no such thing as perfect

I realized something today. Well actually I realized it many times before but as I've been trying to come up with a smart blogpost everyday for the past week and still haven't come up with anything, I asked myself what exactly I was trying to write about anyway.

I mean, every day I browse dozens of articles on Huffington Post (they have sections on women, weddings, divorce...) I read blog posts from different people of different ages and different places, and I have at least 8 or 9 books at home also on the very same topic; in recent weeks, I've interviewed couples on the realities of marriage and I talk about this with anyone who cares to to hear different perspectives and different takes and try to boil it down to something concrete. Something useful. I'm talking about the recipe for a good relationship, of course.

And am I better girlfriend for it? I don't think so. You see what I noticed is that everyone has their own kind of relationship and you know what? There's just no labeling it. The other day I read a post on open relationships and although in some way it seems like a smart solution to the modern couple, it is also impossible for me to actually imagine having it. But then again, when a gay friend of mine explains to me that wanting and having sexual intercourse with men other than his boyfriend has absolutely nothing to do with his love for him and their relationship, I understand it. I even accept it. Although I would never accept it for me. And all these questions we try to find answers to: should we move in together? I mean statistically is that better or worse for your couple on the long run? Because I read an article that confused the hell out of me and all I got from it is that it works for some people and doesn't work for others... Big surprise. Well what about marriage? How soon is too soon? Can we have a baby without getting married? Look at Angelina and Brad --it took 6 kids from 4 different countries before she agreed to wear a ring. But then again if you do that in Lebanon than your child will be registered as a bastard and society as a whole will "frown upon" you.

I look around and see the people surrounding me and I honestly can't compare my relationship to any of theirs. Although the patterns are similar and the feelings are similar, it's never like 2+2. So what's the point, right? If none of us have the same story and if advice doesn't apply to everyone, then why read books and why write this blog? I think that by sharing, we learn more about ourselves. We take the things that do apply and adapt them the way we see fit. Trial and error and tears, and maybe you'll end up with your own recipe. Just note that you'll probably have to change it with the next person in your life.

Why I should write about Kony

This post has absolutely nothing to do with my usual Rhapsodies.

My cousin posted on my FB wall this morning "you should blog about Kony" and I thought "no, I shouldn't, it's not the kind of blog posts I write at all." And then I went on to read my FB Newsfeed to read half a dozen statuses linking to bloggers destroying the Kony campaign and trashing their work, whether they think its because the Invisible Children's shady financials or because they think it's too gullible to actually believe that making the general public aware of who Kony is actually going to change something. Some even think it's a whole conspiracy by the United States Government to gain enough public support to go to Uganda or Congo or Sudan and make them think it was their idea.

I think that, if nothing else, what Invisible Children have done is start a worldwide conversation between millions of people on how to change this terrifying, disgusting world we live in. It was a genius idea, perfectly executed, to get the entire world to think outside their little world where only they and a few others exist, and think about the world as a whole. Here in Lebanon, we've known wars. We've known massacres. We know what human cruelty can be like. Right next door, thousands of innocent men and women and children are being killed and no one in the world wants to get their hands dirty. They're already fighting enough wars, you see, the ones where they could potentially get monetary gain.

Who am I to talk? Well, a part from writing this ingenuous blog giving you my very wise insight about relationships and quarter life crisis, I am also a journalist. And a screenwriter. And the programs manager for a Foundation whose sole purpose is to make children happy now. How do all these things fit? Well, as a journalist and with my experience in the film industry, I know that when you go somewhere to find a story, you're not sure what to expect. When the group of young, fresh out of college filmmakers went to Uganda, I'm sure they didn't know that nine years later they would produce a film watched by 40 million people in three days. They wanted to tell a story. Most journalists, if not all, want to do that. Some of them even die for that. And they want to tell these stories because the only way to make people act or react is to tell them what is going on. Is to find a way to get them out of their own, self-absorbed lives for 30 minutes and concentrate on something else. And if using a cute blond five-year-old helps you catch their attention, so be it.

