ذﻛﺮى اﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ
إن المﺮء إذا ﺟﻌﻞ ﻳﺘﺬﻛﺮ أﻳﺎم ﻃﻔﻮﻟﺘﻪ؛ أﺣﺲ ﻟﺬة ﻣﺜﻞ ﻟﺬة اﻟﺮﺟﻞ ﻋﻨﺪ رؤﻳﺔ اﺑﻨﻪ اﻟﺼﻐير.
ﻓﺈﻧﻨﺎ ﻧﻨﻈﺮ ﰲ أﻋﻤﺎق اﻟﺴﻨين إﱃ ذﻟﻚ اﻟﻄﻔﻞ اﻟﺬي ﻛُﻨَّاه ﰲ ﻃﻔﻮﻟﺘﻨﺎ؛ ﻓﻨﺤﻨﻮ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ وﻧﻘﺒﻠﻪ ﺑﻔﻢ
اﻟﺬﻛﺮى، وﻫﻮ ﻟﺪﻳﻨﺎ ﻣﺜﻞ وﻟﻴﺪ ﻟﻨﺎ رﺿﻴﻊ. وﻟﻘﺪ ﻳﺠﻮل ﺑﺨﺎﻃﺮ المﺮء أن ذﻟﻚ اﻟﻄﻔﻞ اﻟﺼﻐير
اﻟﺬي ﻛﺎﻧﻪ ﻟﻴﺲ ﺑﺬﻟﻚ اﻟﺮﺟﻞ اﻟﻜﺒير اﻟﺬي ﻳﺤﻨﻮ ﻋﻠﻴﻪ، اﻟﺬي ﻳﻌﺒﺚ ﺑﺎﻟﺬﻛﺮى، وﻳﻜﺸﻒ ﻋﻦ
اﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ ﺣﺠﺎﺑًﺎ ﻣﺜﻞ ﺣﺠﺎب اﻟﺤﺴﺎن. ﻓﺈن أﻛﺜﺮ المﺮء ﻣﻜﺘﺴﺐ ﻣﻦ اﻷﻳﺎم واﻟﺤﻮادث؛ وﻣﻦ
أﺟﻞ ذﻟﻚ ﺻﺎر ﻳَﻌ ُ ﺪﱡ ﺷﺨﺼﻪ ﰲ اﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ ﺟﺰءًا ﺻﻐيرًا ﻣﻨﻪ، وﻟﻮ ﺗﻔﻬﻢ المﺮء ﺗﻘﻠﺒﻪ ﰲ أﻃﻮار
ﻋﻤﺮه ﻟﺮأى أﻧﻪ ﻳﻨﺘﻘﻞ ﻣﻦ ﺣﻴﺎة إﱃ ﺣﻴﺎة، وأﻧﻪ ﻳﺨﻠﻊ ﻛﻞ ﻳﻮم ﺣﻴﺎة وﻳﻠﺒﺲ أﺧﺮى.
ﻟﺴﺖ أﻋﺠﺐ ﻣﻦ ﳾء ﻋﺠﺒﻲ ﻣﻦ أﻧﻲ ﻻ أزال أذﻛﺮ ﺣﻮادث ﻣﻦ ﺣﻮادث اﻟﻄﻔﻮﻟﺔ. وإن
المﺮء ﻟﻴﺰﻫﻰ ﺑﺎلمﻘﺪرة ﻋﲆ ذﻟﻚ اﻟﺘﺬﻛﺮ، ﻛﺄﻧﻪ ﻗﺪ ﺳﻠﺐ ﺟﺰءًا ﻣﻦ اﻟﺨ ُ ﻠﺪ، وﺻﻔﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺻﻔﺎﺗﻪ.
وﻟﻘﺪ ﺗﻤﺮ ﺑﺎلمﺮء ﺳﺎﻋﺎت ﻳﺘﻮق ﻓﻴﻬﺎ إﱃ ﻃﻔﻮﻟﺘﻪ، وﻳﻨﺎﺟﻲ ﺷﺨﺼﻪ اﻟﺼﻐير اﻟﺬي ﻛﺎن ﻳﻌﻤﺮﻫﺎ
ﻗﺎﺋﻼ ً : ﻳﺎ ﺑﻨﻲ ﻗﺪ ﺟﻌﻠﺖ ْ ﺑﻴﻨﻲ وﺑﻴﻨﻚ اﻷﻳﺎمُ ﺳﺪٍّا، ﻓﻨﺤﻦ ﻻ ﻧﻠﺘﻘﻲ ﺣﺘﻰ ﻳﻠﺘﻘﻲ اﻷزل واﻷﺑﺪ،
أﻣﺪ ﻳﺪي إﻟﻴﻚ ﻛﻤﺎ ﻳﻤﺪ اﻷﻋﻤﻰ ﻳﺪه إﱃ ﻗﺎﺋﺪه، وأﻗﻮل ﻟﻚ: أﻳﻦ أﻧﺖ؟ ﻓﻴﺠﻴﺐ اﻟﺼﺪى ﻗﺎﺋﻼ ً :
أﻳﻦ أﻧﺖ؟
Childhood Memory
When a person begins to recall the days of his childhood, he feels a sweetness like that of a man when he beholds his young son. For we look deep into the years to that child we once were in our childhood; we bend over him and kiss him with the mouth of memory, and he is to us like an infant at the breast.
It may occur to one’s mind that that little child he once was is not the same as the grown man who now bends tenderly over him, playing with memory and unveiling childhood as though lifting a veil from a beautiful face. For most of what a person has is acquired through days and events; and so he comes to regard his childhood self as a small fragment of himself. If a man were to comprehend his transformations through the stages of his life, he would see that he moves from one life to another, casting off one existence each day and clothing himself in another.
Nothing amazes me more than that I still remember incidents from childhood. Indeed, a person takes pride in this power of recollection, as though he had been granted a portion of immortality, a trait of the eternal.
And there are hours when a man yearns for his childhood, converses with that little self that once dwelt within him, saying:
“O my son, the days have raised a barrier between me and you. We shall not meet until eternity and forever meet. I stretch out my hand to you as the blind man extends his hand to his guide, and I say to you: ‘Where are you?’ And the echo answers: ‘Where are you?’”
The Life and Literature of Abdul Rahman Shukri 