(A study room in a writer's home. Shelves full of books, a writing table. An open window showing the horizon. At one of the sides of the stage a  sofa, upon which the writer is resting. A thick book covers his face. Soothing music and dim lights to give a dreamy atmosphere. The writer gets up, as if sleep walking. He heads toward the telephone on the table . The telephone rings, the writer picks up the phone).

-Hello, hello, yes Ahmed Fagih speaking. Yes, it's me. I know who I am Miss but don’t know who you are yet . Swedish what ?  acrobats you said? Sorry, can't hear you clearly. You're calling from Stockholm. (coughes) Excuse me,  I'm a  little  bit sleepy. Noble prize for literature? Yes, of course,  I know it well. Is there anyone who doesn't know about Mr. Noble .But less people know about the way he made his money. Dynamite.  Explosives .Mines . bomb , bomb , bomb. sorry for getting carried away . Let us go back to the prize. I feel sorry that Mr. Cambora  missed it last time . Don’t you know who Mr. Cambora is .Well, he is presented in the Arab media  as the ultimate candidate for it  he wrote an epic poem praising the president. A master piece, of course. Are you asking me whether I would accept the prize? You mean noble prize  for literature ? Of course .Of course. It is a pleasure. It is an honour.  But I should Know first how you are going to handle Mr. Cambora .  This time he wont stop at cursing  as he did before . You don't know Mr. Cambora. He is not to be trusted at all. He could do just about anything you can think of being supported by a dangerously radical government. He could even become a suicide bomber, if you know what I mean.

   Any writer in my position Miss, would dream of being awarded the Noble thing. But, if I have to choose between my life and the prize. I'll opt for my life, wont you? What?...Are saying that you announced my name, minutes ago, as the winner of this years Noble prize for literature? I've to hide, now, immediately, before Mr. Cambora  knows my whereabouts, (whispers) can you tell me where have you  hidden Salman Rushdie? I want armed guards around me day and night (knocks on the door) someone's knocking...its got to be the killers sent by Mr. Cambora. I must run for my life.

  (A minute of black out and when the lights are back we see the writer once again resting on the couch, with a book covering his face. He gets up from his repose, screaming)
  God, what a dream .Non other than Noble prize. I hope its not a bad omen. (Still holding the book ). My thanks go to this stupid critic, who puts me to sleep whenever I read something he writes about me like this crab (Reads from the book) Searching for symbols in his works we can easily detect the unconscious desire to murder the father, and the deep seated hatred and vindictiveness he harbours for his mother( Throws the book ) After stripping me of every literary merit , he wants to turn my parents against me , the little twit .
(Clapping for the servant)

  Come on Junathan please, where the hell this bloody butler disappears? Get me my coffee  quickly  Junathan ,don't forget, three spoons of sugar, for I certainly won't take it without, as these doctors want (a moment of silence) I had better  do the coffee myself, for nobody of this fictional characters would do it for me . They are worthless, useless.
  (Goes out to put the kettle on the heater. Speaking from outside the stage. His words are mixed with the sounds from making the coffees plus the sound of pouring water in the kettle)

Have you left with nothing to occupy your mind, except the illusions of Noble prize, fighting the ghosts of darkness for it? (he returns, wating for the water to boil for his coffee , holding the kettle in his hand) Shouldn't a writer, writes something worthwhile first, before entertaining such dreams of winning this prize. How could it be then, when I can't write and don't know how to write , and when to write, or what to write about being chased by the censor and his henchmen. I forgot to put the kettle on the heater ( He goes off stage and comes back , some of the words he uttered while off stage) It beats me how Arab writers found time to write while they have to work as teachers, or clerks or accountants or any other hideous and stifling jobs. Even their doyen and the carrier of their flag to the stars, the noble laureate Naguib Mahfuz could not afford to be a full time writer except after being pensioned off from his governmental job on his sixty fifth birthday . I had no say or choice in acquiring literary talent. I was born with it (goes out and returns holding the kettle. He pours the water in the cup, as well as putting coffee and sugar ) I could hear the clouds crawling on their tummies across blue fields of the sky . I could hear the underground rivers running beneath our feet in the belly of the earth .I could hear the grass growing in the next garden , and hear the words uttered by the wind, the pains expressed by mountains and I would record everything I hear, on paper , that’s how my relationship , with magical world of words started . But what's to be done if literature does not feed the hungry. I choose to imitate Naguib Mahfuz and started working with the ministry of charities like he did ,sitting in a dusty basement office , brimming with ancient documents, awaiting the speedy passage of forty year so as to be pensioned off and embark on my literary career. I never did have Naguib Mahfuz talent for patience an endurance.

