When Adnan Comes Home
Trailer
Official Website

Although Andrew sent me the DVD of this documentary long time ago, I only watched it till the end today. Whenever I am pissed off I resort to a solution of two: either read Quraan or watch a film. Strangely asimilar solutions, I know.

So today I choose "When Adnan Comes Home" for my cinematherapy tool, and continue watching it from minute 36 till the end (74 minutes).

It is magical how all the harshness inside this film transformed to the most delicate feelings anyone may experience in a long time. And how close ups and other shots of faces and objects in this film can tell their own stories of love, hope, joy, remorse, helplessness, etc...

Of course I could relate to the film very easily as it deals with people living in war conditions, or post war conditions (which are almost the same), and living in a completely corrupt political and judicial system.

For me, "When Adnan Comes Home" did not only tell the story of Adnan whose body is burnt from the outside, which makes people give him strange looks. It made me think of the stories of people who are burnt from the inside, those that nobody notices at all.

Thank you Andrew for making such a strong and powerful film for people to see, and thank you for making this film for people to feel, and think, and become aware.

Blogging from the office today..

When I am conscious about my work, I wonder sometimes what other people I knew throughout my life are doing now. Childhood friends mostly. I always build a story for each one of them. Regardless of all the sorrows which memories may cause, they always make me smile.

But since the last assassination took place in Beirut I feel so estranged. Lost the sense of belonging. Even the memories mean nothing anymore. And all the songs we sing for Beirut and Lebanon and love and tolerance are not even worth the ink they were written with. Even those who sing them cannot understand, much less apply, what they mean.

Only songs of LOSS make sense. And this old Arabic song echoes in my heart, saying

"Mitgharrabeen i7na,
Tigree sineen wihna,
gar7 sineen...
Ma 7ad 2al 3anna,
khabar yfarra7na,
wa la 7ad gab minna,
kilma tirayya7na..."

Watching the news and seeing what is happening in the world makes it look like a big puzzle, with kids all around fighting for every piece. And eventually tearing the whole thing. And later blaming each other for what happened.
Nobody ever thinks they may have made a mistake. It is always others.

The ironic part is, although I am watching this fight happen over the puzzle; I am a piece in this puzzle. And I am being torn too.
I feel I am supposed to do something.
But it is during moments like this when people become aware of their weakness.

Days are passing rapidly...
I am expected to leave to Beirut on Thursday. Vacation of course. Ten days only.

Passing by all these "super" Arab productions that come always to the screen during the month of Ramadan makes me sick. I see the "super" bad quality of these productions. Very few are the ones that have a moral or let us say a realistic theme to be monitored. Few of those few are well done, artistically speaking. Because normally, you won't find well done productions with bad scripts in the first place.

Few days ago, Dr. Qaradhawi here in Qatar started a universal project about the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, in order to let the foreigners know who the prophet is, and what did he call for, etc...

In few hours, there was more than ten million Qatari Riyals in donations for the project (3 million dollars). I feel sad when people spend their money just because of titles and do not look into the contexts. There is ALOT of money in the Arab world. On the streets here LAND CRUISERS (which are sold for more than 200,000 QRs) almost account to the same numbers of other "normal" cars.

I think that Arab wealthy people need more financial advising as to how spend their money wisely.

Oooops - gotta run! I think I made my point anyway.

I wrote yesterday :)

Today I started a strange and new activity: Learning a new language; Spanish. It was a very nice and great experience that I hope will end brightly.
It was very paradoxical when we were repeating the alphabet after our tutor, a, b, c, ch, etc...
Rebrought me to the fact that people are always learning throughout their lives. Never should we stop learning new things till our very end.
THE END

Oh, since we're saying END, yesterday (Sunday) ended mmmmm.. did not end as well as we wished it would. We had our Iftar - Evening meal (since in the Holy month of Ramadan Muslims fast from dawn till sunset) and before we left the dining table Zizu started growing strange stuff on her hands. And soon the strange pimples spread all over her body.

At first Ummi (her mom) and I tried to house-treat those small creatures with some traditional cure. But after two hours things started to get really..... red!
There we were on our way to the ER at eleven before midnight. It seemed more like eleven a.m. since more than half the people in Qatar were on the streets.
Anyway, after an adventure to the ER the strange creatures disappeared as suddenly as hey appeared.

