The sixth war that has ravaged my country came rather unexpectedly. However, anyone who dares to look beneath the surface could tell you that it has been in the making for a very long time. The chaotic atmosphere the war created took us all by surprise, leaving us startled like a deer caught in the headlights, unaware of what to do next, uncertainty and fear ultimately becoming the leading emotions in our lives. And as the chaos that had taken control over our lives finally spun itself into a silk of silence, we all darted around trying to regain some balance and stability into our shaken lives. It took me some time to readjust to the changes that had parachuted into my life, and I was finally able to pry myself away from university long enough to treat myself to a walk down the streets of Beirut and meet some friends over a cup of coffee. I don’t really know what it is but something about walking down those busy streets that are so saturated with the excitement and buzz of life seems to bring a weird sense of peace and serenity into my heart. However, now, the moment you walk onto the streets you can’t but notice the inevitable effect the war has had on everyone, including yourself. The sense of peace I hoped to regain was replaced by one of mere discomfort and alienation. The busy streets were no longer full with excitement, but more with dread and fear, and unanswered question of “where are we heading to next” hovering in the atmosphere. The bullet ridden buildings that blend so beautifully with up-to-date architecture, symbolizing the beauty of the struggle, now seemed to cry out in pain as its wounded country was once again bleeding. And as I stood there, so aware of the silent destruction that materialized itself so clearly in my surroundings, I couldn’t but wonder, to what extent can we really rebuild Lebanon?
See ever since the war has ended and we have kept ourselves busy with talks of rebuilding postwar Lebanon: buildings, bridges, infrastructure…etc. we put all our focus on the material damage, as if by that we can ignore the emotional one. As if by patching up the wounds done to the body, we can stifle the cries of the wounds rising from within, the ones done to the soul, the ones that really matter. We turn our attention to the shattered houses, not realizing the shattered hopes and dreams that lie a bit beneath the surface. But the question remains for how long can we keep that up? The majority of the people in this country have lived through one or more wars, and they have persevered, time and time again, helping their country to rise from within the ashes. However, the toll that war has taken on them is evident: the dead look always present in their eyes and the scarred soul they always try to hide. So let’s take a bit and look at the emotional damage this war has caused. This first came clear to me when I saw Ali, a 6 year old child whose family sought refugee in our village, sitting alone in the playground the day they were heading back to the South. As I asked him what was wrong, the answer I got was something I didn’t expect: “I don’t want to go back, not anymore. We have nothing there, no house, no friends, here I do.” Can we really blame him for holding on to his childhood? For trying to keep a normal life within this turmoil? The war forced these children to grow up; it robbed them of their innocence, and brought them face to face with life’s cruelty before their time. Can we really blame him? Ali’s story is one of many. Ali left and got me thinking about all the other refugees I had met during the war. What about Ahmad, the little kid who ended up in a wheelchair. I remember his answer as I asked him about the football he held so tightly in his hands: “I’m going to become a famous football player”. Ahmad is still unaware of the permanency of his case. The war robbed him of his dreams, who can give him that back? What about Fatima, the 70 year old woman, who spent her whole life in Lebanon. “I have never left my country once, and I will never leave. I was born in the South and I will die in the South” she said with a heavy southern accent and a patriotic tone. And she did die: a couple of hundred kilometers away, in a foreign village, drowned in sadness as she saw her village getting shelled over and over again. The war took away Fatima’s identity and let her go without a decent funeral, who will give Fatima that back? And Hassan who is confined to a hospital bed because of his wounds, convinced that his family is in another hospital, who will tell him that they all perished? Who will give him his family back? What about Sahar, the newlywed whose husband died in the army, who will give her the happiest days of her life back? And the stories go on. Every Lebanese family has a story, and every Lebanese family bears scars. The problem is that we keep on ignoring that. We only focus on what our money can fix, but there is a lot of pain in this country and a lot of wounds, ones that money cannot alleviate or heal. This part of Lebanon, the one that includes the citizens, their dreams, their hopes, and their lives has been destroyed six times, but never rebuilt.