I really felt bored from the very first day. The repetitive , hideous work of registering the incoming and outgoing mail, was really getting onto my nerves, as well as the crushing feeling of alienation amidst that work atmosphere with its cave-like walls and spiders-web ceiling. So I put my shoes under my arm and ran and ran and ran as far as I could away from that office. I did not mind one bit to wonder the streets homeless, without a penny to my name to buy a loaf of bread. It didn't matter to me that I was shunned by my family and friends , for I have decided to devote my life entirely to the mission of writing. Ready for the sacrifice it required, determined to create a more glowing ceiling for the universe. I wanted to fulfill the promise of the poet El-Maari when he says: "I will do what my ancestors were unable to do" I wanted to institute a new a taste. Plant a new spirit, and achieve the aim of the poet Al-Mutnabi who aspired for the blind to see his poetry and the deaf to hear his words.I wanted to realize Voltaire's saying "what good would a crown do me , don't I have a pen" I wanted to re-mould the texture of language by destroying its old moulds and releasing it from its confines cages. I wanted to open new limitless horizons for the Arabic language and do with it what Dante did with Italian, Shakespeare with English, Goethe with German. Cervantes with Spanish and Victor Hogu with French and Homerous with Greek. To charge the words with new connotations, so that a wheat grain would not stay merely a grain of wheat , it would also become a field, a mountain, a flock of birds, a harvest festival , a season of fertility or a rosy spring arriving unexpectedly. I wanted to put the angels and gods on trial ,humans and demons, insects and beasts, the creatures of land and sky, heavens and hell, light and darkness .

I wanted to write what no man has ever written . Isn't this the challenge faced by every writer? To say what no one had said before, to take on the role of a mythical god, creating humans and forcing them into arenas of struggle, formulating their destinies, and shaping the past, present and future for them, making them happy or miserable, poor or rich . exercising a supreme and absolute power over their lives ? That is how I see the role of the writer, and with this spirit I came to the field of creative writing. Despite poverty and displacement, I allowed myself a greater stature than that of the gods of Olympus, because I can denounce their biddings and re-shape the world to suite my desire and not theirs. I can even bring these gods to account : Zeus, god of all gods, come down from your god-damn mountains and appear before me at once . (The horizon behind the window shakes, as a sign of the arrival of Zeus , with the help of sound effects) Sit here in this chair quiet silently. We all know how fake and false you are, made out of myth and illusions, you do not even exist, yet you allowed yourself to wreck people's lives . Please don't try to deny your crimes against humanity. Tell me frankly, who made poor Oedipus kill his father and marry his mother? Don't say it was Sophocles who did it, for he did nothing more than tell us what you'd done to Oedipus. You're the criminal who'd invented Oedipus complex and made humans inherit it generation after generation, just like any malignant hereditary illness, I suffer it from myself . Time has come for you to pay the price . What now you feel sorry for it ? What good does that do for Oedipus? Do you think that I'll forgive you for what you've done to that poor girl Antigone , who only wanted to bury her brother? And that dark fate you held for Agamemnon upon his arrival victorious from his wars in the Aegean seas, and what about all the pain and agonies you caused Electro, Fedra, Andromak, not to mention the Trojan wars which you make them continue for countless years to satisfy the blood thirsty monster inside the skin of the supreme god you pretend to be . You cry now!! Those tears will make no difference to me for I care not for the tears of gods . (He leaves Zeus sitting and moves towards the front of the stage to recount his memories) I started writing at a very young age , when I was still a student at a boarding school. And when lights of our sleeping quarters were out, I'd sneek to the bathroom, to read and write ,thus I got into the habit of writing in bathrooms. Who'd ever called the restroom "the literary house" must've been an Arab literary man, just like myself, with no where to write but there.