Since I arrived to Qatar less than one year ago, I have been to the ER more frequently than I had been to the ER before throughout my whole life. It was never that I am the patient though, thank God.
I hate the ER. I hate hospitals.
I remember the beginning of a very good film, "Pi", it has a part where Max the main character says, "When I was young my Mom told me never to look at the sun, so once when I was six I did."

When I, Niam, was six my Mom and I went to the American University Hospital in beirut to check on a weird creature in my body, then.
Since in 1986-87 Lebanon was in war, there were victims being brought to AUH around the clock. So basically mommy told me not to look at those "scenes". But I did. And since then whenever I enter a hospital for any reason, or smell the doctor's smell (there is a doctor smell I think) my state changes.. physically and psychologically. But more psychologically. I see again and again the same image that I saw when I was six. A man who was probably dead, because half of his head was full of blood and deformed, and his hand was tied or clinched to a metallic thing on the medical carrier which passed quickly past us. He always passes by me at all hospitals. Even here in Qatar he passes by. As if he is saying hello. He reminds me of the worst thing I can't forget. War.
And he reminds me of war atrocities. And I start wondering where is he now? was he dead when I saw him? Probably. But I think not coz his hand was a little bit upwards. Why would they bother his hand if he were dead?? If he is alive how does he look like? Is he fully healthy again? Is he poor or rich? Is he married? Did his parents lose him and he lives now alone? Millions and Millions of questions.

CUT
THE END

FADE FROM BLACK
I just opened the LAU website (www.lau.edu.lb) and found on the main page a picture of our Gulbenkian Theater with students in it. I think students in the Play Production Class with Dr. Mona Knio. I am still a very traditional and old fashioned person when it comes to teachers. I absolutely can be a living application for the arabic idiom that means, "I am the slave of whoever taught me one letter of the alphabet"(Man allamani harfan surtu lahu abdan). I so much admire all the people who teach, and hate whoever speaks bad of teachers. I think teachers are the most sacred living people on Earth and the ones who should be most respected.

And before I stop writing to go to bed, I like to say that my Aunt is a teacher and I love her so much. Her name is Saadia. I wish everybody had an aunt like her.
When we were very young, I remember seeing her doing stuff around the house. Mostly changing the decor of my grandmother's living room, to be honest. She loves changing the decor. No matter how simple it is.

Soy Niam. Soy productora de peliculas y tambien estudiante de espanol.
Good night senores y senoras!

The first cut trailer for my post-production stage documentary film.

Who is a friend?

A friend is...
A push when you've stopped,
A word when you're lonely,
A guide when you're searching,
A light when you go blind;
A glass of ice lemonade when you feel thirsty,
A colour-drenched scene when you're in the dark.
A guarantee when you're uncertain,
A cheer when you fear,
A smile when you're sad,
A song when you're glad,
A sense of trust when you're in deep rest.

Arathie Chandramoulli, IX

Do we really have such a "friend"?
* * * * * * * * *
We are friends before being colleagues.
But we once were colleagues. Before we became friends.
That is another long story... "another", because we have a story now!
It is just that I am not so sure I want to write it down. Not online.
When you write screenplays or work in films you become afraid that somebody will "steal" your copyright, your idea, your story..
But I am sure nobody will steal this story from our memories.
We will always be able to tell it.
We will always hear the voices of the characters in it.
The people we know and we don't know.
The people whom we may or may never see again in our lives.
Those who helped and those who waited, and those who stood watching.
And of course those who hurt us.
And the biggest wound of all remains to "swallow"all the pain and shut up.
And live with it. And sleep with it every night and wake up with it every morning.
And, worse, dream of it in between.

PAIN.
Starts with a P, then an A, an I, and an N.

P like in Police, Pilot, Pills, Paint, Pissed off, etc...
A like in Airport, Arrive, Astonished, Asleep, Alone, etc...
I like in Inform, If, Insist, I, Idea, etc...
N like in No way, Nobody, Nothing, No way, Nobody, Nothing, No way, Nobody, Nothing, No way, etc...

That's it for Today!

The Hand of the shoe fixer at the Nahr El Bared Camp for Palestinian Refugees in North Lebanon. (C) Niam Etany 2006.

School Shoes at the Nahr El Bared Camp for Palestinian Refugees in North Lebanon. (C) Niam Etany 2006.

Feet in the Souk (Market) of the Nahr El Bared Camp for Palestinian Refugees in North Lebanon. (C) Niam Etany 2006.