So really, to what extent can we rebuild postwar lebanon?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Remnants of a Shattered Soul
“Ya bithini flousik, ya bithini nfousik”
Allow me to put it for you into simple English. The sentence basically refers to using money or selling yourself in order to obtain what you are asking for. But why exactly did I choose this sentence to start off with? Well, simply this is the answer the Lebanese woman; let’s call her Nadia, got when she asked to see her son. This is getting kind of weird for you, isn’t it? You are probably thinking: what the hell is going on with this fellow. Well ok, just for the sake of clarity, I’ll take it from the top.
It all started during the war, during that time where human suffering mounted to immeasurable heights and where brutality was beyond description. Do I have to remind you of these days? I don’t think so, for these horrors remain forever fresh in the minds of whoever witnessed them. So much fear and sadness accompanied that period that it leaves you absolutely convinced that you’ll never be able to lock it all away and resume your normal existence. And that is exactly what happened to many Lebanese families. In the midst of all the atrocities that the war brought along, they faced the hardest one imaginable: loss of their loved ones- not by death, for that would’ve been more bearable, but by kidnapping. See, death, no matter how hard, gives you a kind of closure, whereas abduction leaves you with hope, which proves to be the worst thing you can have under such circumstances. Death gives you a wound that time will heal, but hope keeps your wound forever open and bleeding...
And here is where our story starts. The Lebanese woman we met at the beginning lost her son this way. The family, devastated by the war and even more by their tremendous loss, tried everything to be reunited with their son, everything, even if it had 1% chance of success. Soldiers took everything they could get their hands on, from TV’s to furniture, with promises of arranging a meeting for them with their son and the family readily yielded, refastening their grip on that frail thread of hope. And that is all they ever got: Hope. The soldiers’ words were nothing but empty promises, means guaranteed to ensure a good deal, after all what’s a better gamble than a family’s pain and agony? Reflecting back on those moments, Nadia says that deep down they always knew it wouldn’t get them anywhere, but hope was the last drug they were on, the only thing that kept the pain at bay, and they would’ve done anything to keep a tight grip on it. Soon enough though, the hope of being reunited seemed to be a mere dream, and they settled for any news they got, any sign that he was still alive…
However, Hope was once again instilled in Nadia’s bosom during a little gathering. A woman whose son had also been detained approached her and informed her that during a meeting with him, he had informed her that Nadia’s son was with him in detention, alive and well. When Nadia inquired about how the woman was able to arrange a meeting with her son, the woman provided her with a list of numbers and contacts who, if their requests were met, would be able to set her a meeting with a high-ranked official. Once that is done, she would have to meet that official, kneel down and kiss his feet as a sign on respect, and while still on her knees request to see her son. Humiliation at its best, but what wouldn’t a mother do, what wouldn’t she sacrifice for the chance to see her child once again, to hold him and make sure he was safe? And so the journey began, from contact to contact, borrowing money and indebting herself to meet their requests. Finally, the meeting with the official was set, and that brings us back to the beginning of our essay…
“Ya bithini flousik, ya bithini nfousik”
Looking back at that moment she says she doesn’t know how she got the courage or how all the uncertainty seemed to disappear, but for once in a long time she knew exactly what to do. She rose to her feet, a kind of peace flooding her entire body. She looked at him straight in the eyes with a disgusted look: “Our money you already took and I would rather believe my son is a martyr that died for his country before complying for the latter.” And with that she left, dignity somewhat intact but hope irrevocably damaged. She never saw her son and till now all she has is the bits and bytes of news she hears around.
She looks away teary-eyed, staring into space, and addresses her son: “Samé7ni ya mama, ba3ref inno ma bihin 3lék il mawa2if yalli 7ittét 7ali fiya, bas haydi il imm ya ibni, hayda alb il imm!”
All in all, the war scarred us all permanently, not a single individual was left unaffected or unchanged. It left us with hundreds of bullet-ridden buildings that are a daily reminder of that bloodshed. On the political front, we are even more fragmented and unstable than before. All this comes from the hostility that lies beneath the surface, hostility that stems from the fact that none of the major issues has been adequately addressed and solved , only buried deeply. But deeper than all that, the war left many Lebanese disabled, dislocated, and even worse: broken like Nadia’s family!!
