Every Month a Picture — The Half-Educated!
Emily Nasrallah

In my head a thousand pictures crowd one upon another... today I cast a few of them in this small frame...

The hall was packed with men — holders of high diplomas — and with women... women of the upper class... in full elegance... And I moved my gaze from corner to corner, while in my ears was the seething of voices, cutting their way through the throng and the crush...

The talk moved on from fashions and perfumes to politics... The men entered into a discussion of the question of the hour and argued with the women... and asked who would "dare," this time, to enter the Chamber and defy them... I shall not set down all the opinions I heard, nor shall I begrudge one of them his zeal and his heroics when he grew heated over the subject — he, the "cultured man" — and set about expounding politics and history, then wound up his lecture with the words: "And now, is it conceivable that we should vote for a woman?"

And the demigod sank before my eyes into a deep abyss, in which I saw how much a "woman" had toiled to bring forth that head of his, stuffed with ugly fancies and with the distorted picture that school had been powerless to pull out... so it stayed there, frozen, breathing out ugliness and distortion, and overriding all his refined culture...

And I heard this story from a woman employee of no small intelligence, who had thereby been able to occupy a distinguished position among her colleagues...

Their pride could not bear this, so they pursued her with petty vexations, until one of them said to her once: Of course they promote you... you are a woman... and besides, you are pretty...

Shall we never be done with this worn-out "cliché"?... Will the ancient refrain that has worn out our ears never be cut short?

And a friend of mine once said: What do you expect us to do, so long as we are the weaker element?... And she went on to recount to me how she had attended an important meeting where she was the only woman among the men.

My friend said: I went out looking for a wall to lean my head against and weep out all my tears...

They directed question after question at me... and I would answer, and offer my opinion on every subject, only to see nothing but looks of indifference and mockery... as though their eyes were defying me: Be quiet... you are a woman!...

And I discovered afterwards that they had taken my opinions and set them at the head of the working program — but not one of them would own it to me...

And I said to my friend: Let the blind hunt for the road...

And today too, we shall not lead that company to the right road, for it deserves some effort of their own... let the half-educated toil in searching for it...

Talk of the Heart
On the mountainside, I found myself at the dim first light of dawn
meeting the processions of light — spilling down translucent, dancing...
Before me swayed flights of butterflies, preening drowsily,
printing their kisses on the mouths of the flowers,
rolling upon the leaves their fluttering, painted wings
and wiping them in the beads of glistening dew.
It is spring!!
The earth is at a wedding: perfumed, elegant,
proud of her silken gown —
her own hands embroidered it with a thousand colors, and brocaded it with a thousand shades...
And the flocks of nightingales and goldfinches all sing out in the flood of universal joy.
What ails my brother man, that he alone is glum and grieving,
heaping upon his heart armfuls of black tales?
What great care has settled upon his breast,
that he turns away from the processions of roses,
and denies himself the breath of perfume and the savor of the fresh melody?
What philosophy of life have the small birds grasped,
to which man is blind??
Aphrodite
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