These are all still frames exported from video files I am digitizing to edit my documentary film "Yawmiyyat Hafiya" (Working Title).

More War Diaries :

The turth is that I was not writing my diaries when I was in Lebanon. I am writing now what I remember. I am sure I will never forget those days just as I cannot forget the war memories I recall since I was born.

It is Monday.

Monday July 17th 2006

Monday. The first day in the week was another day in this non-ending week. We did not go to Beirut for work or university. I needed to start getting myself ready. I suggested that we go to a nearby village to get myself a new pair of eyeglasses. It was a good idea to break the routine. After all, the road to Jib-Janneen was safe. Or was it?

We arrived safely to the shop. I chose a pair of eyeglasses and we sat in the shop chatting with the woman who works there. She said there were many refugees now in the village school.
At the optician's shop an old friend of Dad's came in. I did not know the guy but he said salam to Daddy and his wife kissed mummy and shook hands with me. Dad asked him about his family and how is everybody. The guy said they were all fine. Ahmad went to Beirut to get his family's passports and he's coming back.
Beirut! That's where all my stuff is! Dad call this man please.

And so it was...
May, my oldest sister, packed what she could identify as my necessary belongings and sent the bag (and my tennis racket) with Dr. Ahmad -whom I recalled by then. He teaches at AUB and my sisters know him well.

Of course I was thankful for rescuing anything from the city of ghosts. But of course some of my things are still stuck there till this very moment.

To Be Continued - - -

My family had the honor today of being called by Israel itself.
Sounds impressive ain't it?
Israel calling you and saying you should not help Hezbollah.
Saying you should stay in your house and not leave it.
Or saying that you should not stay in your house and leave it immediately.
They say it as if it is that simple.
Do they ever wonder, where to should we leave?
To a shelter where they could easily erase us all in few seconds?

Am starting to think that those who die in the war are lucky.
They just die and leave it behind.
But those whom the war leaves behind, they are not lucky.
They live dead. Dead people walking.
Those people who died in Qana today, they must have been safe. And warm in their refuge.
Such a luxury in wartime to feel safe and warm.
Such a luxury to walk out on war, looking it in the face instead of turning your back and trying cowardice then try to "live" with it for the rest of your "death".

Sunday July 16th 2006

That was the worst Sunday I ever spent in the village. In the afternoon we discussed my return to Qatar. I agreed to leave on Thursday before things got worse. I had nothing of my stuff with me in the village except my passport and ticket. They were the only necessary things I needed of course, but they were not my stuff. I remembered the graduation pictures. And my footage tape for the documentary. And my tennis. My DVDs. And I have not seen my friends. Shadi had said he would visit yesterday because he was going to Baalbek to watch Fairouz. Of course the musical was cancelled, and the whole festival. Baalbek itself was almost cancelled. It was being bombed daily.

Nothing to do. When you have nothing to do you start thinking of strange things, and remembering things you would have never remembered otherwise. It was strangely pleasant in a way to have nothing to do but think about existence and life. At one point I thought that I would be able to write few scenes in the screenplay am writing, since they say suffering brings creativity. But I could not. I was living in a film and was not able to write in a different timeline. If what happened in Lebanon was a film it would have certainly been a sci-fi horror fictitious stupid comedy.

Once there was a country called Lebanon. The second day it was not. Somehow it has been erased in one day. The people, the buildings, the bridges, the roads, the airports, the sea ports, they all disappeared overnight.

The minister of tourism said we were expecting more than one million tourists in August. Lebanon is a country that depends on tourism to survive. But some people thought it was not necessary for us to survive. They were people who get mad when animals are beaten but could not care less if Arabs died. I had all the time to remember. In our Media and Society class Dima –my teacher- once said something about degrading people before going to war and killing them. Because you cannot kill people when they are people like you. You have to make them look like animals or even worse so that nobody would pity them. And in my desperate trials to grasp how could any human being ever think of us as being less than animals I thought:
Well, probably they think of us as people but think of themselves as Gods.
It was of course better than thinking of us as animals and them as people. There was only God to save us. There is only God to save us. And punish those who think they are owners of the world.