However, these people refused to be silenced by the constant setbacks and by the society’s attempt to render them voiceless. Nadia’s story is but one of many. Together these people formed S.O.L.I.D.E, seeking strength in unity, hoping that for once their cries won’t fall on deaf ears. However, the government, although they pretend to try, remain indifferent on a very large scale. Still they never give up, and hope, that drug that they are on, becomes now the sole reason behind their existence. It’s saddening to see how powerless we are in the face of such immense pain. But you don’t have to be! They all have stories to tell, take some time, go and listen to their story. It might not change the bitter reality, but it will, in a way, alleviate their pain, make their hell just a bit more bearable. So why not?
Allow me to put it for you into simple English. The sentence basically refers to using money or selling yourself in order to obtain what you are asking for. But why exactly did I choose this sentence to start off with? Well, simply this is the answer the Lebanese woman; let’s call her Nadia, got when she asked to see her son. This is getting kind of weird for you, isn’t it? You are probably thinking: what the hell is going on with this fellow. Well ok, just for the sake of clarity, I’ll take it from the top.
It all started during the war, during that time where human suffering mounted to immeasurable heights and where brutality was beyond description. Do I have to remind you of these days? I don’t think so, for these horrors remain forever fresh in the minds of whoever witnessed them. So much fear and sadness accompanied that period that it leaves you absolutely convinced that you’ll never be able to lock it all away and resume your normal existence. And that is exactly what happened to many Lebanese families. In the midst of all the atrocities that the war brought along, they faced the hardest one imaginable: loss of their loved ones- not by death, for that would’ve been more bearable, but by kidnapping. See, death, no matter how hard, gives you a kind of closure, whereas abduction leaves you with hope, which proves to be the worst thing you can have under such circumstances. Death gives you a wound that time will heal, but hope keeps your wound forever open and bleeding...
And here is where our story starts. The Lebanese woman we met at the beginning lost her son this way. The family, devastated by the war and even more by their tremendous loss, tried everything to be reunited with their son, everything, even if it had 1% chance of success. Soldiers took everything they could get their hands on, from TV’s to furniture, with promises of arranging a meeting for them with their son and the family readily yielded, refastening their grip on that frail thread of hope. And that is all they ever got: Hope. The soldiers’ words were nothing but empty promises, means guaranteed to ensure a good deal, after all what’s a better gamble than a family’s pain and agony? Reflecting back on those moments, Nadia says that deep down they always knew it wouldn’t get them anywhere, but hope was the last drug they were on, the only thing that kept the pain at bay, and they would’ve done anything to keep a tight grip on it. Soon enough though, the hope of being reunited seemed to be a mere dream, and they settled for any news they got, any sign that he was still alive…
However, Hope was once again instilled in Nadia’s bosom during a little gathering. A woman whose son had also been detained approached her and informed her that during a meeting with him, he had informed her that Nadia’s son was with him in detention, alive and well. When Nadia inquired about how the woman was able to arrange a meeting with her son, the woman provided her with a list of numbers and contacts who, if their requests were met, would be able to set her a meeting with a high-ranked official. Once that is done, she would have to meet that official, kneel down and kiss his feet as a sign on respect, and while still on her knees request to see her son. Humiliation at its best, but what wouldn’t a mother do, what wouldn’t she sacrifice for the chance to see her child once again, to hold him and make sure he was safe? And so the journey began, from contact to contact, borrowing money and indebting herself to meet their requests. Finally, the meeting with the official was set, and that brings us back to the beginning of our essay…
“Ya bithini flousik, ya bithini nfousik”
Looking back at that moment she says she doesn’t know how she got the courage or how all the uncertainty seemed to disappear, but for once in a long time she knew exactly what to do. She rose to her feet, a kind of peace flooding her entire body. She looked at him straight in the eyes with a disgusted look: “Our money you already took and I would rather believe my son is a martyr that died for his country before complying for the latter.” And with that she left, dignity somewhat intact but hope irrevocably damaged. She never saw her son and till now all she has is the bits and bytes of news she hears around.
She looks away teary-eyed, staring into space, and addresses her son: “Samé7ni ya mama, ba3ref inno ma bihin 3lék il mawa2if yalli 7ittét 7ali fiya, bas haydi il imm ya ibni, hayda alb il imm!”
