Comic Relief

I went for a walk in the orchards surrounding Damascus, known as al-Ghutta, shortly after the cement revolution destroyed all of its trees, searching for a suitable spot to picnic. After much trouble I did indeed find a lonely tree, and sat beneath it, alongside a small mule that was there probably for the same reason. I started drinking a cup of coffee, when I suddenly heard a voice—out of nowhere—speaking to me.  

On my waist is a 20 year-old bruise that I once brought back with me from Paris. That bruise nearly brought about a divorce between my wife and I because she thought, as some of you may have, that it was the result of extreme violence in some affair in Paris. I committed no treachery during that visit to France, and even if I had, I would have made sure to erase any “signs of aggression” before returning home.

“My current work explores the theme of ‘remembering my early childhood’,” says Muhannad Orabi. “I reflect on personal experiences and memories, and reminisce through my paintings. I am inspired by the history of my childhood experience.”

Orabi joins the ranks of such plastic artists as Safwan Dahoul, Fadi Yazigi, Youssef Abdulki , Munzir Kam Naqsh, gracing the halls of Ayyam Gallery with his works. “Joining Ayyam gallery gave me the opportunity to stand on my own two feet, feeling secure and dedicating my whole time to painting.”

After 37 years of service as a housewife, my wife grabbed a small plucked chicken and placed it in a small box with a glass window and an internal light called the MICROWAVE. She then used one of her ten fingers and pushed a big button, causing the poor chicken to rotate on a small platter for 10 minutes. She added some spices and brought it for dinner, waving left and right, from fatigue. As she placed the dish on the table, she said, “Ugh, I am so tired! What a back-breaking day!” I did not reply. She invited me to start eating, which I did.

 

Can any of you imagine the surprise that one would get if they suddenly received an invitation to attend the Olympic Games? I was surprised, when the director of the Athens Olympics invited me to attend the games in 2004, sending me a first class airplane ticket, and a reservation at a 5-star hotel. I did not understand why he chose me—out of all people—without knowing me. Perhaps this was because I am a well-known actor in the Arab region, or because I was a Badwill Ambassador (or as some would say “Goodwill”) for the United Nations.