Sunday July 16th 2006

It was finally Sunday. We were supposed to have our family breakfast on this day. But the Kibar did not let us go to the village where Knafeh was sold. This is not to mention the fact that "the family"was not there.
The village had been bombed the night before and it is not safe to go there.
The final answer was no, but I insisted to get something for the kids who had been waiting for the yummy breakfast weeks before I came to Lebanon.
I went to the village and we made "Manakeesh" for everybody. It was a lovely morning, strangely calm. The breakfast was not sweet. Certainly not yummy. I don't know if there was a problem with the taste of the food or with my sense of being.
News, news, news. We had breakfast while listening to the news. There were no bomb sounds in the distance. Not yet.
Uncle Mohammad called his company and they said it is closed. No work for tomorrow.
No universities for tomorrow as well. So nothing to do tomorrow. And nothing to do today.
We did nothing after we had breakfast. At one o'clock a strange visitor came. It was the woman who worked in the farm opposite to our house. She said the factories that buy the milk have been bombed and the farm owner has 50 kilograms of milk to sell. We laughed at the idea of buying 50 kilos of milk. But, to our surprise, the kibar said we need this milk. They said they will make cheese and yogurt at home.
And of course we will have milk for breakfast. And probably for dinner.
We bought the 50 kilos of milk and started boiling them five kilos after another.
Nothing to do still. Boredom was killing us.
My graduation photos will have been ready by now. Ibrahim was supposed to leave to Mekka for "Omra" (Muslim worship) on Monday. Of course the omra trip was cancelled.
I still had one more DVD to watch but the kids did not want to see my Japanese DVD. They preferred Flightplan. We watched the film. Then there was nothing to do again. I was starting to notice that everybody was getting disturbed from the situation. Even MJ was getting surprised. Nobody wants to play with him basketball and soccer anymore. At one point we saw grandma –whose foot was hurting and she barely walked- throwing with him balls to the basket!

Grandma and Mommy were consistently telling us that everything will be ok. We have lived in a war before and we are still here, they said. This will also end just like the other ones. The other ones were more dangerous even.

But WE have not lived the war before. We were only kids. We did not think about the future then. We did not know that other kids in the world were living without bombs. I did not even know that there were cartoons and kids programs on TV. We thought it was news all the time. Not until I was 24 that I knew there was a cartoon called "Adnan wa Lina" that almost every Arab kid watched.
We did not know there were love songs. They were always songs of mourning and fighting. We did not know -then- that in other places you do not have to stand in long lines to buy bread, or take the car cables home with you so that it does not get stolen.
We did not have plans. We did not have dreams. Then.
But we have plans and dreams now. And they were certainly different than being stuck in the village with F-16s roaming our skies, dropping rockets that make the house shake from more than 50 kilometers distance!

To Be Continued---

June 22nd – July 10th

I arrived to Lebanon on the 22nd of June. My sisters Iman and Mariam had invited me to their commencement. The graduation party of the American University of Beirut on June 24th. Iman finished a BSc in Mathematics and Mariam a BE in Computer and Communications Engineering. Mariam has an admission to Imperial College to continue her education. She tells me it is one of the best schools for engineering in the world. I do not know much about that field. I know that she is an excellent student. She has always been. She ranked first in the nation in 2002 in the Lebanese Baccalaureate Official Exams. I also know that she won't be able to study at Imperial without a scholarship or a miracle. Iman also graduated with distinction and got an award. She also has an admission to a university in England. Same story though.
I was not able to see my sister Malak because she is doing a medicine elective at UCLA. She has to be back for her Med Four year by September 15th.
My older sister May's two lovely kids (6 and 2) have grown a lot. The smaller "Abdul" is very funny. She is potty training him now and we have to stay on alert whenever he is at our house.
My younger sister Bayan had just passed the Lebanese Baccalaureate Official Exams and was confused. She had to choose a university and a major for next year and it was not an easy decision for her. Her last decision was journalism.
MJ, the youngest of the family (7) was enjoying his summer vacation and taking swimming sessions every morning in the Long Beach Club with a former Lebanese Champion. Mommy was going with him every day from 7 to 9 in the morning, taking with her something to read.

My weight had increased about 7 kilograms while in Qatar so mom and grandma decided to put me on a diet, which I wanted –and needed- badly. But I had told them earlier that there will be a huge breakfast of "Knafeh"(A very yummy and fatty sweet) for all the family in our summer house in Bekaa next Sunday (July 16th). Family in Lebanon means all my uncles and aunts with their kids (that's more than 40 people:)). I had promised all the kids to invite them for Knafeh as a graduation gift.

