The man under my window

I’ve been back in Beirut for almost two months now; and all I’ve done is complain since I got here. I came back from New York, you see, where I was isolating myself so I could write a book (live my dream) and not have to deal with all the distractions of the Lebanese life. I forget sometimes, that no matter how many times I’ve wished otherwise, this is where I’m from.

I came back and the first thing my father told me is that I think twice before flushing and that I can only take a shower once every other day because there is no water in the country, you know, it didn’t rain all winter, and we can’t get the “citerne” every damned day. I came back and quickly forgot the pleasure of walking in the streets of Manhattan, where side-walks are four times the size they are here. I got in my car and remembered the infuriating tragedy of being behind a wheel in this country, where scooters seems to have a law of their own. The three kids that run to my car every time I stop at a red light, also I complain about. I die a little inside every time I see one, and I don’t want to see them mostly because they make me feel guilty about sitting in my little red car, thinking about what a piece of crap it is and how I’ve spent way too much money on repairing it –probably more money this little kid has seen in her entire lifetime.

I complain that I can’t find all the organic ingredients I had when I was in New York just a block away from the biggest organic supermarket in the world, and that’s probably why I’ve gained a couple of kilos since then.  I complain about the lack of recycling, about the smoking indoors even though it’s been banned, the state of the country, the lack of president, the effing government, the electricity (I had to climb 7 flights of stairs, twice) the valet parking in front of my house whom I fight with everyday, the chairs they put when there’s a space open to “reserve it”, the lack of parking spots, the ticket I got, the bank that closes at 2pm, the internet connection that cuts in the middle of an episode of The Good Wife. Yes, all that.

And then yesterday night, it was pouring rain outside and I was standing at my window, and I saw a man on the stairs below. He was dusting the floor with a blanket, then he sat against the wall that had was a small roof, put his head on a big bag full of stuff, and slept there, all night, under the rain.

I complain a lot, but I forget to be thankful sometimes.

Tonight I saw the man under my window again. He is still here, sleeping outside on a blanket and a bag of his stuff, probably content that at least tonight, it isn’t raining. 

what we're leaving behind

Another day, another bomb.

This weekend it was all about the piles of trash that weren't picked up by Sukleen. Last week it was a tie between the EDL strike, the STL trial and a blog post by my colleague about how only Christians can save Lebanon. The week before it was also a bomb; or was it the week before that? And there was the Chattah assassination, and the Christmas and New Year traffic and reunions, and the amazing article by Fifi Abou Dib in L'Orient-LeJour describing exactly what it is that we keep losing, as Lebanese.

I'm leaving on Sunday, on a one-way ticket to New York; I don't have a job waiting for me, I'm not one of those lucky many to hold another nationality, I don't have a dad with unlimited money and I don't know what I'm really going to do there, but I know I can't stay here any longer.

And I know very well what I'm leaving behind. It's not the bombs --that are more present on my Facebook feed than in my reality. The bombs will come with me, because every time I hear there was in explosion in Beirut I will frantically try to call my family and friends to make sure they are all ok. It's not the lack of government, or the social segregation, or the power held by Hezbollah, or the sunni/chiite/orthodox/maronite/etc. bullshit that I could never wrap my head around, or the towers of cement growing like mushrooms in Beirut --none of this is what I'm going to miss. It'll all be here when I return, whenever that may be.

What I'm leaving behind is my sister, the person I love most in the world and who I wont be around for every day. I'm leaving my dad, my childhood home, and all the places where the memory of my mother is still alive. I'm leaving my friends, the friends I made when I was just a little girl, going to school in this very neighbourhood where I lived through all of my most important memories. What I'm leaving behind, what we are all leaving behind, is the potential for something great that will unfortunately never be. I have travelled a lot, met many different kinds of people. As a journalist, I've heard and told many stories. And I have yet to see families love each other as they do here; or groups of friends form ties that last longer than anywhere else; or a diversity that I really believe could've made us special in stead of hateful.

What we are all leaving behind are the brave. The young hopefuls who create LiveLoveBeirut to shout out the love; the heroes like Nidal and Kholoud who defy all odds and fight to marry civilly, and have the first secular baby in Lebanon; the activists who fight for children, for the poor, for the sick, for the environment, even though they get no help and no encouragement. And so we go; writers, filmmakers, designers, finance tycoons and doctors and whatever we may be. We go, and we come back for the people we've left behind. In the country we've lost.

seasons of change

Summer is peaking out its nose.
It's been a long winter and we are all craving lazying by the pool, showing off tanned faces, drinking on rooftop bars and acting like we're on vacation even when we're not. There is a feeling that comes together with the change of seasons... something about renewal, feeling happier, rejuvenated, more alive. And after months of gray skies and cold nights, the sun is something to look forward to.

