Dreams of Water.
Home / Dec.2006 / Beirut, Lebanon / Nikon FG
... You know, sometimes I think these are the very things that give me comfort, Salah says, gesturing at the places and people around them. The thought that everything will continue to change no matter how hard I try to stop it from doing so. That I will grow steadily older, through different and better defines, and that because of this there will always be newness in me too. He pauses. Coming to this city has made me understand many things that I had not been aware of before. It's made me think of myself in a different way.
Aneesa nods.
That's happened to me too. But what about all the things we left behind when we left home?
They're still here. He stops and looks at her. You must feel the same way too?
I can't forget everything that's happened, she replies. Bassam, my father and what's happened to our country. I can never put those things behind me.
That's not what I meant, Salah says, shaking his head. It's not a question of forgetting.
What is it then, Salah? What do you think I am meant to do?
He runs a trembling hand over his hair and smiles.
Just be happy my dear. Do just that."
Jarrar, Nada Awar. Dreams of Water (p:44-45). HarperCollinsPublishers, London, 2007.
Labels: books, memories_ nostalgia
It's my party and I'll cry if I want to. [Moon Over Scorpio]
Confused / Nov.4.2007 / Montréal, Qc / Canon Eos Digital Rebel XTiWhy do we, Scorpios, always get depressed on our birthdays?
I am 30 years old today.
I had a bad dream last night. I rarely have nightmares, because I usually control my dreams. I have been told many times by my friends, that this was almost impossible to do, and that it is freaky that I can do so. But I promise you I can.
I can just imagine a scene, sleep, dream about it, and wake up the next day in full content mode. I remember every detail of the scene, and I remember that I dreamed it. I dream in color and sound also.
Last night I had a bad dream. I was running and I was hiding. I woke up, looked at wife's angelic face seeking help... she was sleeping. I closed my eyes again, and I continued running. I was all alone.
After hours of running and ducking all around the city, I ended up hiding in the attic, in my old parents' house in Beirut. My aggressors were looking for me in the house. Thank God the house was empty, and they were not able to harm my parents. I was defending the fort on my own.
I waited until my attackers went into my old room, and from the attic, I closed my eyes and threw in a grenade. Right into my old room. Right into my memories. It fucking tore me apart, but I had to do it. I had to do it you see, they were talking and threatening that they were going to kill everySOUL I loved. So instead, I preferred to destroy them along with everyTHING I loved, and I had once owned. Every memory, and everything that has ever made me smile.
The fatality of the story is that it was all for nothing. In my dream, I was being accused of something I had not done. I was innocent. The system was so corrupt and absurd, that there was no use explaining to them that I had nothing to do with what they were accusing me of. There was nowhere for me to plead my case. I was a criminal by designation, and I had to run. I was forced to fight for my life.
To save my life, I had to destroy my past. I blew it all up with a fucking grenade.
I miss my parents. I miss my old house. I miss my Beirut.
I decided that I should go back home for Christmas. Back to the old memories I blew up when I left.
I am 30 years old today.
Labels: birthday, delirium, khawater, memories_ nostalgia, ramblings
Rasta Surprise [ages 3 and above].
I received this image by email a couple of years ago. I cam across it again, when I was cleaning my hard disk a few days earlier... I find this simulation hilarious, and super smart.
I belong to the generation that used to be able to buy a Kinder Surprise egg for lira w noss (1.5 Lebanese Lira)... do you remember those days? There were many things one could buy for lira w noss back then. It's like it was the magical number where all the joys and desires of a kid were attainable for just lira w noss.
Kinder Surprise was, and still is my favorite treat. I love the chocolate, and the little toy inside is just great. I used to spend close to five minutes watching the eggs, trying to figure out which one I was going to buy, then I would pick up the selected egg, and shake it close to my ear. This may give away the game contained inside. Depending on the sound the egg emits, you could figure out the level of complexity of the toy, and therefore whether you are going to like it or not. I still collect a lot of these toys... I still have boxes filled with Kinder toys, and if you visit my apartment, you are guaranteed to find those little thingies just laying around here and there around my place, on the shelves, in the plants, and between books.
I love Kinder Surprise.... w bi lira w noss.
And I love this 3D model; Uber Intelligent.
Labels: Chocolate, Funnies, Kinder Surprise, memories_ nostalgia, ramblings
Counting on Lebanon. [3iddo ma3e]
Bel Awwal...- wa7ad ken 3am bi3edd iyyemo bel 7abess w aymtan byotla3.
