أبحث عنك

اليوم تركت الدنيا
وذهبتُ لأبحث عنك
اشتقتُ إليك كثيراً
وأردتُك جنبي
ما أنتَ؟
متى أجدُك؟
هل أنت زواريب تملؤها السيارات
وأصوات الباعة والعربات؟
هل أنت حرارةُ حُب الجدّات
ودفء صدور المغرومين المنثورين هناك على الشاطئ
يتناجون
وحين يرون الجو صقيعاً
يشعل كل محب مدفأة القلب
ويبقى
تحت الغيم ورغم الريح
منارات فوق الصخرات؟
من أنت؟
هل ذاك الوجه الصامت منذ سنين
والناس تروح
والعمر يروح
وكلام العشق إذا مرّ بجانبك
فما أحلاهُ
صَفا عيناك
وكلام الكره إذا لاح من الأفق
تراه قذًى
سلِمت أذناك
من أنتَ حبيبي
عمري
كل حياتي
من أنت
أيا كل كياني؟
من أنت
أيا أعشق؟
من أنت أيا حُلمي
ودمي
قلمي
ألمي
يا ليلاً وأرق

اليوم تركت الدنيا
وذهبت لأبحث عنك..
أكرهك
كما لم أكره شيئاً كل حياتي
في مرات..
وأطاطئ رأسي
أخجل أن يكشف أحد أني منك
وأنك مني...
يا خجلَ المذنب
ما عذر القلب
جريحاً يذوي
نصلُ الخنجر يحمل بَصمةَ
حبِّ حياته..
دمه يجري
عينه تأبى أن تنغلق
تريد ترى
حبَّ حياته
سكين في قلبي أنت
أحبك جداً
ألمٌ يكوي عظمي أنت
لذيذ جداً
أهواك وأخشى لقياك
لأنك حين أراك
ضعيفٌ
حلوٌ
تعبٌ جداً
النوم وأنت بعيدٌ يا حبي
صعب
الدمع يبلل مخدعنا..
هل تبكي أنت؟!
أفكاري تأكل أضراسي
تقتلني
تسرق أيامي
أتفكر أنت؟!

اليوم تركت الدنيا
وذهبت لأبحث عنك..
فتشت عناوين القصص طويلاً
لا أجدُ بها العنوان
ونظرتُ كثيراً
علّي بين عيون الأطفال
أرى نوراً
آهِ لهاتيك العينان
ومشيت ببطء بين الناس أسائل نفسي
كل الناس
ألا تعرفه؟
نفسي رحمت نفسي
قالت
أنتِ حبيبة عمره
قالت أنتِ رفيقة دربه
لا يمكن أن يعرف أحدٌ أكثر منكِ حبيب القلب
لا يعرف أحدٌ لُبنان...

Thank you!
I feel like I have a thank you syndrome and I want to thank...

So..
Thank you to my friends for being there when I need you..and even when I don't..
Thank you to my colleagues..for they trust my abilities enough to be working with me..
Thank you to Ziad. He first took me to Nahr El Bared when it still existed.. and it will always exist.
Thank you to Zizu. She restored my trust in friendship after I had long lost it.
Thank you to Hala. She threw me heads down as stage manager ten years ago.
Thank you to Lina. She taught me how to SCREAM at actors and actresses, and -most importantly & most needed- at her!
Thank you to my society. It is so boring it always pushes me to be different.
Thank you to Beirut. It is the only "being" that I can't define..that I can't love or hate..that I can't forget..
Thank you to the war. I know how ugly it is and I know I am not born to be part of it.

WATANI (My Country)

EXT. DOWNTOWN BEIRUT. DUSK - 1977

A big stray dog trolls on a very dusty street that has traces of shoes but not cars. Bushes grow out from sidewalks and cement on both sides of the street. The beast sniffs around some bushes and finds a dead body behind a bush. That keeps him busy.

One of the light poles on the sidewalk of the street is severely bent and it almost blocks the street. The building entrances on both sides of the street are so dusty. Bullet and shell holes decorate the walls of every single building.

Some low music from a radio transistor can be heard, and Lebanese Singer Fairouz singing “Watani”. The buildings seem alike because of the dirt which covers them. But some spots of yellow or pale pink still show from below the dust. Buildings stand weakly on both sides of the bushy deserted street.

New colorful small size posters of “Star Wars” decorate the entrances of several buildings.

One iron board sticks out from the first floor balcony of a building, and says “Fresh Baked Bread Daily”.

Most of the balconies are destroyed, have no handrails, or dangle down from the old traditional buildings. One balcony with a huge hole reveals a line of colorful laundry that sways gently with the breeze. Some yellow light is coming from inside the balcony. It is a lux light which reflects shadows of few people eating on the bullet decorated wall.

