Red Rose
By Hassan Al-Dhafiri (Iraq)
Writer & Literary Critic
Biography
Hassan Al-Dhafiri, born in Basra in 1950, is a prominent short story writer and literary critic. He holds a Bachelor of Arts in Arabic Language with a specialization in Modern Literature from the University of Basra. Hassan also received an honorary doctorate in Arabic Language from the University of Havana. He is a member of both the Union of Writers in Basra and the General Curriculum Writers in Baghdad, and is part of the University and Arab Writers community. Hassan has published three collections of short stories and one critical book.
Red Rose
Her face, round and radiant, carried an undeniable warmth, and her eyes gleamed with fervor. Her eyebrows mirrored the hue of her dark hair, which seemed to absorb the sun’s light and reflect it with a carefree smile. With every glance, you might think she was a masterpiece by Picasso, every expression a blend of calm, spontaneity, and childlike wonder. There was a delicate feeling in everything she did, as if she were wrapped in a soft aura of tenderness. She had a particular love for the color red, and it seemed to be as much a part of her as the very air she breathed.
That day, I entered the inner department, and as soon as my eyes met hers, she smiled. Her smile seemed almost sacred, as though she were trying to keep it from escaping. With her right hand, she presented me a rose, unique and beautiful in its simplicity. Then, she quickly ascended the stairs leading to her room, hurrying to catch up with her colleague.
I entered my cell and began to prepare a small cup of water. As I sipped, I felt the thirst dissipate, but it wasn’t long before she returned, a faint trace of life still lingering in her presence. She opened the door and stood before me.
“What interests you about this?” she asked, a gentle curiosity in her voice.
I paused, unsure of what she meant, before answering, “I admire it.”
She looked at me intently. “Who, me or the rose?”
“Both,” I replied.
“Can you explain that?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I am a withered flower,” she said, her voice tinged with sorrow. “Once plucked from the earth, life was lost to me.”
“But she gave you life,” I countered.
Her smile was fleeting. “It was brief. The moment you arrived, she discarded me. But I admit, her fingers were gentle, kind, and though I was cast aside, I still hold on to the memory of her touch. We, flowers like me, live pampered lives—caressed by the breeze, kissed by the sun. We are the epitome of beauty, always seen as symbols of calm and serenity. Even in death, others love us. We give life to those who seek beauty, offering our nectar to keep the world going.”
“But you didn’t answer my question,” I said, captivated by her words.
She sighed, her eyes distant, as if remembering something long lost. “I was mesmerized by your beauty—your exterior. But then I saw the truth. Despite it all, you’re still a young woman who gives of herself without asking for anything in return.”
Her heart, tired and weary, whispered to her as her spontaneous smile formed again. It was a smile that drew hope from the most desolate of fates.
“Give me the chance to return the favor,” I thought to myself, feeling the weight of her sacrifice.
Quietly, she gathered her papers, her lips filled with unspoken poetry. She was struggling with the very throes of life and death, yet there was a peace in her. Her fragrance and color lingered, filling every corner of the room long after she had departed.
Prepared by Angela Kosta, Executive Director of MIRIADE Magazine. Angela is an academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, and literary promoter.