During the first few days I finished all technical processes required to transform my Toshiba Qosmio to an editing facility to work on my documentary film when I return to Qatar. I took with me to Beirut one of my master footage tapes to make sure everything works fine.
During the second week of my stay I sought to finish all paper work required to get my MA Diploma from university, and attend the commencement exercises of the Lebanese American University on July 8th in Beirut. I also submitted applications to get three recommendation letters and two transcripts to apply for an MFA in Screenwriting.
Of course I played tennis every other day with my cousins Mazen (20) and Ibrahim (18) who were enrolled in Summer courses at their universities. We used to take a cab to the municipality tennis courts in the park (Huresh) in the Southern part of Beirut. And of course I rented four films each week to compensate for the lack of films that I like in Qatar.

I enjoyed the commencement exercises a lot. We took many photographs and were told to pick them later from "Supercolor Studios" in West Beirut.

On Monday I called Supercolor and the man said photos won't be ready before Saturday, so I decided to get them the next week and go spend some days in the summer house in Bekaa before my vacation ends. After all Grandma and Grandpa were there alone and it was better if somebody stays with them.

Tuesday July 11th 2006

I took my laptop and the four DVDs of the week and went to Bekaa by van. In three hours I was at the beautiful place surrounded by trees and from two sides by the Litani River. It was so peaceful and quite except from the sound of leaves and sometimes water pumps from far away would be heard to water the huge fields of vegetables and fruits. The electricity in the Bekaa valley is imported from Syria. It comes on for 6 hours then off for six hours, more or less.

Wednesday July 12th 2006

We woke up in the morning, no electricity. My grandma and I do the housework when my mobile phone rings.

It was my friend,
"Congratulations!"
"Thank you." (I just graduated)
"Did you hear the news?"
"No, what news?"
"Hehe, what are you saying thank you about, then??? They just captured two Israeli Soldiers!! Congratulations!"
"Oooooh, so that's why. Ok. That is great. Now all prisoners will be released and we'll be finished with this issue of prisoners."
"The Israelis will be crazy. Eight soldiers are dead and 21 injured. That's what they said."

Grandma and Grandpa were very happy. Everybody was. It was about time for our last prisoners to leave the Israeli prisons. No need to mention how they were captured and tortured and for how long they have been imprisoned. They were prisoners and had to be released some way or another. And since the whole world is against us, there is no other way than forcing the world to release them.

The Israelis WERE crazy. In the afternoon they started bombing South Lebanon and attacking with their F-16s. The attacks reached places very close to Beirut without harming the beautiful city on the Mediterranean coast. It was –almost- a normal thing the Israelis used to do all the time before they left Lebanon in 2000 so no big fuss was made of it.

Mazen my cousin said he will come on Friday to stay with us. I was starting to get bored and felt happy that he'd come so we can do some fun stuff. We slept early that day.

Thursday July 13th 2006

The mobile phone started ringing at about nine in the morning.
I barely opened my eyes and answered, half asleep. My mom was on the other end,
"It is ok we will take you through Damascus Airport."
I understood nothing and thought: what the hell is mommy talking about at this time. She repeated:
"We will take you to Damascus, you can go from there."
"What are you talking about Mom?"
"They bombed the airport."

By then I was fully awake.
"What?!!!"
"They bombed the airport. It is closed. We will take you to Damascus to go from there to Qatar."
I cried.

Flashback

Airport is closed. I was back in the Civil War times when the airport used to close every now and then. The news used to be lists of names of injured and dead people. The "Kibar" (Elders which we use for parents, grandparents, and all people other than our kids kingdom) they used to warn us every morning before going to school not to talk to any strangers or go with them anywhere. They will kidnap you and sell you. Do not take chocolate from anybody. It may explode in your face.
Wake up in the middle of the night. Get the water bottle. Get the diapers. Get the bread and cheese. Down to the shelter. Or to the car. Soldiers all around. Checkpoints where every time you were asked same questions. What is your name? Where are you coming from. West Beirut. Where are you going. Bekaa. What do you work. Teacher. Allah ma3ak (God be with you). Sometimes it used to be west Beirut. Sometimes only Beirut. Depends on the soldiers. Christians will kill people from West Beirut. Muslims will kill people from Eastern Beirut. At checkpoints. Just like that. This is why many people have non-religious names. Mohammad and Ahmad will be killed at Christian checkpoints. Georges and Tony will be shot at Muslim checkpoints. Fouad and Karim will be safe on both sides.
Civil War times. No electricity. No light to study in the evenings. No elevator to go up to our house on the fifth floor with our school bags which were about 5 kilos heavy. No TV. Civil War times. No signals in phone lines. No bread. No water. Thieves will steal anything. When dad came up home in the evenings he brought with him the radio and the battery of the car and some cables as well that will not allow the car to run if somebody thought of stealing it. My uncles had a box full of weapons, B-7s, Kalashnikovs, and grenades. They were something normal in a house. And it was normal to have four or five families in a house. And to sleep in the doorway. And listen to more names of injured and dead.