All in all, the war scarred us all permanently, not a single individual was left unaffected or unchanged. It left us with hundreds of bullet-ridden buildings that are a daily reminder of that bloodshed. On the political front, we are even more fragmented and unstable than before. All this comes from the hostility that lies beneath the surface, hostility that stems from the fact that none of the major issues has been adequately addressed and solved , only buried deeply. But deeper than all that, the war left many Lebanese disabled, dislocated, and even worse: broken like Nadia’s family!!
However, these people refused to be silenced by the constant setbacks and by the society’s attempt to render them voiceless. Nadia’s story is but one of many. Together these people formed S.O.L.I.D.E, seeking strength in unity, hoping that for once their cries won’t fall on deaf ears. However, the government, although they pretend to try, remain indifferent on a very large scale. Still they never give up, and hope, that drug that they are on, becomes now the sole reason behind their existence. It’s saddening to see how powerless we are in the face of such immense pain. But you don’t have to be! They all have stories to tell, take some time, go and listen to their story. It might not change the bitter reality, but it will, in a way, alleviate their pain, make their hell just a bit more bearable. So why not?
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Coming Up!
Why is it, that as much as we try to deny it, there is always an underlying sense of satisfaction involved in the process of hurting another person? Is someone else’s downfall the only way for us to rise? Are you not placed on the “meant to rise list” unless you outmaneuver someone on the way? damn! It is a sad reality that dawns on us the day that we realize that no matter how much we try to fool ourselves with talks of morals and ideals, treachery is the only way to get ahead on this life’s path! Yes, that’s what life seems to be, no permanent partners or friends, just temporary ones that sooner a later a conflict of interest will manage to separate. And as time passes by in the continuous ebb and tide of life, it all boils down to the fact that your rise will always be coupled with someone else’s fall. Why? Don’t ask me, for all I know is that this a reality that has been forced on me, one that I only accepted after I spent a lot of time picking myself off the ground as I continuously tried to deny it. Who knows? Maybe there is some kind of elite list with a limited number of members allowed on each level and to secure yourself a spot on the top of the “food chain” there’s only one method: old reliable elimination!!! So you have your friendships while they last, you love, you bond, and have fun and its all real, as real as it gets, but its all part of the bigger illusion, the one life spins you in, the one you remain completely oblivious about until you come face to face with “reality”, ironic no? its funny to realize that the only fraction of your life that lies in reality is all embedded within a greater illusion, one that keeps life set on the correct track. And with time, all this starts making sense to you, and you stop feeling hurt and betrayed when someone tries to break you or put you down, because now you realize that in this dog-eat-dog world its survival of the fittest. You eventually manage to suck it up, excuse my language, and you realize that at least this makes life’s cruelty a little bit more understandable. And so you continue your path with this newfound “reality”, or is it really? ;)
Side Dish
I feel like a side dish
Never enough
To satisfy anyone…
I feel like a side dish
Given only momentary importance
Until the main course arrives…
Meant only to kill the time
To help you wait
For what is later to come…
I feel like a side dish
So insignificant…
Left there… unfinished…
Abandoned on the far side of the table…
Not even worth being taken away in a doggie bag…
Waiting for you to realize…
That the main course isn’t that good…
That it is just a name written in capital letters…
Waiting for you to realize…
That it is I that directly comes to your side…
As that main course is getting ready…
Waiting for you to realize…
That I’m what makes it all better…
That that name written in fine print
Is worth your attention…
But in reality…
Just like most people that cross this life’s path
You allow the fancy letters to delude you…and you become blinded, captivated,
No, no, to an even higher extent, imprisoned…
And I? Oh, I am left there,
Like always,
Unfinished…
Incomplete…
On the lonely corner of the table,
Looking at the tauntingly empty dish
In which the main course was served…
And realizing…
Once again…
That in this extremely superficial existence,
I shall always remain the mere side dish…
Never enough…
To satisfy anyone!!!