We were not allowed to listen to music except for patriotic songs. Being pleased, sometimes, with what I wrote, I'd sing our school song inside the bathroom: I salute you, land of my forefather happily residing in you and singing love songs for your praise. “whose there?" The night watchman hears my singing and comes to kick me out of the Bathroom. As long a I could pick on the gods on their mountains, it doesn't worry me to bear with an ignorant watchman picking on my writing at bathrooms. Writing, at that early stage of my life, was a kind of searching for a magical alternative to my miserable reality. But, now I've come to look for a magical alternative to the misery of writing He goes to where zeus sits) poor god of gods, he can't enjoy a peaceful old age.Whenever he wants to rest, I call him for investigation. (He ushers him to leave and claps his hands, recalling his servants). What shall I do with this lazy butler , who is always late with my dinner ?Do I have to do everything myself )He exists to come back with a plate of green salad) So , regarding this practical side , writing can be a satisfying business. Although a writer cannot feed himself by writing, he can rest assured that he can do away with food altogether since writing can easily reward him with ailments like stomach ulcers which will prevent him from eating any food except for this plate of green salad which would cost him little or no money at all. If there is a dangerous aspect to writing, which indeed there is, that makes more like walking over a mine field, it is only part of the excitement that comes with the job . One never hears of a carpenter, a blacksmith, or a farmer , being assassinated because someone didn't like their work. These are very safe jobs, void of any kind of excitement, not like writing, where no day passes without hearing bout a writer being detained, assassinated or condemned to death, because somebody was not pleased with what he wrote.

I only found out myself, when suddenly I was accused of some unspecific crime: ( He wears black spectacles and assumes the pose of the censor) What does the red twilight ,you mentioned in your story signifies? ( He takes off the spectacles and he only wears them again when he goes back to the role of the censor) (I scowled for a while; not knowing what to say and asked in some confusion.( - Who are you? And how did you sneak into my house?and how dare you speak of literary work as if it was a crime? - Don't you really know me? Don't you know the friend who not only enters your home, but your mind and heart too. He can even stand on your fingers while writing , yet you try to fool me and put a brightly red title to your story. Tell me quickly what do you mean by this? -Surely you only read titles because if you'd read the text you'd have known that the red twilight doesn't mean any other thing than twilight ,the time of sunset. It can't be called the yellow, black or white twilight, because its simply red. That's all. -Isn't this an open invitation to the red and bloody revolution, advocated by opposition writer? -God forgive you!! Can't you find any other interpretation except this one which leads straight to the guillotine. -Do you imagine we can't read between lines?" - But why Mr. Censor do you leave these lines which I write and make me responsible for blank lines which I did not write? - Because we are well aware of your hidden meaning. Did you not write, describing yourself as a candle searching for darkness for its light? -What significance does a candle has away from darkness ? As a writer I can only align myself with light. -And what about the sail that chases the storm? -Once again, it is a celebration of human will power, which conquers the powers of nature and renders invalid the old norms and conditions allowing wind to rule over ships and vessels . -And what about this love, you constantly refer to as the legendary bird, the phoenix resurrecting from its burned ashes? -Indeed , because no matter how difficult communication can become between us, I place my bet on love, believing always it will save the day . -Do you think we are incapable of understanding these symbols which you would use corrupt the minds of our youth and turn them against existing order . -Haven't you gone a bit far with your accusations? Please, be patient with me for a while. I am no Socrates and have no desire to end the same way he did , because what your are saying now is exactly what they told Socrates before they condemned him to death. I want you to give me a list of subjects you allow me to write about as well as words you want me to use.

