12.2.07
4.2.07
Parody of a country…
She sat down on her kitchen floor, spread her crayons all around, and readied herself to draw new signs for the demonstration. So many things happened since she last did this. So many new affinities shaped her new moral grounds. She reached in the cupboard under the sink for fresh papers.
(Fresh papers for fresh ideas for fresh starts… a brighter future.)
She smiled, recognizing the marginal significance of what she’s doing.
She took out stacks of colored boards and papers. some used. some new. She looked at the old ones with a tinge of disgust, wondering how on earth did she buy into all this ‘crap’ before. “Indict Bashar”… “Syria out!”… “Stop the war”… “Stop the terror”… “No to America”… how different she is now, she thought… and she is different.
She put the old slogans aside, planned to destroy them as soon as she’s done, thinking that she wouldn’t want anyone to see what she was cheering for in the past…
She started working on her new series of “ana mesh ma3 hadane”… to accentuate her neutrality toward the whole scene of protests and protesters… to denounce all the parties, and thunder a new voice of neutrality, of independence… to teach people what independence really means. to show them how original she is… how defiant. how Lebanese. she is the true Lebanese, she thought.
“Ana mesh…” she started in red.
Suddenly she remembered her mother saying, with scolding looks and a severe tone “ma hadane la hadane ya mama”, and wondered sadly if this is where we are all heading. where they are all heading, she corrected herself…
Then she wondered whether - if anything - her neutral position was of the most aggressive. passive-aggressive… didn’t she owe it to herself to declare her war, her inner war on all that’s around her. didn’t she owe it to her children to scream at the top of her lungs like a mad woman slogans of disparate unity…
The national anthem.
she started humming the national anthem…
up to the point when it speaks of ‘fitan’…
up to the point when it speaks of men sprouting from mountains like lions…
up to the point when it speaks of the protection of god…
until she realized how far she is from all this…
from a declaration of ‘fitan’ right in the heart of her national core, like a stigma, to carry on forever…
from a sexist aggressive tale of lion-men roving the earth… she the feminist tigress who stood up for all she believed in more than any lion-man she knew…
from a god that she never believed in…
This deceitful little tune that speaks of work of literacy and labor but never mentions compassion. an anthem suitable for the most fascist of institutions…
she started to wonder if this is really her country… just like a child wonders if her parents are really her parents… then realizing that she has her mother’s eyes and father's chin, thinking in amazement how different they are, her family and she... or her country and she at that.
She wrote a different slogan “ma hadane la hadane?” and felt, really, that her question mark not only marked her indignation, but also her utter surprise at her mother’s intuition into life. her mother knew… but then, she remembered her saying with teary eyes, her head slightly tilted to the right “ma 2lkone gheir ba3ad ya mama”… she fell into despair…
For she realized… isn’t this just a travesty of what a real country should be like?
With a thick black marker she crossed all her old slogans, one by one, and below each she wrote “ma hadane la hadane?”
She sat down on her kitchen floor, spread her crayons all around, and readied herself to draw new signs for the demonstration. So many things happened since she last did this. So many new affinities shaped her new moral grounds. She reached in the cupboard under the sink for fresh papers.
(Fresh papers for fresh ideas for fresh starts… a brighter future.)
She smiled, recognizing the marginal significance of what she’s doing.
She took out stacks of colored boards and papers. some used. some new. She looked at the old ones with a tinge of disgust, wondering how on earth did she buy into all this ‘crap’ before. “Indict Bashar”… “Syria out!”… “Stop the war”… “Stop the terror”… “No to America”… how different she is now, she thought… and she is different.
She put the old slogans aside, planned to destroy them as soon as she’s done, thinking that she wouldn’t want anyone to see what she was cheering for in the past…
She started working on her new series of “ana mesh ma3 hadane”… to accentuate her neutrality toward the whole scene of protests and protesters… to denounce all the parties, and thunder a new voice of neutrality, of independence… to teach people what independence really means. to show them how original she is… how defiant. how Lebanese. she is the true Lebanese, she thought.
“Ana mesh…” she started in red.
Suddenly she remembered her mother saying, with scolding looks and a severe tone “ma hadane la hadane ya mama”, and wondered sadly if this is where we are all heading. where they are all heading, she corrected herself…
Then she wondered whether - if anything - her neutral position was of the most aggressive. passive-aggressive… didn’t she owe it to herself to declare her war, her inner war on all that’s around her. didn’t she owe it to her children to scream at the top of her lungs like a mad woman slogans of disparate unity…
The national anthem.
she started humming the national anthem…
up to the point when it speaks of ‘fitan’…
up to the point when it speaks of men sprouting from mountains like lions…
up to the point when it speaks of the protection of god…
until she realized how far she is from all this…
from a declaration of ‘fitan’ right in the heart of her national core, like a stigma, to carry on forever…
from a sexist aggressive tale of lion-men roving the earth… she the feminist tigress who stood up for all she believed in more than any lion-man she knew…
from a god that she never believed in…
This deceitful little tune that speaks of work of literacy and labor but never mentions compassion. an anthem suitable for the most fascist of institutions…
she started to wonder if this is really her country… just like a child wonders if her parents are really her parents… then realizing that she has her mother’s eyes and father's chin, thinking in amazement how different they are, her family and she... or her country and she at that.
