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".