Written by: Ali Taha Alnobani
The open buffet at the five stars hotel has delicious types of food: more than twenty kinds of salad, followed by various types of foreign food, the name of each is written in English on a small card in front of it, and then you pass by a long table of fruits and sweets. I chose my meal and sat on one of the tables
According to the Protocol, I always smile to every person if my eyes meet his eyes, whether he is a colleague in the Conference or one of the restaurant workers who were walking around wearing the hotel uniform. I began eating: soup in the beginning, then salad… I do not know why I remembered that child who sells cheap kind of pens near the traffic light, which lies between the Raouche and Hamra, the bite stopped in my mouth; I felt that I need something to push it in my throat.
There is no doubt that the child dreams of returning to his brothers carrying food, Maybe it's sandwiches, or bread and tea, and perhaps he will pay house rent and have food from here or there.
The weather was extremely hot, and the sun's rays were like molten lead because of the intense humidity, and the child jumps on his mangled shoes from a car window to another offering pens.
Then, what do people write with pens?
Some people write a business deal where they sell or buy the dreams of thousands of children, some people write poems to beautify the ugliness of this world, and some do not read, write, or even think.
I pushed the salad to my throat. Then my battle with a steak with a knife and a fork started , it had a neutral taste: Not salty nor light, not sweet nor bitter, just like our world in which children age while selling pens at traffic lights, and at the same time they pay from their life the tax of what is written with pens.