Never enough
To satisfy anyone…
I feel like a side dish
Given only momentary importance
Until the main course arrives…
Meant only to kill the time
To help you wait
For what is later to come…
I feel like a side dish
So insignificant…
Left there… unfinished…
Abandoned on the far side of the table…
Not even worth being taken away in a doggie bag…
Waiting for you to realize…
That the main course isn’t that good…
That it is just a name written in capital letters…
Waiting for you to realize…
That it is I that directly comes to your side…
As that main course is getting ready…
Waiting for you to realize…
That I’m what makes it all better…
That that name written in fine print
Is worth your attention…
But in reality…
Just like most people that cross this life’s path
You allow the fancy letters to delude you…and you become blinded, captivated,
No, no, to an even higher extent, imprisoned…
And I? Oh, I am left there,
Like always,
Unfinished…
Incomplete…
On the lonely corner of the table,
Looking at the tauntingly empty dish
In which the main course was served…
And realizing…
Once again…
That in this extremely superficial existence,
I shall always remain the mere side dish…
Never enough…
To satisfy anyone!!!
Why Do We Write?
"i couldnt live in any of the worlds offered to me- i believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live- i had to create a world of my own...in which i could breath, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. "
Anais Nin, In Favour of the Sensitive Man
I have also read somewhere that we write in an attempt to escape from this indifferent, imperfect world, and create one of our own, one that is more to our liking and that is more attentive to our needs and desires. They say we write to obtain a sense of belonging and security that the real world deprives us of, one that we aim to restore within the folds of this imaginary world we create on paper. So whenever life mocks you or puts you down, you go pouring your soul out on that empty paper, escaping in seconds to a world that embodies all your dreams, hopes, and desires. But is that really why we write: to create for ourselves an illusion that relieves us temporarily from the burdens of reality?
Another view, portrays writing as a kind of venting, a mean to channel all the negative or painful emotions into positive ones through putting them on paper. It is as if coming face to face with these emotions will help you see the beauty that lies, hidden, within them. So we write to turn our fear into hope, our solitude into remembrance, and so on.
But what does it all boil down to? What do all these people, each with a different view of their writing, have in common? I look at my own self, and I find notebooks, diaries, scraps of paper, post-it notes, old geometry problems, all filled with writings, wandering thoughts, and childhood dreams, but for what? I have spent years writing things no one else would ever see, but why? For what? I can look back at these writings and see myself, as a child and as a teenager. I can see myself growing, maturing, I can trace all the different conflicts I have been through, and see how life molded my thoughts dreams, and ambitions. I guess that for me writing has always been some kind of soul-search. I used to, and still, write in order to bring meaning to the different changes that crossed my path. In that empty paper I used to find a companion, someone that would just listen silently as I sorted out my thoughts, I’d seek that paper and find somewhere where I can drown out all of life’s chaos and find myself somewhere in between. I guess what I am trying to say is that we all view writing as some kind of sanctuary, and that is the common denominator we all share.
So why do you write?
Anais Nin, In Favour of the Sensitive Man
I have also read somewhere that we write in an attempt to escape from this indifferent, imperfect world, and create one of our own, one that is more to our liking and that is more attentive to our needs and desires. They say we write to obtain a sense of belonging and security that the real world deprives us of, one that we aim to restore within the folds of this imaginary world we create on paper. So whenever life mocks you or puts you down, you go pouring your soul out on that empty paper, escaping in seconds to a world that embodies all your dreams, hopes, and desires. But is that really why we write: to create for ourselves an illusion that relieves us temporarily from the burdens of reality?
Another view, portrays writing as a kind of venting, a mean to channel all the negative or painful emotions into positive ones through putting them on paper. It is as if coming face to face with these emotions will help you see the beauty that lies, hidden, within them. So we write to turn our fear into hope, our solitude into remembrance, and so on.
But what does it all boil down to? What do all these people, each with a different view of their writing, have in common? I look at my own self, and I find notebooks, diaries, scraps of paper, post-it notes, old geometry problems, all filled with writings, wandering thoughts, and childhood dreams, but for what? I have spent years writing things no one else would ever see, but why? For what? I can look back at these writings and see myself, as a child and as a teenager. I can see myself growing, maturing, I can trace all the different conflicts I have been through, and see how life molded my thoughts dreams, and ambitions. I guess that for me writing has always been some kind of soul-search. I used to, and still, write in order to bring meaning to the different changes that crossed my path. In that empty paper I used to find a companion, someone that would just listen silently as I sorted out my thoughts, I’d seek that paper and find somewhere where I can drown out all of life’s chaos and find myself somewhere in between. I guess what I am trying to say is that we all view writing as some kind of sanctuary, and that is the common denominator we all share.
So why do you write?
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