Migration to and from "Majdaloun" by Henri Hamati

Yellow leaves cover the roadside. Every friend sheet, every companion paper. All alphabet, their fruits were not borrowed from the time of isolation, because the time of those who fall from the autumn tree is a time when dreams were not dormant, when the eyes wiped the lands near and far, so that their bodies and minds would be filled with them, not with what was left, with what was produced. That is the time for communication and communication, so that if a woman’s torso leans against a man’s torso, the teeth tighten his teeth as a snake, they firmly tighten their tusks as they turn their face to him. No personal movies, not many pictures. The picture of necessity and the movie is part of the darkness of the hall. No one turned his face because no one wanted to reveal the papers on the table. The world is one without globalization. The struggle of the socialist and capitalist worlds transformed the world into one. No rush or stolen copies. It is not necessary to recall that publicizing major philosophies, trends and approaches took its orders from regions beyond the brains on maps. No shapes without ideas. No thoughts without conflict.

It was impossible to walk the way one way, with the outbreaks of the Bolshevik revolution and the ten fingers of brutal capitalism dug to the first rites of burial. We owe this stage to the exchange of air between the lungs. We owe it to jump over stumbling blocks. Because stage men and women, international men and international women. Artists have not found experiment knives with their pockets. Because the knives prick the earth, their land, from the sky. No one could stop the crawl nor stop the intellectual bulldozers in a world without thieves. Because it is a world that drags the world into the world, as clouds drag clouds. The juvenile dragged the Lebanese behind their backs, when they were allowed to throw as many looks as they wanted and to find music worthy of them as well as with hearts that would go away from the Kingdom of Snow Hearts. There is sadness, but there is no fear. Thus bad guides fell on the clear roads. The Lebanese saw their eggs among the rocks, without guides. Because their mentor, their openness to a system of friendly signs, from the homes of friends in the world. Friends without profiles. And because they are like this: They looked like one friend. The camp is a virtual friend, not the person. Artists and intellectuals bore culture, as ants crouched on the branches of fruit. Bear in theater, art, cinema, story and new novel. No one had feared Virginia Woolf nor the bodies wrapped with stage fabrics, from Stanslavsky to Mayroukhlold and Popov and Vachtankov, neither Grotovsky nor the Sun Theater nor Ariane Mnowshkin, abstraction and cubism, nor the conduct, nor vertebrates of the appearance of anarchists or others. A world in which one opens to the other with desire and without desire. Henri Hamati (1934 - 2019), from this morning's birds. Knot in a golden knot. Nobody stands for the plunder feast. Because a man has a variety of difficult and difficult words. The Syrian Social Nationalist was found in the orchard of the late 1950s and 1960s, when all the bells were knocked all at once over the heaps of thorns in the other camp (dear enemies' camp). Comrade Henry's ear was not extended because he found his golden feathers with ideology, not with a crow's wing or a bird sparrow. He opened everything to everything, so that the owner of a strange bouquet of roses appeared as he ascended the ladder with elegant steps dating back to "the jewel of the play." He believed that the thought of Anton Saadeh would convert the shapes into precious metals. This plant was not expected to fall as a sick button on an ideological bed on the windows of the stage.

The man went before the idea of ​​searching for a theater in the heart of the thought of happiness and the ideology of the Syrian National Social Party, when ideologies melted with needs. The new reality did not fill Henry Hamati's old cups with new delights. Because he did not get off the seasons coat from "Porte Shabu". His hand remained warm, only in the pocket of the Syrian National Social Party, unless he was allowed to notice the sun of ideology and partisan morale as it fled the country’s space.