- wa7ad ken 3am bi3edd sle7ato w swarikho w kamm 3adou bitayyir.
- wa7ad ken 3am bi3edd iyyemo bel manfa w aymtan byerja3 ta ysir ra2iss.
- wa7ad ken 3am bi3edd mosriyyeto w dolarato w ya rabb ykawtro.
Halla2, t7alafo shwayy w saro...
- wa7ad 3am bi3edd baddo ya3rif el 7a2i2a.
- wa7ad 3am bi3edd kamm yom sarlo bel cheri3.
w ana, men wa2ta la halla2, w men warahoun...
- 3am 3idd iyyem el ghorbeh.
----
this post reads:
At first,
One was counting days in prison, for the day he gets out.
One was counting his weapons and rockets and how many enemies he could kill.
One was counting his days in exile, for the day he returns to become president.
One was counting his moneys, hoping to multiply his dollars.
Now, they struck alliances and became...
One counting down to know the truth.
One counting how many days he's been in the street.
As for me... since, and because of them,
I'm counting my days abroad.
Labels: 3_squares, memories_ nostalgia, patriotism, politics, ramblings, sketches
Slow Jams.
We used to wait for Saturday nights.
Every Saturday we would go out clubbing. Most of us did not even have cars, and our parents used to drive us (Public Transportation in Lebanon is not that elaborate). The ambiance in the clubs used to be very dim, dark and dull. We would dance to weird ass songs, order colorful cocktails (Jamaica sans alcohol please), and a coke to back it up. [Just in case, you never know]At the end of the night, the DJ would bestow on us slow songs. It was the moment we all waited to “legitimately” touch our partners; our partners being of course of the opposite sex (you couldn’t be gay back then). We get close, we whisper, we touch and caress. We sometimes French kiss.Then we each go to their home (with a little stop somewhere along the way). We call each other the next day. …Now male or female, we have sex, smoke up, and go have dinner. Then we smoke up some more, and go for drinks. We then pop a pill and go dancing in an after-hour. We have sex while dancing, and smoke up some more to relax. We Dance.Pass by the greasiest 1-star restaurant in town, and eat the meanest sandwich ever. We go back home, have sex, and sleep.We wake up two days later, with a hard on. …And to hell with Saturday nights!
Labels: memories_ nostalgia
I3tisam la moubali. [nonchalant protest]
I sincerely apologize to non-Arabic reading friends for writing in Arabic without translation. I have been away from blog land [November hibernation], and I guess I needed that spontaneous outburst of nostalgia. I think I am back now.And to Arabic readers, I also apologize for posting in childish, MSNish typography. I cannot type in Arabic on my machine.----
Here’s an ordinary day, in the life of an architecture student… some years ago in Lebanon.
- Chou el shabeb!
- Chou hadrit janebak… mbayyin halla2 mcharrif! Eh bakkir rayyis!
- Chou fi, ma 3a asses i3tisam!
- Eh i3tisam. Bass i3tisam hone 3al daraj bel jem3a, mech 3indak bel beyt.
- Tayyib wlo bassita ma stafadet la nem shwayy. 3amil 2 nuits blanches... Tab eh chou sar chou 3melto lyom, min nezil.
- Nezlo ktar walla. Ma 7adan fet 3al sfouf! Bass fi T.P. ba3d el doher.
- Baddak tsalli7?
- No ma chtaghalet chi.
- Lesh?
- Ma kenna 3am n7addir lal i3tisam wlak chou osstak.
- Ah eh! Tab lek ana nezil 3al cafette. Micho hone?
- Eh chefto men shwayy.
- Wayno?
- Ma ba3rif ken hone.
- Tayyib bchoufak…
- Marhaba Abou Hisham!
- Ahla ahla! Chou mannak mo3tosim ma3oun?
- Mbala bass halla2 jit.
- Eh 3a mahlak.
- Wlak lah ya zalame bass kint te3ben. Lek 3tine we7de coca cola w 3ilbit gitanes lights 3mol ma3rouf.
- Tfaddal!
- Merci. Lek jebet bayd kinder?
- La2 3aboukra.
- Eh la boukra w 3laykoun kheyr.
- W 3lek.
- Merci habibi. Tab lek la otla3 chouf weyn saro holeh.
- B2ayyedoun?
- Eh 2ayyedoun.
- Allah ma3ak.
- Bkhatrak.…
- Hi Sandra kifik?
- Ca va kifak inta?
- Mni7. Tlo3te la fo2?
