King PlayStation III of Jordan praised the election of a new president in Lebanon. If you are impressed o King of Jordan, we can arrange for the election of a new president of...Jordan.

As'ad Abou Khalil (aka Angry Arab)

http://www.angryarab.blogspot.com/

60 Years

Sixty years of occupation.

I grew up to my mother’s stories about our homeland. My mother’s soft voice recalls the fields of Nablus, the churches of Jerusalem, the black tulips of Ramallah, the orange trees of Yafa and the sandy beaches of Gaza. As a little girl, I look up at her with shining dark eyes and draw a colorful picture of home.

As I grew up, reality became clearer day by day. The blood, the broken bones, the yells, the cries, the demolition, the bullets, the martyrs, the prisons, the torture, the wall, the scars: my homeland, shredded into pieces by a ruthless monster. I realize that people’s hearts are empty and brotherhood is a dream.

The colors fade away from my picture.

Sixty years of refuge.

I walk down the dingy narrow alley. Children pop up from every corner laughing and chasing one another. They stop at one corner and invent their own toys using wooden sticks and metal scraps. They look up at me curiously, smile and ask me to take a picture of them. I look at their faces through my camera lens: boney cheeks, innocent smiles, bright eyes … unknown future.

I keep on walking through the narrow alleys, jumping over sewage water puddles and bending down to avoid tangled electric wires. Two old ladies in the traditional “toub” sit together in front of a tapered door, chatting the hours away. They greet me as I walk by and offer a bite to eat. Despite all desperate conditions, traditional hospitality and generosity never fade away. I decline politely and walk on.

A group of teenagers huddle together in front of a wall that’s decorated by graffiti. They chat, smoke and stare into space dreaming about untouchable ambitions. A group of men set off to work in a near by construction site. A doctor, an engineer and a lawyer work together, under the scorching sun, to assemble the bricks and paint the walls of a brand new building.

I draw a new picture of humiliation and faded dreams.

Sixty years of identity loss.

With a fizzy drink in hand, I look around at the cozy gathering at a friend’s place. A new acquaintance approaches me and asks me where I’m from. “Palestine” I respond. My answer raises interest as the questions start flowing rapidly: where do you live in Palestine? How’s the situation there? How did you end up here? Etc. I quickly explain the existence of my Jordanian passport and my childhood spent in the Gulf. The acquaintance raises one eyebrow in bewilderment and states “So you’re Jordanian not Palestinian! How come you’re wearing a kaffiyeh though?! You don’t even have a Palestinian ID!!”

I walk away, wondering if identity is branded by a little black book and roots are discarded as soon as you hold a foreign ID card in hand. If a kaffiyeh is what it takes to revive my roots in front of others so be it.

I add people wearing kaffiyehs to my original picture of home.

Sixty years and counting..

We sleep and wake up with the Nakba everyday. Our identity has been contaminated by the rape of Palestine. We are disgraced by the shame of ignorance and indifference towards the holy land. On the other side of the border, Palestinians stand honorable, solid and strong despite 60 years of hardship. We owe our existence to their courageous struggle against a merciless enemy.

I head southwards to the border. I walk down the small hill and stare at the other side. It looks so close, yet it is very far away. I close my eyes; let my self dissolve through the boarder’s electrified wires and run through the meadows of Palestine. I open my eyes and settle for a small jug of Palestinian soil. I turn my back to the boarder and walk away.

I sprinkle the soil over my picture of home … and hope.

Beirut
15.5.2008

Throw that in my face: "You're not more Lebanese than I am!!"
Who the hell made you Lebanese in the first place?

You, coming up with excuses for all the thuggish actions that took place those last few days.
You, claiming that its not as bad as it looks like because you could drive through from East to West Beirut without any problems.
You, who believe that the Arabs are goning to pay for all the damages that resulted from this whole scenario. So, according to You, its not so bad afterall.
You, who wished (even if in a sarcastic way) that clashes continue so you don't have to come to work in West Beirut.
You, who live in "Wonderland" neighborhood dare say that all the Lebanese are equally represented now.

You, my friend fail to see the bigger picture:
It is a game of bigger parties outside Lebanon.
The country is a bigger threat to its Jewish neighbor (so You will have another bigger war and hence sleep it off at home)
You, will be further marginalized in terms of political decisions. So, you're not equally represented!
You, my brother/sister have just agreed to creating a new dectatorship in the region.

Its not a matter of being more or less Lebanese (or not Lebanese for that matter).
Its a matter of respecting the country that was your home for years.
Its a matter of loving it and protecting it as if it were your own child.
Its a matter of realizing the roots of whats been happening.
Its a matter of understading all the dimensions of the existing scenario before making any trivial comments or assumptions.

So, dont You dare tell Me that I'm not more Lebanese than you.

A Day in Chaos... A Night in the Bathroom

A Day in the Chaos

Another bright sunshiny day in the city of cities: Beirut.

The day after fierce clashes broke out in the streets of the city. The airport highway is closed. The atmosphere is electrified with tension.

Souraya, Mike and I head to the office (West Beirut) with the hope of starting the day in an ordinary way in order to push away the increasing anxiety. As the hours pass, the anticipation of “the speech” builds up in the atmosphere, in the body language and the faces of the people around us. Souraya and Mike leave the office for an event in a university in Kaslik (East Beirut). I leave the office early to have some lunch with Nayla in Hamra Street.