Everybody is criticizing Invisible Children because they spend so much of the money on salaries and campagning. You know it would be really nice if we could all work in NGOs for free. Most people who give their lives to humanitarian work probably would if they had other means of surviving. because let's face it: any full time job requires a pay. I work for an NGO. I know that donors would prefer if my salary went to programs for children. I would prefer that too. But if I didn't get paid, I would be obliged to get another job, and I wouldn't be able to help any of these children at all. And spending money to reach 40 million people overnight, I believe is money well spent. NGOs around the world spend millions on fundraising campaigns and the reason why they don't get criticized is because not that many people saw their campaigns... It just proves that at least Invisible Children got their money's worth.

And of course they have to simplify their course of action. Of course they realize more than any of us that it's not enough to sign a pledge and stick posters everywhere. But it's a step. It's better than doing nothing and it could lead to a lot.The Foundation I work for has had the same problem for the last year and half: we get criticized that no one understands what we do. That we do "too many programs" and that they are all over the place. It's true, we didn't pick one specific child problem (like Cancer or heart disease) we want to help any children in need, and that means there are going to be a lot of different programs. So what? We know that we're changing the lives of hundreds of children everyday... now we need to work on our communication, because when people don't understand what we do, they are less likely to donate. And then we can't help anybody. And experts tell us that in our communication, we don't have to explain every single thing we do. We should just give out the headlines. Pick out the things that are likely to resonate and stick in people's mind. Which is exactly what Invisible Children did. If you go to their website, you will see the different programs they have in place, for education and protection, the things they do on the ground to protect children. But if their campaign had been "let's educate the child soldiers" it would have never gotten the same response as it got now. Their documentary "Invisible Children" which they did in 2006 was done to show the world what was happening. Did people react? Some. Nothing like 40 million people in 3 days though.

So yeah, I should write about Kony. Everybody should write about Kony. Because it's not about Kony. It's about the idea that we live in a world where frontiers are man-made, and where no one gets to choose where they are born. And we live in an age where people figured out ways to overcome frontiers and distances, and can communicate in real time with the rest of the world. How can we not take advantage of that? 

there's no merit in loving if everything is easy

Some people say my family is cursed. They say we're "like the Keneddy's." That the series of tragedies never end. I guess I can see where they're coming from...  Two cancers, a rare illness called "Harada", a spinal cord injury, a heart attack, five deaths. And every time, we think that's it, this has got to be the last one, we can't possibly deal with any more. But apparently we can.

And so it has crossed my mind at some point too, that our family is indeed, peculiarly unlucky. Actually we were laughing about that on Friday night, the day my aunt buried her husband, and my cousins buried their father. 22 years before, on the very same day, my aunt walked down the aisle in a church in Paris and married the love of her life. This week, in stead of celebrating a love that was still very much alive, she wore a black dress and walked behind his casket in a cemetery.

That night, as we were gathered around her fireplace,surrounded by the pictures of all those we've lost, we all laughed. It might seem odd to still be laughing, on a day where you just buried someone you adored, but there is something about our family that goes beyond the pain we feel again and again. The entire time of the condoleances, my cousin was wearing a little paper boat clipped on her dress. "This one day, my father was crying," she said. "I didn't know what to do or how to stop his pain, so I clipped on this little paper boat on his shirt, and it made him laugh." We need the silly little things to make us smile, even in the worst of times.



What people don't know about our family is that we're actually one of the luckiest. The love that bonds us all so closely together only grows every time another tragedy hits. No one is left alone, not for a second. The other day, I was looking at my father's and my uncle's girlfriends, and I told them "What are you still doing here?" And my aunt joked: "Run! Run for your life!" Run for your life quite literately. But deep down we all know why they haven't run yet.




There is no merit in loving someone when everything is easy. When they are always perfect, and healthy, and kind, and full of qualities. Anyone can love if that's that. But when you go through the flaws, and the years and the pain, when you've seen the ugly, the poor, the sick... that's when you know you love someone all the way. My aunt said even if she knew she would lose her husband 22 years after she got married, she wouldn't have missed a minute of it, she wouldn't have exchanged him for anything. My father said the same thing about my mother. Even I look back and say that although the days when my ex-boyfriend was sick were the hardest, they were the days I loved him the most, and I can still admit that now.


This post is a tribute to Joe.

