I could try to write down the aftermath of his murder, but I prefer to do not feed the trolls, since I’m pretty sure where the truth is, I’ve felt it, I feel it and I’m too sad to argue it with whoever does not know anything about it but came out of the blue now that he’s dead, tragically dead. I know what I know and what I know is the result of compassion and research done together with him and many others ages before Vik’s face became famous out of this tragedy. I feel so sorry I, we could not do anything to avoid it.
When he published the reply to those who accused him to lie about him really being in Gaza, I felt paranoid about it, I mean, worried, something like NO don’t do it they’ll know it… You know what I mean, I mean, if you know it, let’s stop it here… If you don’t, STOP it!
Don’t lie, do not spit on his body! He was a p a c i f i s t !
Don’t even try to tell me once more you’re going to smash my brain if I’ll keep on saying what I think, you killer, you slave of killers!
I had an intense dream the night he was kidnapped and killed. I still can’t handle it, like it was not just mine, so here I am to try to translate it to you.
It was a sunny day and I was going to the place where all of us used to go in order to use the internet. It was the place where all the computers were. Vik was there, sitting at one of the desks, talking, explaining something to someone. He smiled at me and stood up. The sunshine was coming bright and clear through the wide windows, it looked like the library where I used to go when I was a kid.
When the Music started, the desks, the computers, everything but the floor and the sunshine disappeared and we danced, me and Vik.
“Light a candle, and continue the dance.” – Allen Ginsberg wrote and said, and the reason why I write it down once again is that Vik used to mention and quote his good friend William Seward Burroughs II.
I don’t, I can’t remember what kind of music it was, something classic I would say, but I can’t be sure of it, mostly because I know he loved Soundgarden’s songs along with Baudelaire’s words, and Mahmoud Darwish‘s poetry, surely, oh well, he was a bit alike him to me, since he once wrote he felt so.
But anyway, to go back to my, let’s say our, dream, there where memories sometimes have less edges and therefore hurt less, when the Music finished and the context recomposed itself, Vik became that serious enough to sit down in front of a screen and tell me to do not love him. Then he stared at it for a while, stood up, looked at me seriously and rapidly left to go upstairs while his dog was coming downstairs. He simply didn’t pay any attention to him, such as he didn’t see him, so the dog, his large-size blonde dog, ran toward me. One of his hind legs was injured, not bleeding but skinless, fleshless to the bones, so I sat down on the steps with the dog in my arms and medicated it using a kind of prothesis and rollerbondage if I remember well. I can’t remember much more, pardon.
That night I couldn’t access the internet as usual, that night I decided to go to bed and force myself to sleep and hope. When I woke up and turned the computer on I found the terrible, horrible news. The ultimatum of 30 hours was a lie. I’m sick of lies and, I say it again, I don’t want to talk about them. There’s a Darwish’s poem Vik loved, it’s titled “Passport”. I’ve already copied and pasted it from his profile on fb to dedicate it to him, there. Here, now, I’m about to write down a poem taken from a book titled “La terra più amata“, one that I haven’t written yet anywhere else as I’ve instead done with “Gaza” and “Desiderio e Nostalgia“. The title is “On the top of the world” and it was originally dedicated to Wael Zuwaiter; the translation from Arabic to Italian was made by Gianroberto Scarcia and I haven’t found any other translation yet. I was thinking to translate it for you all to read, but I now believe I’d better leave it as it is, in Italian, which is my and also was Vik’s native tongue. I’m sure you’ll understand the reason why I do it and if so, thanks a lot.
Vik, mi hermano, this is for you, to thank you, to never forget you. May your soul Rest In Peace.
SULLA CIMA DEL MONDO
Sullo specchio appannato
del mondo indifferente
riluceva per lui la verità.
Era un velo su terra
da imporsi a tutti gli specchi,
da farne vetta al mondo.
Ed ecco rossa di sangue
una notizia, e di vergogna il mondo.
Hanno detto: sia pane
per l’esiliato l’esilio,
hanno detto: alla febbre
s’abbeveri quella sete.
Lui nella fame munifico,
immoti noi nella rossa vergogna.
noi rossi, noi denudati, noi svelati.
Chi coprirà questo inerme rossore?
Quando giunge la notte,
una palpebra lunga sul sole
scende, e di nera paura
la dilagante menzogna ristagna;
la sera, la paura,
la smorfia deforme, la ruota che gira
hanno dato la caccia al ribelle,
in un mantello di tenebra nera
in un nero cerchio d’inganno.
E dai giornali, ecco l’eco di un volto,
ci guarda, ci vede, ma sempre lontano:
noi corriamo, saliamo, incontriamo;
sulla cima del mondo quel volto lontano.
Tu sei dentro di noi, nella pelle,
dentro il polso che vibra d’orgoglio,
o mite volto lontano,
O mite volto vicino
che dormi nel seno del monte
Qui la roccia per te si dischiude,
e la cupola tonda è per farti posare;
Gerusalemme t’abbraccia e sorride
a questa morte che porta la vita,
a questo sonno di chi fece il mondo ben desto.
Ed esangue la via dell’esilio
t’ha portato ai giardini più veri:
sei nei sogni del cielo
e nei sogni del prato,
nelle valli e nei cheti declivi,
verde pioggia nel sogno dei campi.
T’era pane la grigia tristezza;
t’era luna la pozza dell’acqua,
lume fioco nel lungo dolore,
e alla morte, alla notte e alla luna
tu dicevi di no dolcemente
con un volto privato del nome;
anni ed anni dicevi di no,
ma dicevi di no come il sole,
con la morte che vince la morte.