I'll abide by this list and won't write anything that you object to. - Don't give me this crab . All your writings are full of mines, and traps , whatever the subject may be. - So you don't object to what I write, as to the principle of writing itself. Now we began to understand each other . Would it please you Mr. Censor , if I stop writing altogether, and become fisherman, or a shepherd or then again a grave digger. Yes ,a grave digger , a job very becoming of writers and philosophers. Whomever read Shakespeare's Hamlet knows how important this job is .Rest assured Mr. Censor that I'll have no regrets about abandoning this profession. My family and friends will be most grateful to you, to see you helping me sober up and come to my senses as they consider writing some sort of insanity. How can not they since they see me slaving away during the day and staying up the night-long wooing for nothing, expecting no return, only to find somebody like you knocking on my door looking for an excuse turn me in. what a job . I can sassily do without it. - There you go, up to your old tricks again. Silence. You threaten us with Silence. A sign of rejection and opposition and a way to show your indignation with the government .you wanted to give our foreign enemies a good reason to start a smear campaign against us for turning our writers to grave diggers . What a way to avenge yourself . Do you think we would be taken in by this cheap stunt ? - What more do you want me to do? Do you want me to shout in the street: Long live censorship Down with writing Long live censorship, long live censorship, long live censorship, long live censorship ( lightening changes to indicate that he's alone again( -It's not just the censor's problem, it is my problem too. The problem is in me and the heritage of suppressions that I carry with me. It inhabits my blood, and resides between the tissues of my brain. It's all my fault. I allowed it. I should've flared up in his face. Cursed him, instead of shouting "long live censorship" (There are knocks on the door. He goes and opens it) welcome. Hello please come in Miss. (He presents a chair to an illusionary women) I think I know you. You are Jamila, heroine of my novel " Valley Of Ashes". What blissful winds brought you here today? Any coffee? Tea? Fruit juice? What can I offer you? (Goes out to get the drink and speaks from off stage) How is Karn El-Ghazalle , that unlucky village you come from. Is it true that it's been decided to wipe it from the face of the map? (he comes in, bringing a glass of juice and another for himself. She refuses to take the drink) Why do you refuse my hospitality? You're not happy with what I've done, are you? Everybody is pleased with the I created your character and personality including the Censor . Don't you care for the censor's acceptance? You're saying this is what's making you angry, and that I made you miserable to please him! O my dear beautiful one, it is really unfair to say that. I stayed long nights suffering to make you the most splendid creature on this earth, and yet you protest!! - Did you say that beauty was a curse as far as you are concerned? Yes .yes. It's true., it is also true that I unleashed all the despicable beasts and demons , and sent them to crush your beauty .

I made mountains your enemies, I sent ghosts to attack you. I did all that to give chance to your fighting spirit to shine through and the man who loves you to come to you rescue. If the other powers lurkin g in the dark were stronger than both of you , then it's not my fault Jamila . There is always a bigger destiny ruling over us all , where we have no chance to escape from . Yes it is true that I can decides over the destiny of my characters ,but I am also ruled by the traditions of my craft, and conditions of the world of the story or novel, so I am not free to do as I wish . Please Jamila, don't cry. Your crying can only break my heart. I'll tell you a secret, on condition that you stop crying, I prevented men from reaching you simply because wanted you for myself, yes Jamila. Yes Jamila , I loved you . Call it jealousy, insanity, a creator tormented by the charm of his creation . No one has loved you as I did. Yes, I love you Jamila and this is our chance to make our love come to a happy end. Come into my arms. Let us make up for all the misery of the past . )He moves closer to her, takes her in his arms, while she sits on the chair. He kisses her hair, face and hands) Let me kiss your hair, cheeks and beautiful, splendid hands. Tonight will be our wedding night, Jamila, the light of my life (The stage lighting changes. A Bedouin wedding song "Al-Rasoul El-hadi" is heard, accompanied by joyous ululation. He sings along, he puts on a galabia and a traditional red cap) -( He sings) Rasoul el-hadi (He swings about in the middle of the stage while holding the bridal candle , surrounded by singing and the playing of traditional folk music) Jamila, my life, my soul, my love, where are you? (He can't find her) Why do you leave me. It's our wedding night. Our night of victory over miserable traditions ) He goes around calling her name) Jamila .....Jamila ....Jamila )Still calling her name, he goes off stage to search for her. He enters in a desperate state and collapses in the chair. He throws his cap away and blows out the bridal candle . The lighting changes. Raising his eyes he glimpses the censor standing above him. He looks at him in terrified shock( The censor is in my house once again. Must the devils of darkness spring out suddenly before me? What do you want this time? Without any doubt , it was you who frightened Jmila away. Have you no shame at all? Why do you have to spoil my wedding party? What harm does it cause you to see me marry the woman I made out of my own flesh and blood ? I had to put up with your interference in my work , but my personal life is another matter altogether , you should know that. Sorry , Mister , there is a limit to what I can take . I haven't signed a contract to sell my soul to you or to anybody else . As for writing , I am pleased to tell you , I have decided to quit the bloody job from this moment. Now , go and tell that to your superiors who charged you with this god-damned assignment . I am fed up with dancing to your tunes all the time. ( Laughing ) Are you saying you have a new tune for me , and you want me to dance for it , and this tune is none other than the tune played in the circus for clowns to dance to . You must be joking . ( slowly the dancing tune of the famous Egyptian song el-sah endah embu starts playing) - No way . I will not dance . Nobody can force me to dance like a clown. Torture me if you want, take me to prison , to court , but you will not make me dance . I know how to defend myself . ( A spotlight focuses on him while defending himself in font of an imaginary court) Your Honour , counselors This respected censor is accusing me of disobeying his orders, and since he is the guardian of the values ,principles and traditions of this society , I am therefore committing a crime against society , but the truth is not like that , the truth that I obeyed all he said. He said that he has a monopoly over all ideals and values , I obeyed and took his statement for granted .

