Tara and the Trip of a Million

Tara and the Trip of a Million

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English
177 Pages

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I completed Tara Marathon London, I ran this in conjunction with Prinstrost. UK support for malignancy in the brain, provides personal support 24 hours a day, week from diagnosis stage onwards, building resources that help people living with brain tumor become stronger, and we are really excited to work with both caregivers in Princeton and the UK who Our holiday cleaners on the site were really looking forward to welcoming many guests to the Kingham Cottage, and so Dart has developed a novel "One in a Million".

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Published 01 January 2013
Reads 0
EAN13 9796500149011
Language English

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Tara and the Trip of a Million
Anwer M. Barwari
Tara and the Trip of a Million
Library Hassan Modern For Printing, Publishing & Distributing
All Rights Reserved©
Name of the book :Tara and the Trip of a MillionName of Author :Anwer M. BarwariNumber of pages : 176 pages Measure of the book : 14 × 22 Designed and directed by : Ghina Rayess Chehimi Translated from the Arabic by : Anwer M. Barwari Edited by : Brin Stevens Grammer checked by : Wasela A.Karim I.S.B.N. :978-9953-561-72-1 The Publisher : Library Hassan Modern Address :Beirut- Mar eliass- corniche el Mazraa'- Hassan Center Block (2) 4th Floor Telephone : 009613790520Telefax : 009617920452-09611306951E-mail: Library.hasansaad@hotmail.com Printed in Lebanon 2013
PresentationTo martyrs trip million Anwer
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About the writerBorn in1948Duhok -Iraq Graduated from college of scince - department of geology - Baghdad university -1971. Artist painter, member of Iraq's imprissionists group of art since the middle of sixtyth of the last century, and attend their shows. Held seven one man show, in 1985,1986,1987,2000,2007,2009and2010. Attend so many collective shows since40 years ago. Assued the following novels in Arabic: 1.Tara and the trip of a million, 2002print, first 2013second print 2.The garden of beatiful butterfly,2003first print, 2013second print 3.Dilsher,2004first print, Nut Tree2013second print 4.Berivan,2006first print Play several music instruments govermental offices forWarked for 40years. E-mail: anwer340@yahoo.com Mobile :009647504478918Auraphone:009640662535506
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I sat nearly naked on a cold wooden stool. Forty years’ worth of dark-haired belly folds quivered. But I was a young boy again. My father was speaking to me, but I could not meet his eyes. When I finally looked up, it was as if he were a piano falling from the sky. -Shivan, he said again, looking down in frail offering, voice thin as rice paper, one arm in extension shaking like a bow delicately playing arababahin vibrato. -You need to hurry! Now here, son, my shoes. They are coming for you. My father’s weathered body but rakish appearance made everything he said seem a wise and provable truth, and in my current state, in his presence, I felt weightless and unevolved and sensitive to light as if I were some simple deep-sea algae at the bottom of the ocean. -Bab, I managed to get out, my thick terror dripping onto the floor, I cannot. -I insist. You will need more than one pair. Take them and hurry your packing. -NoBab(I took the shoes from his weak hand) I cannot leave you. -You must leave us, and you will leave us. And he creaked away triumphantly with the sound of a thousand heroic ballads escaping from his bare feet every stride, until the room returned to an old drum from which the distant bombings outside entered into with bulging hollowness.
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Each item I struggled to fold and pack into my formless gray rucksack seemed a superfluous waste of valuable space. Shaving tools, a coat and shirts, a blanket and small mirror and comb. A suit, I supposed. I lifted the mirror to my cowardly face and saw a stranger: a charcoal sketch of a human self with caved cheeks and rotting grapes for eyes, and in the reflection beyond that sorrowful self my bewildered younger sister I was preparing to leave behind, along with my aging parents who could no more defend themselves than a basket of newborn kittens set beside a pack of ravenous hyenas.DaiaandBableft to die after the many sacrifices they made to keep us alive. I bumped my head softly against the cold cinderblock walls of my bedroom which I shared with my two brothers-three single iron beds against three stone walls like an orphanage for grown men. Mother’s chronic cough in the kitchen answered the sound of my head bumping, bits of wall flecking and mixing with my straws of gray hair that hungrily wormed around black patches.
It hadn’t been but two weeks earlier I was leaping over the flames of a small bonfire in the hips of our mountains. My bottom side singed, families gathering in gales of laughter, it was Newroz in Duhok. Neighbors and a whole galaxy of stars came with twinkling eyes to celebrate the new year in our small mountain city which rested like a love letter in stark straight lines consumed by deep landscape. This was our spring. A spring that would bring our land back its genitalia and pull wild roses up through human remains and shell craters and ash to drink and dance and breed in our presence. It was a spring that would cast lacy shadows onto us as we labored as beekeepers and herders and goat combers; where pathogens of war would no longer disease our fields or our rivers or our sky, a poem of continuity spread out before us, or our sun coating our city like honey onto warm
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khubz. Our mountains, lined with pollarded trees rising like the arms of Vishnu to brush against the curves of God, were painting his spring, our spring, anew each day.
But we knew deep in those subconscious rooms in our minds, the spaces that always rain tragic thoughts, they would come again and tear through our spring’s young foliage like they did three years ago during the ugly operations of the Anfal genocide. It was during those operations that al-Maijid gained international recognition as Chemical Ali; we called him the Butcher of Kurdistan. These were despairing times in Kurdish history, where battle-aged men were sorted at Topzawa Army Camp and trucked away to be killed and dumped in mass graves. Those who survived became stripped down versions of humans. We all had after that. We learned things no one should ever know: that an intoxicating sweet smell of apples in the air means we’re being poisoned and have little chance for survival; the properties of mustard gas and what it looks like when burning the corneas of loved ones eyes; how quickly an entire village and its abutting orchards could be razed by bulldozers and explosives; how natural springs could be filled under a policy known as “desertification.” After the genocide, we learned the characteristics of unimaginable birth defects and how to spot signs of post traumatic stress disorder in young children, how to inadvertently pass on oral tradition as horror stories to the next generation, and how to accept a legacy of cancers.
Now our mountains, gashed and scarred and left exposed to invaders’ currents along well-worn paths, began to ooze old sores reopened on this morning, March 31, 1991, and our spring ended abruptly, like the dying man’s last breath, and our collective singing was replaced by the familiar sound of spilt blood. Two weeks ago the jets began changing the air above us in their continuous
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