Airport is closed.
So this time it is not just like all other times. It is "serious". Soldiers were captured before and this did not happen. This time it WAS different.
I was scared, and angry.
Why do we have to be born during the war and spend our lives during the war?
Looks like they want us also to die in the war.
Only the war shall survive in this place.
But I hoped this will be over in few days (again as usual) and the airport will be open again. They just wanted to scare the tourists and make them leave Lebanon. And they succeeded in doing that. The Syrian borders were crowded with more than 15 thousand people.

At about 10 am Mazen called. He said his university has suspended classes because of the situation and he could come today. Again the "Kibar" were saying No. They were afraid that Israel might bomb the road from Beirut to Bekaa (since it is the Beirut-Damascus Road). Mazen finally took the risk and came to the village. It was then that I remembered it was Thursday. Thursday in the village! It was the Souk (Bazar) day. We could go to the souk and buy things and most importantly –eat yummy Falafel from the fat woman who comes every Thursday.
I bought fruits and vegetables for the house as we were expecting my parents tomorrow (Friday). We also bought Video CDs: Flightplan, Hostel, and Lucky Number Slevin, all for four dollars. And of course the falafel.

The afternoon was very calm. We went with Grandpa to a village called "Kifrayya" under a great mountain to get drinking water from a natural spring. The water was so chilly. We washed the car in Kifrayya, and Grandma picked some Vine leaves to stuff them and cook them. We filled the empty water bottles and went back home. Played some basketball and watched a video CD in the evening before we slept.

Friday July 14th 2006

This was an early day. When I woke up for Fajr prayer at 3.50 am I heard far bombs. I had received three text messages on my mobile during the night from my sisters in Beirut which read as follows:
They bombed Beirut (Southern suburb), they bombed the road (Beirut-Damascus Road), they bombed the airport again.
I miscalled my dad's phone so that they'd call me. When they did my phone battery died. There was no electricity and no hope of it coming on at this time, it comes at six in the morning. With the sounds of far away bombs and total darkness, and without a signal in my mobile phone, I got really anxious. So I went to my grandparents' room and we sat there chatting about the news till about six in the morning. The electricity did not come on time so I fell asleep on the mattress on my Grandparents' room floor.

BAAAAM.
I did not totally open my eyes, partially because I was scared to do that and partially because I wanted to go back to sleep. It was a very strong sound. The far bombing had been on rhythmically since Fajr prayers, but this was a very close rocket. The window above me broke on my head. That's what I thought. But it did not. Grandma was saying to Grandpa: If they come again (the planes) we have to wake her(me) up and go out of the house. He said nothing. But they did not come again. So I tried to sleep, but-

Flashback.
Beirut, 1980's. Our house is on the fifth floor. It is winter and the weather is very cold outside. I am sleeping near the veranda door when it almost breaks over my head because of the same strong sound I heard today. BAAAAM. It was longer though. Like several rockets following each other.
I stay under the sheets but lift my head up and take a look around with tears in my eyes. My smaller sisters cry in a loud voice. And so does the baby in my parents' room. Daddy comes to the room and closes the curtains. He pats our three small heads telling us to sleep.
"It is only thunder. Sleep my dear. It is thunder, there is no bombing."
Probably it was. And probably not. I am still scared of thunder.

It was no use to try to go back to sleep. Mazen and I woke up. I had no battery in my phone. He had no credit in his. We switched the SIM cards in order to communicate with the world. My parents called saying they are coming to Bekaa because Beirut was not a good place to stay. Each time the airplanes attack, the whole city and all buildings shake underneath. The streets are empty. Companies are closed. Universities are closed. Even MJ's swimming classes are paused because Israeli war ships are out in the sea facing the Long Beach swimming pool.
- But there is no road Mom. The road Mazen came from is now closed because of the broken bridges. What will you do?
- Daddy knows a road in the mountains that leads to Zahleh. We will come from there.

