event organized by Danish Pen, in Cairo in May 2010. This post is a much delayed one about Beirut, my city in text and photos, check out other post on this theme, between Jeddah and the US, Day in Vienna,  Mourning Cairo, Me in the City - Amman,  Mapping Copenhagen, and the below participating blogs and websites for other upcoming ones.
هدوء نسبي; ميرون; Manalaa; Noter ; مدونة; Shaden Blog; WHEN IS A CITY; لَسْتُ أدري; Zaghroda , 7iber , Torture in Egypt blog, Arab Digital Expression

The Jellyfish Attack

The events in this text took place in the right side of the brain of the writer; a pure random and imaginative act. Any resemblance to real events, characters, names, and places is a mere coincidence.

The text is inspired by the film "Dr. Strangelove" by Stanley Kubrick.

A Hot Sunday in June

The public Beirut hospital was full of patients as usual, even on a hot Sunday in the month of June… They came in running, wearing their Gucci swimming suits as they didn’t take the time to change. The burn on her leg was so unimaginably large with the intensity of a thousand suns.

-Did Israel bomb the Laguava Beach today with phosphorous chemicals? I didn’t hear anything on the news. The doctor said in shock.

-No sir, it is a jellyfish sting. But this Jellyfish is huge, almost 1.3m in Diameter with long tentacles stretching over 2m ahead. I have never seen a creature like that before. The girl answered with tears and pain.

The doctor tried as much as he could to heal the wound. The girl in yellow bikini left the hospital with a limp.

Three hours later, as the doctor’s shift was about to end, and as he was ready to leave, three cars stopped in front of the Emergency doors with seven patients coming out with the same exact burn!!!…

Horror in the streets

Within the next two weeks following that first jellyfish incident, one hundred people were hospitalized. Eleven of them are in serious conditions, while one young person is dead.

The local and international media, the schools, the taxi drivers, the families at home, the Facebook freaks; everybody is talking about the Jellyfish invasion.

Michel Hayek was surprised that he didn’t predict that tragedy coming, although he did speak about possible political assassinations taking place!

And the shiny summer that started as a haven for tourists from the entire Gulf, began to look gloomy and full of danger. The hotel reservations were dropping like autumn leaves. The beaches were arid. The economy, which is %98.7 based on touristy donations, was plunging into another crisis. The situation was catastrophic.

The politicians

The politicians were forced to react, urged by the growing sense of discontent within the public opinion. During the National Truce & Reconciliation meeting number 112, they agreed to switch from the Defense strategy & Hezbollah arms to the Jellyfish attacks.

They requested a civil investigation to be provided within 36 hours.

Two days later, the report was ready and they met again. The report allocated the jellyfish area in one condensed zone that spread over 5km along the shore and 2km deep into the sea. They listened to Sea Experts giving reasons for such huge jellies:

-With the artificial expansion of our Consumer Society, the explosion of the number of malls & supermarkets, the opening of Vero Moda & Moustache every 25 meters, and the absence of waste water treatment facilities, plastic bags were being dropped abundantly into the sea, and turtles were eating them and chocking to death: They are confusing them with jellies. An expert wearing brown glasses explained.

One politician asked:

-Can’t the sea turtles differentiate between bags & jellyfish?

The room was silent.

-Why are they so big then?

-Respected Sirs, the existence of the rich monumental and fruity Jabal of Zoubaleh near the city of Saida plus the direct drop of all our bodily fluids & trash into the sea are providing them with extra vitamins.

-What is the solution? Another frustrated Member of Parliament shouted.

-Without the turtles, I don’t know sir. The lady with the brown glasses answered.

The meeting continued for three more hours. At the end of the day, they didn’t agree on a common basic & simple solution or procedure.

In this limbo, troubling disagreement, and loud angry public opinion that crave for a solution, they all agreed on a very original idea:

Why don’t we let the Army take care of the Situation?

The Army

The commander of chief, the chief of staff, the deputy & generals met within 24 hours to respond to the urging call of the Politicians.

The generals quickly thought in their heads without any hesitation:

Why don’t we bomb the Sea?

Everybody agreed to that logical & natural strategy. They highlighted, on the bombing maps, the 5kmx2km area between Jiyyeh & Rmeileh. They called the Air Force, the navy and all field military experts who were in high command during the Nahr El Bared war.

The Air Force artillery

The Air Force quickly released its latest air weapons:

-The “Dove”: Its full name is De Havilland Dove. It was used by the British army in WWII as a military transport plane.

