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.

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.