He told me that he is forbidding me from writing about political issues, I turned blind eye to all the political fires raging in the land and stopped writing about politics . He told me not to touch upon religious subjects so, I considered the kingdom of heaven is his personal property and relinquished my right to look at the skies. He told me that I should not refer to sexual issues so my lords, I deemed sex a matter yet to be discovered by humanity and that children simply fall from the sky in bunches. He told me that his curse would befall upon me if I mentioned class conflict or any kind of conflict in society either social or political or economical so I erased the word "conflict" from my vocabulary and never used it even when talking about the animals in the forest or the fishes in the ocean. But he was not to be satisfied with all these concessions ,your honour, next , he objected to my use of such words as candle or flower, or bird or dawn or twilight , the only words left in the dictionary of art that shies away from the real issues of our life, in order to merely exist as a writer . He considers them to be symbols of thoughts destructive to the peace and security of the country and to do away with them. And thus he left me with one single option and that is to stop writing altogether. But would he be pleased with this and leave me alone? Oh, no, he considered my silence a betrayal of country and nation. He doesn't want me to stay silent , in the same time he doesn't want me to talk. He doesn't want me to write , in the same time he doesn't wants me to stop writing. And over and above, he wants to own my personal life too, and that I should get his permission before doing anything. As if it is not enough, your honour, that one comes into this world without having a say about who should be his parents, his race and faith and country , his social status and the star that determines his destiny .And everything is decided for him before he is born, guided through his life with instructions of by the dead ancestors on how to behave , where he is only left with a very little margin , which is now threaten by this censor to usurp it . I do not believe that your sense of justice would condone what this censor is doing to me your honour? Deciding for me what I should eat and drink and what to wear, when to sleep and when to wake up, how to hate and how to love how to talk, sing, dance and walk. ( A sound of movement and bustle, as if some one is dragging him off the stage and he is resisting) - Please, let me conclude my defense. This is unfair. It is an insult to the law of the land. Your lordship should prevent them. Please stop it (His voice is lost, while the song "darkness of-prison descend, we shall enjoy the dark". A moment of darkness follows as the song played on . The stage is alight once more and empty. The writer comes on stage as if he is another person, walking in a funny manner. He comes and goes on stage laughing like a fool, while hitting one hand against the other( You bastards. Now what was it he said ? We'll take you to the bride's chamber! And what a bride's chamber the censor keeps for the literary men of the country . Unbelievable , just unbelievable. (He feels his back and utters a sigh of pain) How painful my back is . Has the whip got to be soaked in salt .Of course I should dance on the tune they like .