I was speaking to a friend this morning, and we realized that all our friends had broken up at some point during this winter, including the both of us. All long, serious relationships that came to their end, each for their own reasons, each in their own way. We each try to overcome it as best we can, we each have our own process, but it's not easy for anyone. It's crazy how one person missing in your life can create such damage, such change.

For weeks at a time, everything can seem fine. And then someone tells you he saw your ex kissing another girl. Or you spot that girl on Facebook that seems to "like" everything he does. Or something really great just happened to you, and your first instinct is to share it with her --and then you remember you can't. Most days you've moved on. He doesn't even cross your mind, until you see his car parked in front of you. You see her best-friend walk out of a shop, and you wonder if she's close by. You open a random folder on your laptop, and you stumble on dozens of pictures of the both of you. And then the wound bleeds a little.

Sometimes it's a song. A movie. The other day, it was a book. I read a passage that gave me the chills, as I felt I was reading the exact scene of my breakup. It was kind of creepy actually.

But then the stings get more and more rare. One day you see the car and you forget it was his. Her picture still evokes a memory, but doesn't hurt as much. You meet someone else that makes you smile and feel special, and suddenly it doesn't feel as hard anymore.

They say time heals all things. That as seasons change, things that seemed to have died come back to life. Right now, there are rays of sun one day and gray clouds the next. It's 30 degrees in the shade, and then all of a sudden, it starts to rain. Summer is peaking out its nose. And we're not there just yet; but we're close.

scars

"I ask you right here to please agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived." Chris Cleave, Little Bee.

I read this sentence last night and I loved it so much I couldn't think of anything else to post today.

Scars come in many forms. I only have one scar on my body, and it's a pretty cool scar to have. I don't want to brag or anything, but when I was four years old, I got a bullet in my foot. I didn't exactly get shot at in a dramatic instant of the Lebanese civil war, but still --I got a bullet in my foot, and I was four years old. I remember this like it was yesterday. I was sitting at a political rally (God knows why anyone would take a four year old to a political rally in Beirut in 1989) next to another young girl. There was noise and clapping and some speech going on, and I was holding a Lebanese flag. Suddenly the girl next to me taps on my shoulder and points to her foot. And I gasped in horror: it was pouring out blood. "Are you okay?" I asked, panicking. "It's not me," she said. "It's you."

That's when I screamed. It wasn't the pain, not yet. It was the fear.

It took another 24 hours for everyone to realize it was a bullet that landed on my tiny right foot. First they took me to a clinic nearby because they couldn't reach a hospital, and because no one really knew how I came to have a hole in my foot by just sitting down, they all concluded that I must've hurt myself with the flag. So they sewed it up and sent me home. I spent all night with the bullet inside me, my foot swelling, red, burning and throbbing with pain, and my father trying to keep it cool. It was only the next day that they were able to take me to the hospital, do an X-ray, and tell my mother there was bullet. I still have the X-rays, and I still have the bullet. I take it out every once in a while and stare at it. If it had eyes I would be looking straight at them. This bullet could've landed anywhere, but it landed on me. It could've killed me, but it didn't. It's part of me now, part of my story. It's my scar, and I survived.

Not all scar stories are easy to share. The scars on our bodies, people can see them. They point to them, and ask "what happened?" and then you have a reason to tell them. But there are many scars which no one sees and no one asks about. And these are the scars that make us who we are.

I was talking about this with one of my best-friends not so long ago. We were saying how we had both been in relationships where our partners didn't understand our scars, didn't want to hear about them, didn't see their importance. They thought talking about those stories was like having a self-pity party. And like idiots, we avoided the topics that made us who we are. I could only ever be with someone who not only understands my scars, but appreciates them, loves them because they are a part of me. These scars are what set us apart, make us unique and build-up our life story. Someone who loves you is supposed to see that. Each of our stories gives us the context for people to understand why we are the way we are, and we should never be ashamed of it. I am proud of my scars and where they have taken me.

I have a friend whose father died when he was eleven. And this little boy turned himself into a man all by himself, took on responsibilities, worked hard since he was 14, never asked anyone for anything, and today is amazingly successful. Maybe to others, he is "normally" successful. But once you know the context, you'd know it's amazing.

Before a scar becomes a scar, it's an injury. It hurts, bleeds, burns. With time it heals, sometimes quickly, other times slowly, but it always heals. My scar is almost gone now. It's been 21 years since a bullet strayed into my life, and you can't really see it anymore. But I know it's there. It's my scar, and I survived.