Broken Sentences - 3

Monday, October 5, 2009 at 4:33pm

Attention: This note may use or refer to Arabic words or culture. Please take guard and stay alert.

Lina advised me to read a story called "Bus al Awadem" (Good People's Bus). And to find this bus, mommy and I had to search several libraries inside and outside Beirut.

On mom's search, she forgot the name of the story. Remembered only the "bus". Dad suggested "Bus Al Afandi"? But mom was sure it was not afandi. It was something else.

The bus was not there anyway.

I went down to Hamra and scanned the fancy and unfancy libraries in the crowded street.

On one shelf, I surveyed attentively some "religious" authors. Aboona, Mawlana, Al Ab, Al Doctor, Al Sayyed, Al Sheikh. I looked curiously at the titles. They were not books about Allah or Jesus or Buddha. They were not even about inner peace or outer peace or any kind of peace.

They were all about sex. Religion is not selling anymore, I thought. Sex is.

God Bless....

BREAK IN:


On August 1, I was selected RANDOMLY for the special security check in Dulles Airport, when leaving the United States of America.

BREAK OUT:


I finally found "Bus al Awadem". The last copy was resting in another fancy library in Hamra. It is now resting in my bag for an airplane read, hopefully tonight.

The woman at the counter asked me if there are still any "Awadem" around. I suggested she read the story to find out.

The novels written by Lebanese writers are mostly about the past. I am not the only person who writes about the war. It is a comforting and a non-comforting thought.

I promise myself always that my next screenplay won't be about war.

Beirut is a beautiful city. The new traffic lights cannot but call my attention. Like jewels they shine beneath trees and on secondary roads. Red and green and orange.

Today I leave Beirut for the umpteenth time. And tomorrow I come back.

Like a naughty kid, I kick it and humiliate it. And like a hungry kid I long for it. And like any other kid, I have to accept it.

Beirut gives me the life, Beirut destroys me. It gives me the passion, it teaches me to hate. It hates me and loathes me and spits me on the coasts of foreign cities in the sea of my dreams, then it pulls me back.

I once visited Turkey in the future. And loved it. I wanted to die in it. But Beirut calls, and like in any super orientalist fantasy says, "Even death here is more dramatic, you don't want a boring death".

Right. Nobody wants a boring death. I'll probably want to die in Beirut one day. Maybe one day, I'll even want to live in it. Maybe one day, I'll want to live in it every day. And maybe one day, I'll wish I died in it one day. Maybe one day, I'll even wish I died in it every day.

But maybe, maybe, and only maybe, one day I'll wish I lived in it every day.

Broken Sentences - 2

Tuesday, July 14, 2009 at 2:43am

Sometimes I run out of stuff to waste time on, so I decide to check the NEWS. Believe it or not. And today I discovered (I hope I figured that out right) that Lebanon still does not have a government. The parliamentary election results were announced on Monday, June 8th, 2009. That is more than one month ago.

FUN FACT: On the right side of my laptop screen an ad says: "Where to Pee in NYC".

Yesterday is everything that happened before I wake up tomorrow.
Yesterday, I was a little girl in Beirut with a very good handwriting. Teta once picked me from the balcony to keep me away from the glass during the bombing. As much as she would never remember a tiny detail like that; as much the more I will. 1986.
And yesterday, I was waiting to register for the first time in the long corridor of the Fine Arts bldg in LAU. I wrote my name down on a yellow paper hung on the door of Hala's office. There were few names before mine. One must have been for sure the name of Rouba Korfali. 1997.
Yesterday, I found myself living in a huge house alone in Qatar, acting like a movie star, trying to find myself somewhere in the hundreds of DVDs or hiding inside a guitar. 2005.
Yesterday I was here in Hollins, stepping on American soil for the first time, waiting to find out what is America. 2008.

I'm almost a year away from getting what I always wanted. A screenwriting degree. A dream will come true. THIS is America. Dreams can come true when you plan.

FUN FACT#2: I already know that I will be RANDOMLY selected for the special security check at Dulles Airport when am leaving USA on August 1st. THIS is also America.

This is not a blog entry. This is a Classified Ad. If you found HOME please post the directions.
No bullshit please. Home is not where the heart is.
Hearts have been upgraded to Credit Card colors.
Last I checked, home was where the money was.

RIDDLE: Now the money is gone. Where is home?

Broken Sentences - 1

Thursday, June 4, 2009 at 5:41pm

Is facebook, twitter, myspace, and social networking media shaping the way we think these days?
I find myself during the day lighting up the lamp in my head and telling myself, "This is a good status for Facebook some day". "This has to go on xyz". " I definitely MUST tweet this".

Ras Al Abed (yeah I know its a racist name but this is its name) and Fairouz, are the only things that can unite the Lebanese people. I suggest we utilize them both to restore the broken ties between people.

Election Season.
The expats are going to Lebanon - free tickets.
The people of Akkar and Baalbek (and other areas also) are going places inside Lebanon - free buses - free sandwiches - free laban ayran - free pepsi cans.
Meanwhile, my mind is going coocoo (for free of course), and the whole thing makes me think, please God fast forward the day of judgement. This farce has to stop.

Oh, wait a minute. I am re-thinking the above statement.
Those who don't go on these free "mashaweer", they do that out of what used to be called "principles" or a "Matter of conscience". These terms are now extinct, and you get laughed at if you can really spell them properly. Get lost Niam. Seriously. What year do you live in? duh.

I am still trying to find a reason for why did the Lebanese Civil War happen altogether. If anybody has a clue please let me know. If your answer is Israel or the Palestinians please say it without much elaboration. I now know the cliches.

Sometimes I think again of Naher El Bared. On these second thoughts, everything is blurred. Did this camp exist? What took me up there? Why did I fall in love with a doomed place? Maybe it vanished because I loved it. I should never ever love a person or a place or anything again. They often tend to disappear.

This woman, whose name I forgot, was overrun by a car in downtown Beirut. Her son and daughter disappeared during the war. They are probably dead, and -hopefully- buried somewhere. She had been staying downtown to call the attention of the authorities to find her children. I am not into politics at all, but sometimes I wonder why does none of our big mouthed courageous *** (insert correct word in brackets) politicians ever ask about her kids? And why do none of the free mashaweer people ever think of these mothers and fathers and kids before they board their free mashaweer vehicles?

When May delivered her baby, the women cried. All of them. I even cast a tear or two. But I saved them knowing I will shed them later at the right moment. The AUH is a very horrible place for me to be at. Even for a lovely occasion like witnessing the birth of my neice. But this time I was thinking about Mommy. IF the AUH for ME is a horrible place, how horrible can it be for Mom? Whoever knows knows and whoever doesn't doesn't. When May was taken away from us to the operating room, I thought; how does it feel when the child is taken away from the mother. And does DEATH flash in her eyes when her child is taken away? The child may not ever come out alive from this room.
How did it feel when I was taken in to that room when I was just a kid? And how did it feel when Bayan went in when she was an infant? And how did it feel when a child was gone forever in a room in that place before that?

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.