She wrote a different slogan “ma hadane la hadane?” and felt, really, that her question mark not only marked her indignation, but also her utter surprise at her mother’s intuition into life. her mother knew… but then, she remembered her saying with teary eyes, her head slightly tilted to the right “ma 2lkone gheir ba3ad ya mama”… she fell into despair…
For she realized… isn’t this just a travesty of what a real country should be like?
With a thick black marker she crossed all her old slogans, one by one, and below each she wrote “ma hadane la hadane?”
30.1.07
The tragedy of… failure.
Bossa nova music was flowing listlessly in the air… he stretched again on the park bench and rested his feet on her lap. she lay her head back, and stared at the sky. the music was faint… and vaguely saying “silver jet… take me… I’m all set… take me… through the sky… fly me…”
they recognized the song, and together went in a reverie… holding hands, following the silver jet… “make this trip non-stop…”
they dozed off.
when he woke up, he saw her bent with concern over the morning paper again…
He smiled and said very calmly “I haven’t been there in a long time, I simply don’t know how people are there… give me the paper again. let me read it a second time.”
He read it a second time.
“well, yes” he says “I understand what you mean. this should be resolved internally. but I think it makes sense for everyone to cut their losses and move on… you know, sometimes I imagine having another war… looking back now, it all seems so romantic, not so deadly, and tender, as tender as our young years… although it might sound very sick and no one besides another Lebanese our age could come close to understand, but the sound of a Kalashnikov firing away in the distance is so soothing, so melancholic… the safety of home, the lonely soldier… all that… you know the war brought people together over and over… this is what civil wars are about.. it’s violent brutal love. so it’s fine, you see? we could still go. it’s us. this is who we are…”
She looked away… at the children, playing happily on the green. she remembered their own playgrounds back home, back then… she still remember. how happy they were with so little. he’s right, she thought… no one would understand how they used to value all what life offered… because, well, that was life for them, all in all. to be happy with one hour of TV when the house comes back to life when the electricity is back… to catch a glimpse of their favorite cartoon shows if they were lucky… if they were good. to have vacations during the winter time… and the spring time… and any time, really, when life became too unbearable and their home too dangerous so the family had to leave. ‘yeherbo’ was the term, she thought… but they always came back.
“how funny it would be to do it ourselves this time.” he said “stock food for the shelter. get water. blankets… do you think they still have shelters?”
She put the newspaper aside, carefully. pushed his feet back to the bench, gently. stood up and walked toward the children. suddenly, as if transformed into a little girl herself, she threw her arms up and prepared to catch the ball. she laughed and ran and made friends. she kept her tears in for later times to come. and knew that she was doing this for one last time.
He looked at her. idly, tenderly and couldn’t help but to smile…
The bossa nova music continued to float over their hearts… “silver jet… take me… I’m all set… take me…”
take me back…
Bossa nova music was flowing listlessly in the air… he stretched again on the park bench and rested his feet on her lap. she lay her head back, and stared at the sky. the music was faint… and vaguely saying “silver jet… take me… I’m all set… take me… through the sky… fly me…”
they recognized the song, and together went in a reverie… holding hands, following the silver jet… “make this trip non-stop…”
they dozed off.
when he woke up, he saw her bent with concern over the morning paper again…
He smiled and said very calmly “I haven’t been there in a long time, I simply don’t know how people are there… give me the paper again. let me read it a second time.”
He read it a second time.
“well, yes” he says “I understand what you mean. this should be resolved internally. but I think it makes sense for everyone to cut their losses and move on… you know, sometimes I imagine having another war… looking back now, it all seems so romantic, not so deadly, and tender, as tender as our young years… although it might sound very sick and no one besides another Lebanese our age could come close to understand, but the sound of a Kalashnikov firing away in the distance is so soothing, so melancholic… the safety of home, the lonely soldier… all that… you know the war brought people together over and over… this is what civil wars are about.. it’s violent brutal love. so it’s fine, you see? we could still go. it’s us. this is who we are…”
She looked away… at the children, playing happily on the green. she remembered their own playgrounds back home, back then… she still remember. how happy they were with so little. he’s right, she thought… no one would understand how they used to value all what life offered… because, well, that was life for them, all in all. to be happy with one hour of TV when the house comes back to life when the electricity is back… to catch a glimpse of their favorite cartoon shows if they were lucky… if they were good. to have vacations during the winter time… and the spring time… and any time, really, when life became too unbearable and their home too dangerous so the family had to leave. ‘yeherbo’ was the term, she thought… but they always came back.