- Eh halla2 kint 3al daraj, inta tali3?
- Eh halla2 tali3, yalla bchoufik.
- Bye.…
- Eh chabeb… Ze7le shwayy.
- Chou weyn sorna?
- A3din.
- Eh mne23oud.
- Min hay?
- Wlek hay sa7ebto la chou esmo… 3refto? hayda yalli hek chaklo. Mech mnel jem3a hiyye.
- Ah ok! Walla bass mahdoumeh chakla.
- Eh ma beha chi.…
- chou al 3am bi2oulo ma fi architecture lyom.
- Min allak?
- El moudir halla2, al asetzit el T.P. mech jeyine lyom.
- Ya 3eyn!
- Ya leyl.
- Tab chou baddkoun ta3mlo. Betrou7o nel3ab counterstrike?
- Wlak ma a3din 3al daraj chou osstak.
- Khalas ana zhe2et, tali3 3al beyt.
- Eh rou7.
- Bchoufkoun boukra.
- Bye.
- 7kineh 3achiyye.
- Ok.…
- Bonsoir! Kifik immeh.
- Ahlan habibe kif ken nharak?
- Ma 3melna chi kenna mo3tosmin?
- Kermel chou?
- Chou bi3arrefne… chi… el hay2a el tollabiyye.
- Ya haram hal chabeb ya 3amme.
- Chou bi3arrefne... Ra7 de22 lal chabeb yejo yo7daro el match, bi2assir?
- La ma bi2assir to2borne, 3zemoun.
- Fi 3inna bira?
- Ma bi2addo yemkin!
- Tab ra7 enzal jib shwayy, baddik chi men el dikken?
- La habibe, re7et ana w bayyak jebna kteer ghrad mnel supermarket lyom.
- Tayyib halla2 berja3... Bekhoud cutie?
- Halla2 ra7it hiyye w Melany.
- Tayyib. El Baba hone? Byo7dar el match ma3na?
- Ma Ba3ref ya7ou jouwwa 3am bizabbit chaghle.
- Tayyib halla2 bes2alo.
- Al okhtak l7a2a eza baddak, yahiyye sohrane hone 3ind Sara.
- La badde o7dar el match ana wel shabeb halla2.
- Metel ma baddak.
- Eza da22it Emily, oulila nzelet takke 3mele ma3rouf.
- Tayyib.
- Akid ma baddik chi?
- Eh eh habibe khalas.
- Yalla bye.
- Bye. Labels: memories_ nostalgia
The Last Summer Days. [Akher Iyyam el Sayfiyyi]
The nice and short summer of Montreal is now quasi-over. But I like this season. In Lebanon, we used to get it much later during the year, but the feel (weather) is quite similar. Especially around the end of September, and October. In the morning you are very comfortable and warm, with a breeze here and there, and during the night, it stings just a little so that you need to cover up, but with a happy cuddly face.
It is just like that now in Montreal.
I came back from work at around 8:30 p.m. after a looong brain-draining work day. Laying one design after the other, by the end of my productive day, I was looking at the bustling metropolis surrender to the night, with sore blurry eyes.
Blink, blink, blink!
It burns, my eyes dried out of tears.
Blink, blink, blink!
At the bus stop, and before I walk home, I passed by the Pakistani baker just around the corner. He works in a small Jewish café, and he prepares the best samosa in French Canada. I am not too fond of spicy food. I know I am Lebanese and middle-eastern and such, but hey! I just can’t tolerate onions, garlic, or heavy spices. But I couldn’t resist my craving. It was one of those foods you eat while knowing that the next day you’ll be stuck with an acute stomach ache, but your masochistic appetite begs to differ, and convinces you that tending to this sudden, instinctive desire, is the reason you are alive to begin with.
You only live for a short while; go ahead. Have a Blast!
I pick up “nostalgia” at my doorstep, and together, we enter the lonely world of memories, the world of living in the past, and the world of days long gone.
Shower
….Our memento tonight, takes us back to 1975. This year did not just witness the beginning of the “Great Lebanese War” (1975-1990), but it also witnessed happier times: “Mais el Reem”, a famous Rahbani play starring the International Lebanese Diva, Fairouz, was entertaining the Lebanese public. This “play” (as are all Rahbani plays) is charged with images and scenes, portraying the authentic, pure and simple lives of Lebanese dwelling in villages that inhabit the flanks of the mountains and are scattered throughout the country. Not only these images are long gone now (we never really lived them), but our generation even goes to the extent of claiming that they weren’t real to begin with, and they exist only in the Rahbani plays; or at least they don’t exist anymore. But strangely enough, these are the same images that we call to mind, once we speak of nostalgia, remembrance and recollection. It is these images (or similar) on to which we zoom-in whenever we need to summon to our memory, a nice, quiet, and peaceful tableau, where we can hide safely, and even for a little while, and escape the reality we do not want to deal with.