A big, old, pale poster of “Chinatown” consumes the whole side of a building. It also has lots of bullet and shell holes.

On the roof of one of the buildings a sniper lies down on his side, smoking a cigarette. His rifle lies close to him. To his left is a junkie radio transistor from which the music comes.

The old street stretches in the horizon to reveal the sea. Dusk engulfs the grey city.

Fairouz’s song plays:“You are the strong/You are the wealthy/You are the world/My country”

THE END

I smell of sickness and death

I visited the refugees from Nahr El Bared.
I wished one of them would spit in my face.. or slap me..
But none did.
They talked to me. Told me their stories.
Talked about their long sad life in Nahr El Bared. And how it got even sadder.
The kid told me about his dead mother. A mother talked about her dead son.
They talked about dead relatives and friends. And about the dead souls inside their bodies.
About lost memories and broken hearts.

They talked and talked.
Nobody did spit on me.
Maybe they knew that it hurts more when your conscience spits on your existence.
Or they probably knew I don't have a conscience.
"Just like the others"... Must have thought.

I visited Nahr El Bared in 2007.
My eyes threw a look at the......the place.
I smell sickness in me...sickness and death.
I stink.
My self stinks.. my nationality stinks.. my religion stinks.. my humanity stinks..

I visited Nahr El Bared in 2005. Nine times.
I bought a dress from Nahr El Bared. And a wallet.
I fasted its Ramadan. I had iftar there.
I drank Nahr El Bared's tasty water. And ate its Ka'ek in Eid.
I walked its Souk, and its alleys, and tried to locate the sun from amongst its buildings.
I drove through its main road. I wetted my shoes in the sea water on its shores.
I played soccer with the kids on its playground with a rotten ball that had no color.
It was the first mukhayyam (camp) I entered.
And the last mukhayyam I loved.

i think i am going to die soon.
four years. five years. maybe six. but not more.
do i have to reach a conclusion before the end? that i don't know.
maybe i should have reached a conclusion some time ago. because conclusions can help you decide how to avoid mistakes and learn from your experiences.
what good is a conclusion if you won't have time to make use of it? nothing.

i am not afraid of dying.
living is much more scary. much more difficult too.
understanding others and wondering if you really love them and if they really love you..
it is so much. i feel it is decaying my interior.
i understand god. i think. i know that he really loves me.
and i really love him.
that is the only relief at the end of the day.
when i lie on my back and reflect upon things, my inside is burning.
when i ask myself about home.
and about love. and about and about...
home is with allah. love is with allah. all is with allah.

yesterday i was wondering if i should run away. to australia. new zealand khalil said is nicer.
i saw a film, "whale rider". it was shot in new Zealand. wonderful scenery.
i wonder what is heaven like. i am not so sure anymore that i will go to heaven.
i do so many things just because i want to do them.
and i know i can avoid more things and do better ones.

in first secondary i was very happy with myself.
i had been detached from all people. could not care less about anyone.
all my friends were away. did not really care about being friends with my sisters.
may was in her final school year. she studied and studied. each one had his own stuff.
i was happy with myself because i was left alone with allah.
had nobody else to talk to. to ask of. to cry to. and to long for.
long nights. long prayers. it felt like i was home back then.

i wonder why am i the only one who feels this huge suffering from the war. and i don't even remember it very well.
do the other kids not care? are they serious when they go to all these events that only strengthen the hate feelings? could they be so shallow? or are they brainwashed?
or maybe they are so bored and need something to do?
how knows me? Not does know.

i have a nice house. and a nice job. maybe people envy me for this.
it feels good to have a nice house and nice job.
but nice does not have to mean you like it. to me, it only means it is O.K.
better than many scenarios i ever imagined could have been happening.
never thought at this age i would be living in such a nice place, with all this majestic silence, and all this privacy.
do whatever i feel like doing. without bothering anyone and no one bothering me.
and it feels better because i worked for it.

i think it is a blessing to live alone. i could live alone forever.
maybe it means i love myself more than should be. gotta do the measurements.

Vengo is a nice film. i like the song:
i come from nowhere
i have no landscapes
i have no homeland
with my fingers i can start a fire
with my heart i sing to you
and my heartstrings throb
i was born of love
i have no place
i have no landscapes
And I have no homeland

no homeland.
always on the move.
if it does not show on the outside, it must be the thing that is rocking inside me.a tempest. don't even know what the word means exactly. we had it in our literature. shakespeare said tempest.

today i hit all the tennis balls astray. very easy balls. very wide hits.
to the sky. to the net. everywhere but not forward.
the coach brought all the balls and stood by me.
we started practicing how to hit a forehand from zero again.