“how funny it would be to do it ourselves this time.” he said “stock food for the shelter. get water. blankets… do you think they still have shelters?”
She put the newspaper aside, carefully. pushed his feet back to the bench, gently. stood up and walked toward the children. suddenly, as if transformed into a little girl herself, she threw her arms up and prepared to catch the ball. she laughed and ran and made friends. she kept her tears in for later times to come. and knew that she was doing this for one last time.
He looked at her. idly, tenderly and couldn’t help but to smile…
The bossa nova music continued to float over their hearts… “silver jet… take me… I’m all set… take me…”
take me back…
20.1.07
POMPEII…
“you know how it goes: like Pompeii. feelings frozen under so many layers of ash. frozen in awe. in fear. disbelieve. in anger maybe. on the surface one sees a nice quiet meadow. underneath, there’s always a face… distorted with pain, frozen in time.” he said listlessly swirling the drink in his glass.
“our relationship is an excavation site… digging for frozen time.” she said absentmindedly “did you decide about June? I need to get the plane tickets asap.”
“for all the happiness that left me… that left me behind…” he continued “‘to seize the moment’. to live the moment. I didn’t know it was only one moment, I thought it’d last since… since it’d have had just started…”
“How many glasses did you have so far?” she said not a little reproachingly.
“I was putting off being-happy… until the moment was gone…” he added to himself.
“this is why we need to go. fresh start and all.” she replied with fake enthusiasm.
“three. maybe four.” he said.
“listen I’ve got to go now. call me later and tell me what you’ve decided. we have the house till the end of July. it’d be a waste not to take advantage of it. at least for a week.” she said with exasperation.
“four, most probably four. where is it again?” he added as an afterthought.
“near Naples. right by the sea.” she said with a pleading tone.
“that’s where… Pompeii is. maybe we could visit?” he hesitated.
“sure.” she said, looked around the dingy bar with disgust, and stood up to leave.
“you know how it goes: like Pompeii. feelings frozen under so many layers of ash. frozen in awe. in fear. disbelieve. in anger maybe. on the surface one sees a nice quiet meadow. underneath, there’s always a face… distorted with pain, frozen in time.” he said listlessly swirling the drink in his glass.
“our relationship is an excavation site… digging for frozen time.” she said absentmindedly “did you decide about June? I need to get the plane tickets asap.”
“for all the happiness that left me… that left me behind…” he continued “‘to seize the moment’. to live the moment. I didn’t know it was only one moment, I thought it’d last since… since it’d have had just started…”
“How many glasses did you have so far?” she said not a little reproachingly.
“I was putting off being-happy… until the moment was gone…” he added to himself.
“this is why we need to go. fresh start and all.” she replied with fake enthusiasm.
“three. maybe four.” he said.
“listen I’ve got to go now. call me later and tell me what you’ve decided. we have the house till the end of July. it’d be a waste not to take advantage of it. at least for a week.” she said with exasperation.
“four, most probably four. where is it again?” he added as an afterthought.
“near Naples. right by the sea.” she said with a pleading tone.
“that’s where… Pompeii is. maybe we could visit?” he hesitated.
“sure.” she said, looked around the dingy bar with disgust, and stood up to leave.
19.1.07
13.1.07
1.1.07
20.12.06
Paloma Negra.
She lifted up the hem of her veil and wiped a tear of his cheek. He looked up at her and felt like dissolving in the copious drapes of the black muslin niqab she always wears outside the house. He remembered them: warm, welcoming, smelling of fresh lavender, faint perfume… a home to any lost soul. He buried his face in her drapes, and took in her womanly fragrance… a thousand little scents telling the story of a nation… the history, the culture, the eloquence of a civilization that never faded in his heart.
She lifted up the white drape covering her face below the eyes, the only white in her whole attire, and gave him a gentle kiss on his lips…
He rested his head on her lap. She caressed his hair so tenderly as if her child’s. She moved her hand down his neck… his side… his waist… She slid her hand under his pants, and then in one swift motion, as if practiced all her life, drew his knife and plunged it in his throat. She didn’t slit his throat, just plunged the knife in it… he pulled away. tried to stand, but instead he dropped to his knees… in this kneeling position in front of her, he stared at her in pain, in shock, in disgust, and in grief…
She gathered the folds of her skirts… and flew away through the park, like the black dove she is… leaving him by some bench gasping for air, folded on himself, like the fetus he is… covered with blood… with mud… convulsing by the last spasms of life… of death.