Hamra is half empty. A few separate shops are open. People are walking lazily down its narrow parallel streets. I’ve never seen so much garbage build up in Hamra.

Nayla and I head to her place after lunch for “the speech”. We notice the last few open shops in Hamra close their doors. Everyone is foreseeing severe negative consequences of “the speech”. I maintain the positive vibe, for Nayla’s sake and mostly for my own sanity.

“The Speech”: threats, curses, sarcasm, body language and the repetition of the word “war”.

I leave Nayla’s place and walk down to Hamra’s main road. The air is heavy with tension. A few young residents of the area wonder around looking for a place to hang out and have a bite to eat. Echoes of gun shots are heard from several different areas at once (expected). People are still calm on Hamra. I return to the office, thinking of the quick internet connection and TV.

Mike calls: he’s nervous and wants to hang out in a little café, opposite to his friend’s house on Makdissi Street (the only one left open). As I make my way out into the street again, the doorman gives me a worried look and says “Hurry up. It’s getting close”.
I smile indifferently and walk up to HSBC towards Makdissi Street parallel to Hamra. The heavy gun fire is indeed close, yet I maintain a calm pace.

Suddenly, as I reach HSBC, I hear screams and yells. I look up at the main street and witness about 40 people running away from something in one direction all at once. I stop and watch. An equal number of masked, heavily armed men come running after them. It seemed so surreal that I didn’t even notice a bulky heavy man in a black mask, carrying a machine gun, come running up to me from Hamra street, yelling in a scratchy yet thick voice “GO HOME! GO HOME NOW!” I look at him bewildered for a second. What I do notice though is the fancy white Mercedes cruising slowly behind him with flashers on. The driver, a fair slick man with a well trimmed French beard and sunglasses looks at me and nods in a way to agree with the fighter’s demands.

I break into a run towards Makdissi Street, praying that I bump into Mike since the phones are dead. The gun shots pollute Hamra’s calm atmosphere. Finally, I spot Mike frozen against one of the walls of a small alley leading to Hamra’s main street. He stands there watching the whole action scene with an expression of disbelief. I call out to him, grab his arm and we run together towards the closest shelter: Rima’s apartment just around the corner of Makdissi Street.

A Night in the Bathroom

I walk out into the balcony, nervously yet excitedly holding onto a smoke (smoking my excitement away!). We both watch the bizarre situation of people running in all directions; fighters with black masks and Kaffiyehs wrapped around their faces replacing civilians and closing down the roads.

A group of fighters gather around the corner. Mike’s nervousness gets out of hand, so we go inside. Gun shots start banging uncontrollably, so we rush to the bathroom (the apartment is on the first floor.. so you can imagine the noise!). Mike remembers that we should draw the curtains in the two bedrooms at the back, which overlook a construction site that could be used by the animalistic fighters. The shooting subsides yet the yells continue. We go back to the sitting room and turn on the TV. I, naturally, cannot sit still, not knowing what’s happening outside. So, I practically crawl out to the balcony with my cell phone’s video cam on and start filming a thug standing at the corner (red shirt and a kaffiyyeh .. the whole outfit!). Mike crawls after me (curious yet shivering). Unfortunately, I shift weight and the thug notices me, walks down the street towards the building with his machine gun pointing upwards. I grab Mike, sprint into the back of the apartment into the bathroom and slam its door. Of course, massive gunfire erupts for a good 30 minutes. We sit it out on the floor and I treat a minor case of hyperventilation (Mike!).

Ironically, I slam my phone camera shut before saving. I lost the video :s (!).

The fighting outside starts off: light and heavy guns, hand grenades and RPGs. Mike and I jump back and forth: sitting room…BANG – Bathroom….sitting room ..BANG – Bathroom etc..

Rima finally makes it home from AFP (Associated French Press) at around 12 am. She’s drained. She got a ride on a scooter of another reporter from Al Akhbar newspaper. We exchange experiences and news, sitting on the floor in the back of the apartment. The harsh clashes continue outside.

An hour later, it’s all surprisingly calm, you can actually hear a pin drop. In our PJs (me in my head scarf for more than 12 hours now) make it out to the sitting room. I lie down on the couch, Rima and Mike on the floor. All wrapped up in blankets, we watch the news updates on the vicious fighting in Ras el Nabih. A violent rain storm starts outside with thunder resembling the RPGs. Divine Intervention, I thought.

Rima and Mike doze off. Despite the eerie silence, I cannot sleep, mostly because I’m having my own battle with a Beiruti mosquito (classic!).

5:30 am: I hear yells and curses across the street. I sit up; wake Mike and Rima the second furious clashes erupt again. We all jump up at once and dash into the bathroom. After an hour sitting on the bathroom floor, we hear the thugs cry “Allaho Akbar!” and fire their machine guns haphazardly all over the neighborhood. Apparently, they finally take over the Future Movement militia office next to Rima’s apartment.

The sun is out. Rima has to go to AFP for another round of journalistic innovation and brilliance. We collectively agree to leave West Beirut to East Beirut (Mike’s place in Mar Mkhayel).

As Annahar newspaper put it today: “The Lebanese are fully aware of the A, B and C of a civil war. Yet, they lack the full alphabet knowledge that leads to Z, that is, the end of a civil war”.

Beirut
9.5.2008