-The “Bulldog” Aircraft: A very good training aircraft from the 1970s.

-The Aerospatiale Puma Helicopter: It comes fully loaded with machine guns & canons. It appeared in the movies Rambo: First Blood II and III.

-The Cessna Caravan: It is the latest acquisition; a gift from the most powerful army in the world. It has the lightness of a gazelle and the aggressivity of a tiger. It is the Phoenician Bird in the sky and out of the ashes.

Cessna has been used by FedEx and DHL for the past 15 years…

The Action

After two and half months of continuous bombing of the sea using up to 350,000 rounds of soft-tipped bullets, and two hundred and fifty-five tons of small American-pre-approved-missiles, the results came as follows:

- 300 tons of fish was found dead on the shores. The fishermen organized a strike that almost toppled the government.

- 250 tons of sea corals were spread on the shores. They were quickly crushed, mixed with concrete and used for another land refill around the Biel area.

As for the Jelly fish extermination, there was no guarantee for the success of the strategy. The army failed to count the dead Jellyfishes since they do melt when exposed to the sun.

The end

The army was victorious.

Despite two pro-jellyfish-Hippy-Hamra-candle-solidarity-action-demonstrations funded by ten local NGOs where five people showed up, the people were happy again, the beaches were full again, and the tourists came back again.

Then, towards the end of September, the Al Jazeera Network receives a written Email message. It is a press release from the Head of the Jellyfishes: “We are not dead, we will sting again.”

Two days later, the Beirut Public Hospital was filled again with jellyfish victims. This time, they were Gucci Bikinis coming from Jounieh area.

To be continued…

About Negotiations & Grey Colors

(Fiction based on real facts)

The Sunday afternoon was as clear as a civilian fighting occupation. The sun, with the elegance of a feudal lord, made winter disappear. And the old café by the sea, devastated- few days ago- by rainy storms, has reclaimed his charm. So we sat down, and awaited our friends to arrive for a nice relaxing gathering in preparation for a busy working week to come.
He came with a friend. It was the first time we all meet him. He had a square-like face, and a very confident attitude. He spent the first hour eating and didn’t pay attention to the conversations on the table. But once he finished his food, he started to penetrate the conversation and quickly affirmed himself as a pillar among all the voices that were intersecting and carefully knitting the social moment. The theme of the talks didn’t matter to him as much as his role in them.

He started speaking about his work at the U.N., about Israel, about the importance of dialogue as the non-violent mean to bring peace in this Middle-to nowhere-East, about the essential & needed existence of the U.N. to the entire world and its role in bringing Law & Order. He talked above all of us, as if his mental structures were higher in horizontal perspectives. He ridiculed the violent struggle of people, as if it was bad poetry written in a book left on the shelf of a small library being read by dust and cockroaches. He talked about globalization, about technologies of communication, about the fact that it was all grey and that black & white were obsolete colors.
-But what about 1948; the biggest land theft operation in the entire history of the world? How do you solve the loss of land & the Diaspora of its people if the other antagonist side is refusing their recognition and the logics of a just solution? My friend said with honesty & anger.
He didn’t answer directly this question; rather he used a lot of sentences and historical facts from other nations and other examples to dilute the meanings of justice & right of return. In other words, Historical pain happens all the time, and it is time to accept rather than change it: you take panadol, you don’t go into surgery. He mentioned the Armenians, Kurds, and Native Americans as examples of compromising Peoples.
-The negotiation should be based on 1967 with the flexibility to give & take as well in accordance to the International political context, and world key players. Wake up guys, this is the real world. Falasteen is not a young Alice in wonderlands, but a tired woman in her sixties sick of fighting, of correcting wrongs, of facing situations she is not choosing, and ready to compromise. And drop your violent instruments; they will not lead you to nowhere. He answered and changed the topic to talk about the real estate in Beirut.

Three hours passed by on that table. The sun got tired; too many people were consuming his energy. The Café got louder. And I decided to return home. So I said goodbye, and as I was walking away, I noticed the beautiful jacket of the stranger with the square-like face on our table. It was a petroleum-blue color, straight-cut, Bohemian-Bourgeois type of jacket, similar to the one I lost few years ago. In fact, I thought it was mine at that instance where I pushed him firmly and quickly wore it. It felt it was the right thing to do. Is it a coincidence that it fits me perfectly?
He didn’t understand what was happening, as he saw me, calmly, walking outside. He ran towards me and started yelling. Then he grabbed me, and tried to undress me like a crazy maniac with such a conviction in his violent act as if he has the right to do so.
He started pushing. His color became red-blue. And as I was resisting, he completed lost it, and turned into a wild beast. Twenty minutes later, he was lying down on the floor in his own blood and heavily breathing. So I looked him up and said:
-Since I am wearing the jacket, logically, it is mine now. As for the wallet and the car keys, well we can talk about that. Unfortunately, next week I am out of Beirut. How about we meet on Wednesday in 10 days from now at 8am in my office? My friends on the table can give you the address. Salamu Alaikum my friend. Your violence will not lead you to nowhere, let’s negotiate. It is all grey…