By the gate of the park, perched on the high metal grills, she looked down toward that bench, uncovered her mouth, blew him a kiss and flew away…
“Paloma negra…” he uttered in his distinct sevillanos southern accent, in choking staccato she barely heard in her flight “¿paloma negra, dónde, dónde andarás?”
She replied in her clear translucent Arabic “Touhyee iza katalatte…”
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She lifted up the hem of her veil and wiped a tear of his cheek. He looked up at her and felt like dissolving in the copious drapes of the black muslin niqab she always wears outside the house. He remembered them: warm, welcoming, smelling of fresh lavender, faint perfume… a home to any lost soul. He buried his face in her drapes, and took in her womanly fragrance… a thousand little scents telling the story of a nation… the history, the culture, the eloquence of a civilization that never faded in his heart.
She lifted up the white drape covering her face below the eyes, the only white in her whole attire, and gave him a gentle kiss on his lips…
He rested his head on her lap. She caressed his hair so tenderly as if her child’s. She moved her hand down his neck… his side… his waist… She slid her hand under his pants, and then in one swift motion, as if practiced all her life, drew his knife and plunged it in his throat. She didn’t slit his throat, just plunged the knife in it… he pulled away. tried to stand, but instead he dropped to his knees… in this kneeling position in front of her, he stared at her in pain, in shock, in disgust, and in grief…
She gathered the folds of her skirts… and flew away through the park, like the black dove she is… leaving him by some bench gasping for air, folded on himself, like the fetus he is… covered with blood… with mud… convulsing by the last spasms of life… of death.
By the gate of the park, perched on the high metal grills, she looked down toward that bench, uncovered her mouth, blew him a kiss and flew away…
“Paloma negra…” he uttered in his distinct sevillanos southern accent, in choking staccato she barely heard in her flight “¿paloma negra, dónde, dónde andarás?”
She replied in her clear translucent Arabic “Touhyee iza katalatte…”
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9.12.06
Life in a plane…
A circle with its center.
A dot…
Not egocentric… just minimal. an ordinary dot.
A triangle with its three vertices.
Equidistant…
Equilateral…
And as such they will always stay…
Two parallel lines that have never met.
Never…
A sine.
A cosine.
Two functions that always meet… periodically.
Always…
Occasionally. Like two regulars. Like two lovers…
A circle with its center.
A dot…
Not egocentric… just minimal. an ordinary dot.
A triangle with its three vertices.
Equidistant…
Equilateral…
And as such they will always stay…
Two parallel lines that have never met.
Never…
A sine.
A cosine.
Two functions that always meet… periodically.
Always…
Occasionally. Like two regulars. Like two lovers…
6.12.06
Right below their balcony…
- things are fine habibeh. we just don’t go out at night.
- but they killed someone.
- oh, people die every day.
Like running hot water on your head during a chilly winter night. yes, just like that… your nerves are soothed beyond any perception. your limbs are weak. the room is dark and you collapse at the bottom of the tub.
During times like these, people usually have their sense of identify heightened… or perceptible at least. they feel it stronger than their sense of life.
They parade it… dark. bold. tender. sugary. fanatic. traditional. liberal… they dance to its rhythm on the street… right below their balcony… they shout it with colors. black. green. orange. yellow… white?
I have nothing of it. no identity. only my pathetic little flyer… from a protest against a war… sneering at me “idiot”, without any reservations.
How far away I am… from that small flyer pleading for justice… from screaming slogans commanding power… unity… identity…
How much did I miss? How many theses did I read… analyzing… speculating… or at least trying to rationalize what would happen…
and then I coldly understand that they are so unfazed by someone dying… right below their balcony… as if no time has passed… nothing changed, and people are still dying every day…
- things are fine habibeh. we just don’t go out at night.
- but they killed someone.
- oh, people die every day.
Like running hot water on your head during a chilly winter night. yes, just like that… your nerves are soothed beyond any perception. your limbs are weak. the room is dark and you collapse at the bottom of the tub.
During times like these, people usually have their sense of identify heightened… or perceptible at least. they feel it stronger than their sense of life.
They parade it… dark. bold. tender. sugary. fanatic. traditional. liberal… they dance to its rhythm on the street… right below their balcony… they shout it with colors. black. green. orange. yellow… white?
I have nothing of it. no identity. only my pathetic little flyer… from a protest against a war… sneering at me “idiot”, without any reservations.
How far away I am… from that small flyer pleading for justice… from screaming slogans commanding power… unity… identity…
How much did I miss? How many theses did I read… analyzing… speculating… or at least trying to rationalize what would happen…
and then I coldly understand that they are so unfazed by someone dying… right below their balcony… as if no time has passed… nothing changed, and people are still dying every day…
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