The film festival is at its peak. i wonder if they will appoint me director of that festival. that would be very funny. but if they ask me i will say yes. i hope my boss does not read this.
lauren came from the states to attend. she is quite happy i feel. a new bride. I know her through the internet. and know Cameron her husband, the same way. an e-friend is the term i think. she brought me with her a notebook. said the only thing she was sure I would be happy with is something related to writing.
i love writing.
oh. the screenplays.
the unwritten screenplays. the unfinished screenplays. they also burn inside me.
A horse. a horse. my kingdom for a three month screenwriting spree.

I am sad. this is a statement.
is it so easy to look sad. no. i must have said it like this.
it is so easy to look sad. it is so hard to look happy. but i must look happy.
looking sad does not help other people smile. i have to help them be happy.
or better say look happy.
me knows not why.
but me knows how.
a smile does magic. being kind does magic. but it is not easy.
it is very easy to be impolite. and rude. and kick asses.
it is very hard to be polite. i be polite. it is very hard to be nice. i be nice. it is very hard to be committed. i am not committed. not this stage yet. not committed me is to humans. not will be committed to any humans. committed is me to myself. committed is me to my beliefs. to god. only.
when my phone rings. it is close by me. i am doing nothing. all free to answer. i click on "silence". because i am not committed.
not "reject call". because i am polite.
then i call back. because i am nice.
and i apologize. because i am polite.
but i make up any excuse. because i am not committed.
to close people i say i did not feel like answering the phone. that is a privilege. when somebody is damn honest with you to that extent.
a privilege for me and for them.
having somebody to tell them this, and know that they will still call you again. will call you knowing that you may press "silence" again.

i have not watched silence of the lambs yet. i should add it to my list of next DVDs to buy.
it reminds me of Nadim.
when we were filming in 2000 for my student production, before each clapper Roubz or Chatzi would say "SILENCE!" and Nadim went, "of the lambs!" and we'd all laugh.
then Roubz or Chatzi would go again. until MAK shouts at Nadim.
MAK would shout at anyone. That is so unique about him.
I worked with him on lots of plays and films. and he would always shout at the directors.
be them professors, or students, friends, or whoever.

i want to put this on my blog. i am worried mommy might think i went crazy.
but am cool.
everything is great. this is only me. not me you know. me.

yesterday i got Gil Rossellini's autograph and was flying with happiness.
Rossellini.
i approached him and said, Gil, I want to have your autograph but i have nothing to get it on.
he said i will give you my card.
but i told him i want his signature too.
he said what is your name.
niam. i said.
he got his card. and wrote on it. to niam with love. gil.
i have the card near my bed. it is one of the most precious things i own now - speaking of film related madness of course.
wish i could see Mr. Bergman.
sad thing is that tarkovsky is gone.

oh. tarkovsky got me hired at aljazeera. but that is another story. God Bless All.

تجربة للكتابة بالعربي...

من زمان ما كتبت. ولكني اليوم لم أعد أستطيع منع نفسي من الكتابة...بسبب شدة القرف الذي تشعر به هذه النفس.

يا حرام.

أقسى ما في الحياة أن تشاهد العلاقات الإنسانية تتحطم عند أقدام المعاملات المادية، والمظاهر البراقة، والمال الذي لا يرفع أقواماً إلا في أعين أقوام منحطين مثلهم...

وبس.

A Qatari Souq Tale...

So Mum and MJ were visiting in Qatar. And we decided to go to the souq on the evening of Monday the 1st of January 2007.

Souq Waqef has lots of shops, old style shops. And amongst these are the shops that sell spices such as the one in the picture below with Mommy and MJ.

And while mom and the shopkeeper chat about all the things in this shop, MJ and Niam get bored. So MJ gets the SMINT out of his pocket and offers Niam one, and takes one himself. Mom and the shopkeeper are discussing the price of things. Niam and MJ are bored.

Until.... until the SMINT pops out from MJ's mouth and drops just in the middle of the big bag of thyme near him. And down down down went the SMINT, and down down down went MJ's eyes behind it trying to follow where will it end. But the SMINT went too fast for his eyes it seems and disappeared in the big bag.

This was going on without anybody noticing of course. The only thing I saw was this:

MJ digging his face in the thyme bag.

"MJ, what the hell are you doing in this bag?"

He was too busy to talk. Laughing so hard. But said enough to make me understand that his SMINT went inside the bag. No kidding! I threw a hopeless look inside the bag and knew it is impossible now to find this SMINT. We had to tell mommy. ___________________________________________________

* The SMINT story ended safely. We told mom, who told the shopkeeper, who forgave us for -maybe- he did not understand what was going on altogether. Just saw one big crazy kid and one small crazy kid laughing at a big thyme bag.