غزل في شارع الحمرا

بالعَتمة ناطر ما بتحكي وحيد، حزين، ومعصََّب عالبار، مع كاس الويسكي بتقللي بعيونِك مُعجب بحسّ، انا وحدي ما في غَيري بتداوي قلبك المعذَب "شعرِك، صوتِك، هزة خصرِك عطرِك، غِنجِك، رنة كعبك" بتتغزل فِيّ، ما بتتعب دُم تك، دُم تك، دُم دُم تك تك..   عتختك، ببيت مكركب.. ***

شي ليلة بعد، بنفس البار وحدَك بالعَتمة، والصبايا كتار بتقللن عن شَعرُن، عن صَوتُن، عن غِنجُن.. عن قلبك المعذب وعَيْنَك بتسرح.. علىِّ وعغيري وبِدَينتي بتهمُس انك بتغار بتحبني؟ طبعاً، متلي متل غيري بقلبك محيّر، بأ**ك محتار ***

صراحة يا حُب؟ غزلك مكَرر وحكيك مهرهر وكل اللي بعدي بتحبن اكتر غَزَلك مكَرر وحُبَك مهرْهَرْ وكل اللي قبلَك حَبيتُن اكتر ونصيحة مني.. غَيّر هالبار

ميزان

ثلاثة أطفال.
ثلاثة أطفال وعملان، احدهما صباحي، والآخر مسائي.
ثلاثة أطفال، عملان، وزوجة لم يعد يحبها.
ثلاثة أطفال، عملان، وزوجة، والعديد من العشيقات، لكن قلبه ملك لإحداهن فقط.

حبيببة واحدة.
حبيبة واحدة، وحين يتكلم عنها اوحتى حين يستحضر صورتها، ترتجف شفته السفلى، ويتعثر صوته.
حبيبة واحدة، لكن حضوره معها، كمجالسة أم لوحيدها يحتضر.
حبه لها يؤلمه ويؤلمها. حب محكوم بلانهائية الغرام، إن وئِد ولم يحظى - بتغير العشاق أو مرور الزمن - بنعمة الاحتضار.

في كفة الميزان، ثلاثة أطفال، عملان، وزوجة، والعديد من العشيقات، ومعهم تربية تقدس الحياة العائلية.
في الكفة الأخرى، حبيبة واحدة

سلطان الباذنجان

يروى عن رجل من هذا الزمان، معيل أسرةٍ، وأب لطفلان. كان لصديقنا في شارع المرجان مكان، بيبع فيه ما لذ وطاب، لكن هواه كان للباذنجان. يشويه او يقليه ويطيبه برب الرمان. خلوقاً كريماً كان، فأحبه الناس وذاع سيطه على كل لسان.

الأمير لم يعجبه أن يكون لغيره السلطان. أمير القصر على التلة، الذي يجمع المال والأعوان، رغب بشراء الأرض التي تستضيف الدكان ليبني مكانه لزواره خان. لكن السلطان يقدر اعتياد الزبائن على الدكان بأغلى الأثمان، أما الأمير فيرى في الباذنجان تتفيهاً لشارع المرجان. فدار بينهما النزاع، وكل منهما على رأيه لا يحيد. الأمير يعرض المال على السلطان ويزيد، الذي بدوره يتمنع ولا يريد... حتى ليلة في آخر نيسان، وشارع المرجان فارغ الا من رجال امير الزمان.. اشتعلت بزاوية الدكان النيران، فكبرت وتعاظمت ولم تبق أى أثر او بيان. كبرت وتعاظمت بكبر أسى السلطان، الذي خسر ما ادخر للأولاد والأحفاد. كبرت وتعاظمت، بقدر غطرسة الأمير، الذي ضمن السيادة على البلاد والعباد.