It's hard to put words together and do him justice, it's hard to write anything at all because none of us want to accept that he's gone. But there's no merit in loving someone if everything is easy.

growin' up

My brother is 18 years old today and this is for him.

When he was born, I was 8 and we had just moved back from Paris to Beirut. It was 1993, still a city covered in the rust of war. We lived at my grandmother's, my little sister and me, and my mom couldn't leave the house because she was nine months pregnant and if the electricity cut off she'd have to walk up three floors.We'd pick up the phone and we'd have to wait patiently for the line to come; the only milk available was powdered Nido and I couldn't even stand the smell of it; and the only thing on TV were the local channels and "Mini Studio" was the only watchable show.

I remember when my mom taught me how to change his diapers and how he peed on her while we were changing him. I remember when she let a flock of his hair grow long at the back of his head. I remember when he was four years old and we teased him on how he had a big penis and he ran all over the house screaming and crying that no, no, he didn't have a big penis. I remember him in his superman costume that he'd wear as pajamas. It was a time when we had a full house, and we'd wake up Sunday morning, my sister, my brother and me and prepare breakfast for our parents. There was still five of us back then, coffee for two, pancakes for all.

Everything is different now. It's like we're on another planet living in a different dimension. The world changed for this little boy when he was seven years old and he lost his mother, but watching him changes my perspective of the world everyday. When she was no longer around, I would put him to bed every night and tell him stories about her so that he would never forget. We'd talk about all sorts of things before he'd go to sleep and once he told me "sometimes my penis wakes up before me" --and I thought it was the cutest and funniest way anyone has ever put it. It was at that time that we came up with Papadopoulos together, an inside joke that only a few will get. When I left for New York, he was still a little boy. Over the phone I would hear his voice change and barely recognized him when he picked up, and every time I would visit, I'd find him taller, with little hair starting to grow on his face. By the time I came back he was a fully grown teenager. He'd receive dozens of texts a day from a dozen different girls, all crazy in love with him. He is that guy, you see, the ones all the girls are in love with.

And today he's almost a man. The world he was born into --it doesn't exist anymore. What we've learnt along the way is that nothing is predictable and anything can happen. But what always remains, throughout, is the love that you can only share with your siblings. And when your brother tells you you're "the woman of my life," you know you've done something right.

save a life

Our lives are made up by a series of trivial little things.
We go to the bank and spent half an hour in a line waiting to cash a check or make a deposit. We run to the supermarket and we go down the list and go back and forth and in between the aisles and somehow always end up forgetting that one crucial thing. We to the gas station, and sometimes we sum up the energy to leave our car there to get itself washed. We go shopping. We buy presents for birthdays, for engagements, for weddings, for newborns. We go for lunch --because I came home starving and I couldn't believe there was Bazella, again. We spend money on things that make us happy, make us smile, make someone we love happy. We get our hair done, our nails painted, our eyebrows shaped. Then we go out for coffee. We read a book, browse the internet, watch a movie. I get upset because my sister wore my shoes, took the car, or is watching TV when I wanted to watch. We take a shower, sometimes a bath. I cringe when my dad asks me questions about my day. We go for dinner. We try to get a reservation at Skybar. We make a few phone calls, get the password, put some make-up on. We go for drinks. We wear high-heel shoes and start suffering within the hour, and why do we have to "suffer to be beautiful"? We flirt with a guy, we make-out with our boyfriend, we want to have sex but don't have a place to do it. We have a place to do it but we don't have condom. We have a condom but he doesn't want to wear it because you know how much it kills the pleasure.

They might be trivial things but they make-out our lives. Some people wake up in the morning and there are 30-thousand other people sleeping next to them. They have flies running up their nose and into their ears. They haven't taken a shower in weeks, because there isn't even water to drink. They have walked for 17 days with three kids on their back and a pregnant woman. They lost a child on the way, but they couldn't take his body with them because it slowed them down, so they buried their child in the desert and they were so dehydrated they couldn't shed a tear.They arrive at a refugee camp and there are 3-thousand other people who also just arrived and they wait, in turn for a ration of food, a drop of water. Everything trivial that they do is to survive.

So do something today. Save a life. It takes two minutes out of your time and don't you think that not getting your nails painted this week is worth saving a life?