Zahleh is the city known as "Bride of the Bekaa". It is a very beautiful city, it has nice weather in summer and it has great ice cream too. A very nice river runs through it. On both sides of the river are cafés and restaurants where tourists like to sit.
I was worried about my parents crossing the mountains but knew it was best for them, and for us. After Friday Noon Prayers, Mazen and I walked to the village to the internet café to check our emails. It was the first time I do that since I left Beirut on Tuesday morning. The internet connection was so slow though. We remained in the café till about sunset when we thought it would be better to go home, specially with the bombing sounds coming closer.

When we arrived home my parents had been there for a while. The road that usually takes about one hour or one and a quarter took them now about three and a half hours. They brought with them all the passports and the money and their jewelry. Just in case. They also got my passport and ticket. Now the prospect of me going back to Qatar through Damascus instead of Beirut was getting very realistic. Except for the bombs on the road to Damascus.

My mom said Uncle Mohammad, Mazen's father, is on the way also with his family from another road that passes through Kifrayya (the village of water and grapes). We felt happy. We are used to the summer house being crowded. Uncle Mohammad reached the village by eight thirty in the evening. When he arrived he said there was no bread in the stores in the village. No batteries for the radio either. But the electricity was on, and Mariam was watching TV when she called from the window:
"The Sayyed (Hasan Nasrallah) is talking on TV. Quickly!"

Everybody who was sitting outside on the patio walked inside the house in a straight line. Mom and Dad, Iman, Bayan, Uncle and Aunt, Grandpa, Mazen and Ibrahim, and me too. We sat around the small TV set listening to Sayyed Nasrallah. He said a lot of stuff. Then at the end he said, "Look at the Israeli battleship that killed the civilians during the day and brought down the houses in Beirut, look at it in the sea facing Beirut: It is burning!"

Tarararararaaaa!!
Bullets in the air again.
But this time it was for celebration. People were happy all around Lebanon, and around the whole world it seems. It was the first time since ages that any Arab could humiliate Israel. And it came in a moment of retaliation, which made it feel 100% correct and rightful. We started clapping and yelling happily. Then we went outside and spent some time singing and drumming on the base of a milk barrel. The sounds of far bombs just sounded like a base in our orchestra.

In the evening my sister May called. She said they have bought bread and food, and a reserve milk can for Abdul's bottles. She said they won't be able to come to the village now because there are many many people in Beirut who ran away from the bombing, and these people may occupy empty houses. It was a normal thing during the war for dislocated people to occupy empty buildings and houses. The state later had to pay each of these families 25 thousand USD to find other places to live.

Then my Aunt called and said she could not leave Beirut too. She told us that there were people in the school near her house who needed things, any thing. She sent them some mattresses and dishes and spoons. She said there are many more others in the public park near her house, and thousands in the "Huresh" where we used to play tennis. They sleep on the benches or on the grass, she said. We did not sleep early that night. We listened to the news almost till Fajr prayers and then slept a little bit.

Saturday July 15th 2006

When I woke up I knew that Uncle Mohammad and his wife went to the Souk which was held in another village on Saturday. It was not far. They were supposed to come back by eleven in the morning. But they came much earlier.
Aunt Fadwa said:

"The airplanes were hovering above us all the time. But suddenly a policeman came and said hurry up they will bomb the bridge (The Bazar is right near a bridge). So we raised our heads and everybody was running to their cars. We had to go too. In four minutes the whole place was empty and everybody had crossed the bridge so as not to get stuck on the other side of the river."

Uncle Mohammad still needed some vegetables, and we needed bread and oil for the food. I went to the village to buy the stuff. Got tomatoes with a very unusual high price. And cucumbers. Do you have bread?
The shop of Alabras does not have bread.
Najiyyeh does not have bread.
A small other shop. No bread.
The supermarket. No bread, no oil, no American bread. No French bread.
One woman said she will buy all the hamburger bread the supermarket has! She really did. I noticed that all the bread shelves and all kinds of Pasta and Maccaroni had disappeared from the supermarket. So did the drinking water. I remembered the drinking water. We had filled the gallons in Kifrayya. Thank God we did not have to buy that either!
Finally on our road back home we asked a woman we knew, who told us that there is a woman who sells bread in her house. We went there and finally got nine loaves of thin bread, "Markook".

