Beirut, I'm sorry.

Dear Beirut,

I have to admit, I’ve given up on you many a times. I’ve insulted you, I’ve cursed you, I’ve tapped my feet in exasperation against you, I’ve yelled out my window at you, I’ve made fun of you, I’ve been ashamed of you, and I’ve hated you.

Even yesterday, I hated you. But today… what can I say, today?

Today I realize that whether I like it or not, whether I care to admit or not, I am part of you. And what’s worse, is that you, Beirut, are part of me.

Today I walked through the streets of Achrafieh, streets I’ve walked through my whole life. And they were darkened by evil. They were wrapped in smoke, stained with blood, screaming in fear. And I realized as I walked in front of these places where I order my food every other day, watching them sweep the broken glass from their windows just barely an hour after the blast, was that they were the places I knew the most. Because as much I love the streets of New York, Paris or Florence, they are not my streets. Not like the sidewalk where I had my first car accident with my mother 23 years ago. Not like the roads I went to school on every single day, not like the place I had my first kiss or where I smoked my first cigarette or the café where I spent hours and hours hanging out with my friends. Today, it was Achrafieh. The hospital where I was born was filled with more than 50 victims of a vicious crime. The same Achrafieh that just over a month ago, we celebrated with no cars and the most amazing sense of community. Today this Achrafieh, the neighborhood where I have spent most of my life, was blown up to pieces.

And you know what? I was blown to pieces too. Which is incredible because I really truly thought that I was over you. That my heart wouldn’t skip a beat. But I was wrong.

Today, I heard a sound that took me back seven years ago when I was an AUB student and Rafik Hariri was killed just a few hundred meters away from my campus. It took me back to 2006 when our city crumbled under Israeli fire. It took me back to those nights as a child, when the whole family was huddled up in the corridors and we lived by candlelight… And it seems like so long ago that I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it. But I didn’t dream it. I was there. Here. This is where I was born, where I went to school, where I made my friends, where I fell in love, where my mother is buried, where my home is. And even if I hate it, even if I wish I had another passport twenty-times a day, even if it drives me crazy, it’s my city. I’m a Beiruti. I’m an Achrafieh born and bred woman and whatever I am, in some way, has got to be impacted by you Beirut.

And so, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.

I wanted to say that even though I hate you, I love you. Because that’s just the way it is with things we really love. And I wanted to say that I hope, when I see a crowd spontaneously gather with candles to honor their neighbors, that we can get the chance to treat you right. To love you better. To have you always.

Yasmina.

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? 

all is (not) fair in love and war

I can't decide whether or not I think "all is fair in love and war."

On the one hand, I'm inclined to say that yes, all is fair, that there are no rules, and that it's every man for himself. The very definition of war means no rules, and the very definition of love --well, is undefinable. There is no right way to seduce someone, all lines are permitted, all tactics are allowed. Some try the smooth talkin' cheesy lines, like my friend the Spaniard, and sometimes it works, and sometimes is doesn't --just like every other flirting method. Some do the slow, let's take our time conversations, spend days and weeks talking their way into the other's heart. Others like the catch-me-if-you-can approach... it goes on and on, and all is fair game.

But then it gets complicated. People get hurt and it's hard to keep saying that yes, all is fair, when clearly you feel like everything that is unfair in the world just happened to you. Because all is not fair. Someone always has the upper hand.

If Al Qaeda strikes the twin towers on a sunny morning in September, it is not considered fair play. They planned, trained, prepared for months, years maybe. While those on the receiving end were taken by surprise, and the fight could not be equal. When Israelis raid Gaza, no matter how many Palestinians hide behind human shields, it is not fair play because the amount of military equipment they face do not compare to what they have. One side is almost always stronger than the other, and the one whose down struggles to fight back.

And so it is with love. If you are not prepared when the plane comes crashing in, you fall to pieces, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, until you hit rock bottom. For a while, there will be nothing there, just rubble, dust, and the souvenir of what was once stood. There will be grieving, there will be crying, there will be pain. Then, when the time comes, you start talking about rebuilding. The idea becomes more and more possible, plans are made, your sight is cleared up, and it is suddenly acceptable to imagine something new. Where there once was one, two or three will come.

The thing is, we all find ourselves on both sides of the story at some point. Like my friend the Masochist said to me "there is no right way to break up with someone." Maybe there is no right way to win a war either. Maybe that's why they say all is fair. And what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. Oh, and just  to kill it with the cliches: Karma's a bitch.