El-Sah El-dah is a wonderful song . In fact there is no song suits me better than this one .( The song starts playing , and gradually getting louder and louder , while he starts dancing and singing along ) El-shah El-dah Imboo El-wad tala laboo (He realizes that , there was a grammar mistake in the words of the song , so he stops to correct it ) Grammatically speaking we should say Labeeh , for it is impermissible to make grammar mistakes with such a song , that has become the national anthem for the whole Arab nation. (The song starts anew and he dances and sings again - El-shah El-dah Imbih - El-wad tala labih ( He stops singing and goes towards the censor ,holding a pen and a paper in his hand , lowering his head in humiliation ) I hope you approve of my dancing Mr censor. I am glad you liked it . What are your orders now , sir . I shall only write what you dictate to me, word by word and letter by letter . So you will give me ideas and leave to me to put them in writing, as well as providing me with a typist to help me ? You are more than nice to me , I will make sure that venues of spiritual communication between us stay open day and night so I will only write what pleases you and cheers you up. So you will allow me sir , in this case to move to the toilet , because , as you know , this is the only place where I can be sure , I will receive my inspiration immediately . ( A table enters the stage with a type-writer and a model girl typing on it . He goes to the bathroom . The sound of the flushing of the toilet is heard mixed with his voice, while the type-writer is ticking away ) Your eyes my dear censor ..tick..tick ..tick (Flushing of the toilet) Are a forest of palm trees at dawn Your eyes my dear censor Are two windows lit by a rising moon Without you dear censor Tick..tick ..tick No bird would have sang And no field would have been washed by rain Were it not for you , dear censor , The green land would not have been green And the flowers would not have blossomed Tick.. tick..tick..tick So speak up you frogs And sing along you crows ( Sound of the toilet flushing . He hurries out of the bathroom zipping his trousers )- No, no , please take away the last two lines about frogs and crows. The communication between me and the censor was not that good . Insert this instead : Were it not for you , the music of the universe would have stopped And all the rivers in the world would have dried up Did you write all this ? Are you saying I am quoting other poets poems and playing around with them . Are you objecting to the thoughts of the censor . I am only asking you to type what he inspires me to say, so watch your words, lest you make him angry with you . Please type this poem and send it quickly to all the schools of the Arab world , in order to plant the love of the censor in the hearts of the young generation: Your days are honey Your nights are milk Our dear censor.. tick ..tick..tick You are the sun that never sets ..tick..tick..tich And the air we breathe tick..tick..tick Our dear and near censor tick..tick..tick (He starts singing the last line with dancing rhythm , he falls in a hysterical fit as he sings and dances before he collapses crying ) - why should that happens to me ( He continues weeping )why ? why ? why? (Change of light. Loud knocks on the door, on the wall and windows and the roof, followed by the sound of invisible people breaking in ) -Who are you ? What do you want from me ? why are breaking into my home ? perhaps you are the hired killers sent by the poet Cambora , thinking I took the noble prize away from him? Tell him it is untrue. Tell him I won it only in my dreams . It was merely an illusion, and he remains the only candidate for it . So you are not sent by him ? Who are you then ? and why are you invading my house like this ? So you are the characters of my novels and stories. Well , it is clear to me now .

I can easily recognize you all .This is you Othman Ghoul , you were kind and good-natured man ,brave in fighting the wolves , and you are Amer Abu-Laila the father of Hind and sheikh of the green valley, and here is Jaber the dear hunter . But why are you here . What do you want from me ? you are complaining because I disgraced you , and feel ashamed of belonging to me ? why ? In what way did I wrong anyone of you ? Is your rebellion caused only by my agreementwith the censor ? You don’t like to see me in the role of his puppet ? . Sorry. I think I am to blame for creating you so naïve and innocent , not aware of the harsh facts of life. But let me tell who the censor is . He is the power and authority which I have no way to oppose . There are prisons and detention camps and military and security apparatus at his service , while I am a single, unarmed, little man ,have nothing but my pen . so try to be fair with me please . Don’t pass your judgement on me before you hear my testimony. Let me say a last word before I disappear from the scene, and the curtains come down on my literary life .I have written some novels , stories, plays and articles , of which you are well aware of , and, therefore, I need not speak of them any more . In your letters to your friends , speak of me as a writer loyal to his people , who tried hard to be useful to his community , and faithful to the noble message of the written word , but secret, evil forces , working in the darkness, hated to see a writer like me chasing the darkness with the light of his pen , so it sent its brutal wind toquench the flame of his pen. I know these forces and I will expose them now, at this very moment , and in front of you all. I have nothing to fear from now on. I will reveal every single person running the barbaric , brutal and savage institution , responsible for destroying every creative mind . I will mention them by name, one after another , and the first on the list of these cruel ,evil and corrupt persons is………. ( His voice is submerged under loud music. The lights of the stage go out while theatre lights come on .the curtains start coming down very slowly. He shouts to make his voice heard Please don’t close the curtains . Don’t put out the light . And you , my friends , don’t leave your seats. Please stay where you are so we can expose and condemn all those evil elements , liberate ourselves from their control ..please don’t leave me alone ..don’t leave me alone ..please. ( A loud shot from a gun is heard the writer collapses and stops shouting and the curtain slowly goes down ) curtains.