I play the DVD, and a smile is drawn onto my face.
It works every time.
Twenty minutes through my peace, and my voyage, I get awaken by the sudden urge to hug my notebook… and start writing…
Well…
Here it is! I wrote this.
Fairouz’s acting is hilarious! “Akher iyyam el sayfiyyi, wel sabiyyi shwayyi shayyi”. [The last summer days]
“Mais el Reem” also features one of my favorite songs of all time:
“Ya Laure Houbbouki” [Laura's Love]
----
addendum:
A little while ago a friend blogger, zee, wrote this spot-on comment regarding a blog, posted on Mar’s Comppulsive Yearnings, and this post falls in the same category:
“In some ways I can't resist to say that you all live in a sentimental bourgeois dream that has nothing to do with reality. Sorry, but this was on my mind for quite a while ...”
I thought about what he wrote for days, and I honestly and sincerely thnk that this was by far, one of the best constructive critiques I received in years (a beautiful insight from zee). I am not even sure that we sould take it, or consider it as criticism.
However, I allow myself to speak on behalf of most of my compatriots, zee… When I say that we do agree with what you advanced, you are absolutely right, and we know it, but in a way we can’t help it. This is the only authentically beautiful thing we have left, and together with our sense of humor and our love for life, these are the things that keep us going despite all the madness.
These memories are our balance.
----
UPDATE 1:
PLEASE READ THE COMMENTS SECTION OF THIS POST.
UPDATE 2:
THANKS TO EVE AND HILAL, YOU CAN NOW LISTEN TO FAIROUZ's VERSION OF "LAURA's LOVE" (YA LAURE HOUBBOUKI) IF YOU CLICK HERE, OR ON THE TITLE IN THE BODY OF THE TEXT (ABOVE).
UPDATE 3:
PLEASE READ COLLAGE OF OUR NOSTALGIC RAMBLINGS ON MIRVAT's PASSING FOR NORMAL.
Labels: memories_ nostalgia
Dearest Uncle! [my reply]
my reply:
----
Dearest Uncle_
“The world is changed; I can feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth; I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost, for none now live to remember it” – excerpt from the Lord of the Rings.
Beautiful words and souvenirs...
As your favorite nephew (I am the only nephew you have, as you keep on reminding me), I think I've heard these stories at least 50 times, and never gotten bored or tired of hearing them again and again. I can assure you that I will never forget those memories and many many more like them. Not only because you can tell a story so well, but because they were and still are images and scenes of dreams and fairy tales we wished we lived, or even had a taste of.
Our generation did not live these years. We were born during the war. We are children of war. The generation of my parents (your generation) did so well in passing on those memories to their children, because it was pretty much everything "good" and "positive" they could pass on during those years of atrocities, wars and killings.
We embraced your memories and your souvenirs, as our own. They used to be our own stories to our friends at school. Our original own stories, were… not so nice, to say the least.
It is funny. I feel so stupid now. It is a little bit embarrassing that a little while ago, I chose the topic of my Master of Urban Design Thesis to be dealing with “the memory of the Lebanese war”.
I even stood proudly in front of an esteemed “Ivy league” panel of professors and smart students, and delivered a heartfelt presentation about the memory of the war my country had to endure, and what my idiotic solutions to it were. They were impressed. They clapped and cheered. I was looking for a way to publish it even.
What a moron! I was duped. They must think I am a hypocrite.
The war is not a memory anymore. The war is now a harsh reality; facing us yet again. A reality that is bitter, disgusting, and heartbreaking. After all dreams and the high hopes we laid and planned for our country, the reality of this unexpected war becomes really hard to swallow.
A few days ago we were angry and sad, talking and discussing how Zidane, the French captain, lost it and “buttheaded” the Italian player. What a pity. It was the talk of the town. We were all sad!
Then KABOOM! An invasion!
Is it the destiny of a Lebanese to be constantly in a state of war? A war which most of the time, she/he has nothing to do with? Nobody wants a war. Nobody deserves a war. But the Lebanese never had a saying in this. Was there an eighth day we weren’t aware of, when “God” just woke and up and said: “Let there be war in Lebanon, for ever and ever”.
