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?