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that little angel

I know a little angel whose birthday it is today. When you turn 13 years old, you're expected to be going from boy to teenager. Your voice is expected to start changing. Your facial hair is supposed to start growing. You're not expected to be dead.

But if I've learned anything so far in life, it's that nothing is ever as expected.

That little angel is my cousin, Philippe. He was born on May 26th, 1998, when I was 13 years old, and even then, he already looked like an angel. The type of cherub whose blondish hair say one thing and mischievous eyes say another. And those eyes, they were open to the world. Very young, he could see through anyone, and ask the right questions. I remember when he was four years old, and he saw me sad one day, and he asked me if it was because I missed my mother. A four year old boy could see my sadness better than anyone else around me. That's the type of boy he was.

You'd think a boy at 10 or 11 would be shy around girls. But not Philippe. He had them lined up, girls of all ages, and had flirtatious lines for anyone and everyone. "You've become so beautiful I didn't even recognize you!" he once said to a fifty year old friend of the family. She smiled and giggled and he had her under his spell in half a second. And he had that magical power with everyone.

He died on July 31st 2009, in a tragic, horrendous accident, that had the entire country talking. But I wont tell that story, because he shouldn't be remembered for the way he died. He should be remembered for the way he lived.

And what I learned from his life, is that sometimes eleven years can be more meaningful than a hundred. And even in his death, his presence is felt every day. I know this because I see his family, his mother, his father, his two older sisters, who are able to talk about him and smile. Who have the strength, despite what they've been through, to turn the tragic into a positive power, to take Philippe's memory and make it enduring, everlasting and immortal.

What I learned is that life is fragile. That in a split second, you're here and then you're not. The only thing you can do about it is decide how the memory of you will go on.

If she was here today

Every year this beautiful day that celebrates all the wonderful mothers comes as a bittersweet sting for some of us. Those of us who don't have a mother to celebrate, it reminds us of what we're missing --even though we miss it every day, somehow, on those days, it aches more.

It's mother's day and I can't possible not pause and mention my mother. She may not be here today but if she was, I would've celebrated her just like you. If she was here, this morning, my brother would've walked in her room to give her a kiss before he went to school. My sister and I would've made her breakfast in bed, like when we were little, just to remind her that we still love her and need her as much as when we were seven. Maybe even more. We would've made her coffee, black I think... but I can't remember how she took her coffee, and that breaks my heart.

If she was here today, I would've written her a letter, enclosed in a funny Peanut greeting-card, because those were her favorite. It would say she was the best mother in the world, because we all think our mothers are the best in the world and we're all right, they are for us. And I'm sure your mother is special in her own way, but to me, my mother was the most special of all. When I was a little girl, maybe six years-old, my grandmother told me that one day, my mother would be my best-friend. I remember this distinctly because I laughed and said "no way." But it was true. And it didn't take that long. And it was at the peak when you're supposed to be rebellious and go through that phase when you hate your mom or something and I have no clue what that phase is because my mom was my best-friend and not in a loser-I-don't-have-any-friends kind of way... She had this magical power that made it impossible for me to lie to her, the way any normal teenager should. I tried once, and I have a witness --my friend Rebellious, of course, who was a professional mom-liar. I told her I was sleeping over at a friend's when in fact I wanted to go clubbing --I was 14 I think. She believed me, but I couldn't live with myself for more than ten minutes. I went back and told her I lied. And I had a lot more fun knowing I went with her blessing.

If she was here today, I would've gotten her a nice bouquet of colorful tulips. I got a white bouquet and they're in a vase next to her picture. That's what we have now, her face in a frame, immortal, present, beautiful, unwavering. If she was here, I would go lie next to her in bed, put my head on her chest and ask her to stroke my head, just to feel like a little girl again, protected by her mother. If she was here, that's all I would want.

They say you don't know what you have until you lose it. I knew what I had and when I lost it, I knew nothing would ever replace that void she left. And even I am celebrating my mother today, here or not here. That's the thing about wonderful mothers... even when they haven't been around for ten years, you still hear their advice resonating in your head; you still feel their love getting you through the bad days; and you still think about them every single day.

Happy mother's day, mothers.