الى خارج شارع المرجان انتقل السلطان، بعد ان نال تعويضاَ من الأمير السخي المعطاء صاحب الأيادي البيضاء، فتات ما جنى من ثروات في الخان. وعلق السلطان، باستقبال كل الزبائن والأخوان، صورة الأمير بإبتسامته العريضة وكرشه المهيبة، في زيارة تضامن ومواساة للدكان يتكرم بتذوق الباذنجان. علق الصورة وأعلن الولاء التام الأمير دون أي نقصان... وللولاء، الخوف أقوى ضمان

ياسمينة

كان يملأه رجفة ذاك الصراخ. يشعر وكأن قلبه يرتعش داخل أضلعه كأغصان الياسمينة الرقيقة الرابضة في زاوية الشرفة. ما زال بإمكانه ان يستحضر هذا الشعور اليوم، فيعود طفلاً في الثامنة. هي اليوم مثلها، وكأنه، هو الهارب من ضجة منزل والديه، اختار إعادة تشكيل تلك العائلة في منزله الجديد. بل كأن العلاقات الزوجية، كالأمراض، نتناقلها بالوراثة.

لم يفهم يوماً القلق الساكن فيها، رغم انه ربما يعرفها أكثر من أي شخص. أمه التي يحب. امه المرحة اللاهية، التي تراقصه في ساعات المساء المبكر، وتشاركه ارتشافها لكوب النبيذ .. امه الجميلة، كما نجمات الأفلام الإسبانية، بالشعر الأسود الطويل واحمر الشفاه والكعب العالي. امه تلك التي يحب، كانت كأنها تخفي امرآةً أخرى في داخلها.. امرأة روحها على حافة بركان، يثور فيملأ زوايا المنزل، ويقطن في الوسائد والأسرة، في كوب الشاي ورائحة الخبز، في حمامه الساخن قبل النوم، وفي نعاسه، فيشد جسمه الصغير كوتر قيثارة باكية.

ربما تَعانُق الضوء في الزوايا يعيد تشكيل نفسه بالهيئة ذاتها مرة كل عشرين عاماً.. فيعيد للذاكرة مشاعرها.. فجر ذاك اليوم الخريفي.. وبكرهما ما زال في شهره الأول.. عاد اليه ذاك الاحساس.. كان صدى صوتها ما زال يطوف أرجاء المنزل وهو، في زاوية غرفه نومهما.. في آنٍ الطفل ابن الثامنة، والثلاثيني المتواري مع طفله اتقاء من بركان زوجته. عاد اليه الاحساس والطفل بين يديه مشدود كوتر قيثارة .. أراد أن يرحل معه وبه عن ذاك الخوف الساكن فيه.. بل ربما أراد له أن يعرف ام واحدة دون تلك التي تتقمصها..

أخذه الحلم، في رحلة الشمس الى مساحة أكثر واقعية.. على وقع انفاس طفله ونشيج زوجته من زاوية بعيدة.. أخذه حلمٌ انه ربما لم يزرع ياسمينة في هذا المنزل بعد

قط وزواج

لم تعد تحبه. لا تدري ان احبته يوماً. تدرك انها في زمن ما كانت تخافه. ربما سكن بينهما بعض من الحنان يوماً، ربما. واليوم، عقود بعد ارتباط حياتها بمزاجه، بات يذكرها بقطها الأسود المرقط. يجلس في زاوية منزل لهما، مستكين ضعيف، كثير الطلبات، فيمنحها سلطة التذمر. كيف كان وكيف اصبح! كيف كانا وكيف اصبحت!

قبل ان تغادر منزل اهلها، تلك المرة الأخيرة النهائية التي رسمت معالم حياتها، سكن قطٌ فناء المنزل. رغبتها في التقرب من القط امتزجت برهبة منه. رهبة لم تكن تظهرها. بقيت لسنوات تلاعبه وفي داخلها رعب تقمعه خجلاً. حتى ذلك المساء..

الشمس كانت تغادر سماء خريفية، والقط قابع مستكين في زاوية الفناء، فقد اعماه حجر رماه احد اشقياء الحي. قابع مستكين كان، والنمل يُولم على عينيه. مستكين كان، لا احتجاج يصدر منه ولا حتى مواء. بلى، ربما استغاثة خافتة اختارت اغفالها. رغبت ان توبخه.. لكن شعورها باحتقاره كان اقوى. رغبت ان تساعده.. لكن جاذبية غياب الرهبة منه كانت اقوى. دام الغروب دهراً، كأن الشمس، مثلها تتردد في المغادرة.

كيف كانا وكيف اصبحت! كيف كان وكيف اصبح! بات يذكرها بقطها الأسود المرقط