The mobile phone network was starting to get really bad. In grandma's part of the house you could only call and receive calls in the bathroom. In our part of the house you had to stand in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

- They bombed the Light House (Manara).
- What do you mean bombed the Manara???

Grandma was shocked to know that they attacked the light house near her house in Beirut. This area is completely peaceful, and it is a tourist area on the Corniche.

- What do you mean bombed the Manara? They bombed near our house??
- Yes. That is what they said on the news!
- Poor family.
- What?
- Ihsan told me that her friend's family left their house in southern Beirut and resorted to Manara. Allah help these people. They are not safe here nor there. Allah yu'eenhom.

They left their house to run FROM the bombs. They ran TO the bombs.

Funny things happen in wars. Once in the late 1980's both cars of our family were broke. Mom talked to Dad's friend and told him to bring us home from school. Mr. Khalil arrived at our school and,

- Hello kids. I am Mr. Khalil, the father of rabiá and Awatef.
- Hello. (I don't know this guy, older sister May whispered)
- Your car is broke. I'll take you home today.
- No, no thank you. Mom will pick us up.

May held the hands of Mariam and Iman. Malak and I followed her while she dragged them away from the surprised man. He is following us, May said in a frightened voice.

- Kids, your car is broke. Your mom told me to pick you up.
- No she will come it is ok. Sometimes she comes late but she comes.
- You don't know me but I am Awatef's father. I live in the brown house in the north of the village.

The poor man tried and tried while the scared May insisted that he is a "khattaf", a kidnapper who sells kids. After the parking was transformed to a theater stage and many people watched the show, Awatef showed up. She testified that this man is truly her father and said she will come with us until we reach the house. The five kids jammed in the back seat while Awatef and her Dad drove us home.

Funny things. When Aunty called again she said the people in the schools were now getting bored and some of them started ordering "Sheesha" from the cafés. In Beirut you can have waterpipes delivered with no additional fees. Free Delivery waterpipes.

We were getting bored as well. Mommy suggested that we go to the satellite man so that we can watch news from Al Jazeera or at least get a good picture on TV. Until then we had to make Ibrahim fix the antenna and move it right and left and back and forth and up and down in a strange dance, then when the picture gets a bit clear we all shout: FREEZE! Stay like that!
And so, we went to the satellite shop and bought one. No shortage of satellites during the war.
In two hours, we were watching Al Jazeera News. Ibrahim watched too. He did not need to stand up and do the antenna dance now. Pictures were clear:
The politicians were talking. The fighters were bombing. The civilians were dying.

That day, Israelis warned the people of the South to evacuate their villages and homes. There was no way out of there that was not bombed or deadly dangerous. Two families from the southern village of Mirwaheen left their houses in a pick up truck. They went to the UN soldiers outside their village. Israel had bombed a UN shelter before in Qana in 1996, killing and wounding hundreds. Probably they won't do it this time the Israelis. The two families hoped the "bad guys" won't be so bad this time. They did not even think that the UN soldiers would be bad too. The UN soldiers turned them away. We could not keep you inside the UN shelter.

The Israelis did not bomb the UN shelter. They bombed a pick up on the road off Mirwaheen. 23 people were killed. Nine of them were children. They were later "collected" in plastic bags, just like dead sheep.

In the afternoon, the bomb sounds were coming closer. But they were still not very close. The news said they bombed the Milk and yogurt and cheese factory. Four of them actually. They also bombed the Beirut-Damascus road again at a nearby location. And many other places.

That day we started thinking about my return to Qatar. Everybody suggested that probably I could help Al Jazeera crew in Lebanon covering the war. After all I have an experience in writing and editing news, I can film, I can edit, I can do anything.

- But this is not my job guys. I work in production!

I was scared to death. This was the reason. So mum said I should leave as soon as possible since the road to Damascus could still be taken. I insisted that my vacation will not end before Saturday and I won't leave before that. Probably things got better by then. Mom said we'll see. She always says we'll see.

When we sat outside under the trees in the evening that night there was no singing and drumming. There were bomb sounds far away. We carried the TV set outside and watched the news. Bomb sounds in the distance. We solved the crosswords in the newspaper. Bomb sounds were still heard every now and then. When we finally resigned to sleep there were still sounds of bombs. Don't these pilots sleep? We were all wondering –and hoping.