When the theater was covered in blood, my mother-in-law found blood on his plays, with touches, not the sounds of new machines. He realized this after the public saw the wisdom of the writer madness, not orange, apple or cherry, which fell into the arms of the lap. The man realized that he had given the theater little food, as he gave all his food to those who wish to speak the same. Thus, he found more flowers in writing in politics than in writing for theater. He did not give his wide eye to the theater. Whenever the words, my words and his words, coined this fact, he turned his voice into a sickle. I did not know that he immigrated to Paris except with a statement of obituary. Because he disappeared, as did his texts. His texts are rare, but he found his profession in writing texts for the theater after he fell, as well as something from the sky, in the bosom of "Beirut Professional for the Theater" with Roger Assaf, Nidal Al-Ashqar, Rida Sulfur, Claude Edde and others who frequently attended the theater as a dice who did not wish to speak while laughing even while he was laughing He hits the edges of the play table. "Majdaloun" (1969) wrote that you still say so. However, the words of the emperors of the "Beirut Professional Theater" that the writers gathered with their narrow and wide breaths in one text, it soon became that the man turned the bag into an arrow man who crossed the stage quickly as the arrow crossed space. Moreover, Henry Hamati, amid his preoccupations with politics, did not realize that a single text does not create life in the theater. And theater is a profession and passion at the same time. My mother-in-law put his legs above passion without the ability to turn theater into a profoundly illuminating career. Then he spoke as a survivor to the statements of the professional members affirming that improvisation is the origin of writing. Writing crowds the wounded. Since then, the man stood on his nerves while repeating that the text "mdjdaln" text, with members chanting in the professional that the professional writes in bulk and that the text of the professional text is synthesized, not authors. Talal Haydar, Essam Mahfouz, or Henry Hamati did not write for "Beirut Professional Theater". They wrapped the scorching improvisation stars on foolish paper, it was soon burned on the woods and podiums of Beirut, when improvisation with exercises led to improvisation with performances. Improvisation on improvisation. Thus, Henri Hamati awoke to the loss of one of the most prominent texts in the Lebanese theater experience. He does not know exactly how this happened, but he knew that the professional declared to the witnesses that the professional’s texts were made by the professional. A cup of hot milk flowed over Henri Hamati's suit. He drowned in the milk of the cup, when the scientist heard the delicious "Majdaloun" meow, which resembles the water of a very beautiful cat on the stage of the "Beirut Theater". The play rolled from the "Beirut Theater" to the Horse Show tables, after it was attacked by the Lebanese authorities. My mother-in-law could not write anything else, which strengthened the words of the professional members and their credibility on the improvisation train. My mother-in-law died when he asked the text on the "horse show" tables, as the rain was pouring in, day and night. The text has become a paradise for dramatists and the writer or master’s desolation. When I found the text lightly in the rooms of the Lebanese homes, I lost my head prints in the "Beirut Pro Theater". Writing "Majdalun" is a dream. Every step in it raises the bodies ready for decisive jumps from Earth to the sky. There is no strong smell of Henry Hamati in the text "Majdaloun". There are vague marks from his hands on the text, no more. Whenever you argue over it, consider the controversy as a wickedness of mind or an underarmed head. Not from theatrical criticism and theatrical criticism on stage service. By speaking on his street as a drunk arrow, the words would fall between the interlocutors under the balcony of friendship, not on the balcony itself.

Perhaps "controversial", as it always seems. His other texts are based on theater service only from the point of view of a writer who senses the scent of existence in writing. And it stands at the limits of this allergy. He only wanted the text "Majdaloun" and he sent his other texts to my office on "Lebanon TV". Texts die sung as a bird dies on its birth. Texts do not let dreams jump over the hills. Texts leave fantasies in the imagination. Texts are written in chisels, not in pens, after they have succumbed to the habits of "Shami" ideology or the ideology of Bilad al-Sham, which is acceptable to the conduct of the gods. “Mardu Babylon” is one of these texts. Text dated December 5, 1974, priced at ten Lebanese pounds. Text printed on "New Qadmus Press" in Furn El-Shobak. A text circulating between King Shulaki and the king of the great guardian of Babylon before the "first captivity" as it came on the first page. Run on legend, the Syrians vastly increasing the vast. Ghost text for "Majdaloun" text. The ghost texts of Henry Hamati are many. The text "These Students" is a ghost text (1970). "With authentic" (Story, Screenplay, Dialogue / 1971). This does not confirm that the man is from the world of theater, nor does he confirm that he remained outside the world of theater. Henri Hamati is from this world, without realizing that the theater flies when the stage ends. The theatrical flew from Henry Hamati, as he did not realize that the theater is not only a tongue. And to dissolve the stage is the condition of the death of the queen bees. The king / husband is a victim who is not allowed to share the garden, neither with the queen nor with the bees flying over the roads. Roads landed by the finest birds without the ability to own them.

"Majdaloun" is a spectrum of text lying on the road. Bones do not return to dirt, because they are originally dirt. Majdalon, a dead rose, with the palm of Henry Hamati and a rose tree in the march of "Beirut Professionals for Theater". Because my mother-in-law is more influential in politics than in other areas of life. He wrote in poetry "To Poverty" (1960) as he wrote in theater and politics. Politics more. “Masses and Disasters” (1968) and “How are we heading” (1969). Politics studies, hit the new world. The stage at Henry Hamati, a fish shone on his bed one evening. The man missed his salted fish, so I crossed as a wolf crossed a forest, with no lights on. Because his city does not wake up. Henri Hamati always missed the theater, because the theater is wine of the urns in the woods neighboring to politics. As long as the theater is a political theater, a political theater in the sixties. The man found himself in the water of the theater, because politics is the basis of his life: the loom and strings of the first stage, from which the prophets emerge. Many prophets at that time. Moreover, the "armed prophets" taught the unarmed prophets that killing alone guides ships to the ports. The man immigrated more than once because he was not counted as followers of the killing. This is his last migration.