It used to be I saw an article in a Lebanese newspaper, or watched something on television that got my juices flowing, prompting a post or two. Alas, last Tuesday, after hearing Nasrallah’s red lines speech, in which he declared himself and his followers an independent island within the sectarian archipelago that is Lebanon, what flowed were not my words, but my tears. I am ashamed to say that Hassan Nasrallah’s red lines, and Michel Aoun’s burning solutions made me cry.
When I saw the images of the rioters stealing gas and burning tires in protest of a comedy programme that supposedly parodied their divine leader, I realized the extent of the irreparable damage that has befallen the country. Sick of Lebanese politics and the effects they have on me, I gave myself a break.
No wonder the National Dialogue failed to trigger my imagination. An “honor pact” to do what? Fine, let them agree on basic human behavior. This only reinforces my belief that this "dialogue" will never end because it has not even started.
I spent this past week reading a graphic novel by Alan Moore called the Watchmen, written during the cold war between the Soviet Union and the US. In the book, a former superhero, who goes by Ozymandias, and is seen as the smartest man on the planet, engineers a plot to massacre half of Manhattan's population to create the impression that the world is under attack by aliens. He figured that the two superpowers that were close to nuking the planet would be spurred to cooperate in view of an external threat, and that peace would soon prevail. His plan works, Russia withdraws from Afghanistan, and American fast food joints start serving Borscht. And superheroes regain their status as watchmen of the world. Until the truth comes out…
My mind, polluted by Hizbullah’s invasive ideology, couldn’t help but strike a parallel between Nasrallah’s and Ozymandias’ actions, though their characters were vastly different. In the book, Ozymandias was well read, humble and a genuine pacifist. Nasrallah is a cultural terrorist, conceited and a war monger. The point of resemblance was in their self-appointed watchman status, and the context they’re in: a selfish world torn by wars and broken promises. And after all, you are what you do.
Anyway, to hell with politics and false heroes who believe in salvation through destruction.
Moving on, my favorite song these days is Amal Hijazi’s Bayaa’ al-ward (the florist). It’s the haunting video that mesmerizes me. Amal, in white hair, dressed in overalls, begins the video with scissors in hand. One short hair cut later, we see her attempt life after a broken promise.
“The florist asked
does he still love you?
what do I say?
I answered the florist:
my heart is still hanging on his promise,
but he’s occupied
he bid me farewell and traveled
no, no, he did not travel
he bid me farewell and traveled
no, no, he did not travel
he will return tomorrow and will give me flowers, always …”
Amal gets into her blue convertible and drives up the long and straight road of her lover’s broken promise. She cannot sleep, she sings, however she lives in a dream. The broken promise appears in a thorny plant that ravages her body as she drives, until her blue car crashes into a lone leafless tree by a lake at the edge of a mountain. And there, under the vast smoggy sky, she wakes up, blood on her thirsty lips. Her salvation, it dawns on her, lies in the water of the lake. Finally, Amal, takes the wet path to salvation...
Am I living a false promise by believing that Lebanon will one day succeed? When I decided that I could no longer live in my country, it was out of fear of self-destruction, much like Amal did in the video. I was too old to keep battling the thorns of Lebanese society, and not live my life to the fullest where I can. But look at me now. I may have left Lebanon physically, but I am still there in spirit. On Tuesday, the thorns managed to hurt again and caused my heart to bleed, despite the distance. For there was a person on television speaking on my behalf, setting limits I did not believe in, and reinforcing a reality that I chose to leave to him to shape. Do I even have the right to complain, let alone cry over a country I left behind? It makes no difference, for my actions then and now are the same, and the feeling cannot be helped, whether I am here or there. Lebanon is etched in my heart and my mind. My dreams are still set in my old Beirut apartment, where I grew up amid a bloody war. Every night, I go back to my old school that overlooked a Syrian missile launcher. And I sit in class listening to my favorite teachers as the explosions rock my classroom, and then I wait outside for my father to take me to shelter. And then I forget myself in my comic books, amid superheroes and infallible beings. And when reality beckons, I dive into biographies of great ones.
In 34 years, I have turned myself into an idealist from an evil, self-destructive world that haunts him no matter how much he tries to get away.
That is my predicament, and this is my blog.