This big spaceship called earth needs a war somewhere to keep the action going on.
- Hey I have an idea! Let’s make of Lebanon our battlefield playground! (said the rest of the world) Are my children going to be war children too? I don’t want them to be.
What souvenirs I am going to pass on to them? What happy thoughts am I going to blow into their souls and minds? I have none. Even my own memories of war are being erased now; since as I said the war is a memory no more. They are wiping out my memory, and the memory of my people.
But that is not true either… I have your memories; yours and my parents’. And I also have those of a beautiful childhood I had, despite everything.
I’ll use them, and they will be passed on to generations next, this I promise you. Don’t worry khal! Those memories will never fall into oblivion. They will be carried on. A country that had no real chance of glowing, prospering and being beautiful, in the real world, will surely be a poem in our memories, and the memories of our children after us.
And the story lives on…
Labels: memories_ nostalgia
Dearest Uncle! [our memories]
For years now, my uncle and I kept a series of emails, letters and correspondences. With his permission, I am posting his latest letter, and my reply.
z.
----
Dear Family and Friends,
Mdeirej is a little village at the intersection of two main axes:
- the Beirut-Damascus highway and
- the road linking the Chouf with the Upper Metn region, the first villages of which along that road being Hammana on the Metn side and Ain Dara on the Chouf side.
I spent the first 10 years of my life in that little village; I went to school in Hammana, and, because of the difficulty in logistics (the road being available-- due to snowfall- some 50% of the time in winter) I was sent to school at the age of 7. We had a house and a fruit and vegetable garden there, and I spent a wonderful childhood in that village, mostly doing mountain climbing in the summer, hunting for birds.
The unskilled laborers working for my father were for the most part from the neighboring villages: Hammana, Falougha, Ras-el-Metn, Ain Dara, Azzounieh, Aghmeed, Sofar, Bhamdoun, to name a few. As a result of my father's professional involvement I knew many families in the region and, in the Summer time, some of the workers used to bring along their children to play with me while they were doing their job.
Consequently, Mdeirej holds a special place in my memory; the hospitality of the neighboring villages, the conviviality, the natural beauty of its surrounding villages, the plentiful supply of water springs in the mountains where I used to go hunting, etc. Nothing can erase those souvenirs from my memory. On Sundays, when I used to go hunting (or simply doing some hiking), some of the fruit orchard owners would be tending to their property; unmistakably, each and everyone of them, at every orchard we pass, would invite me and my cousin Charles to stop by for a bunch of grapes, a basket of cherries, some apples, some pears, a basket of figs (in September); these memories are to die for. (Perhaps that's what is required of us at this time?!)
After we moved to Beirut, we kept our property there and used to spend the summers in Mdeirej; at 1,500 meter. of altitude above sea level the late afternoons are rather chilly, not to mention early evenings and later. If one sleeps for 5 hours, one feels like new in the morning. Then the 1975 war occurred in Lebanon and in their advance on Hammana, coming from the Chouf side, the Palestinians and the so called national forces pillaged our property and destroyed it completely.
The house is gone, now Mdeirej is shelled, but the memories remain; and I am sending copies of this mail to my daughter, my niece and my nephew, so that the memory goes on, to the next generation; perhaps some day there will be a story to tell.
Cheers, in spite of it all.
Labels: memories_ nostalgia
Seeing the World with "Round" Eyes.
Lothar Matthaus, my favorite player of all times.
In November 1989 the Berlin Wall fell. East and West Germany were united again. With the withering of the physical divide, mental geographies morphed, and the fatality of the wall was reduced to a mere image…a memory.
Ideologies were changing, dogmas we being crushed, and yet another communism fails... Families were united again; friends and loved ones embraced one another after a long and painful separation that lasted 28 years.
The world was changing, History was being written, and all I was thinking about is that the German Football team (the Mannschaft) was only going to get stronger with the addition of the likes of Mathias Sammer, and Andreas Thom to the West German elite.
Ten days are left before the FIFA World Cup 2006 kicks-off. I wish I could go. Ever since it was decided that Germany will be hosting the 18th tournament, I thought this is it! I am going to be there, and become part of this amazing event…
All my life I played, and loved this game; it made me dream. It is really a pity that I now live in a country where I am not able to watch and follow my ultimate passion, as much as I used to.
If I was in Lebanon right now, a giant German flag would be dangling down my balcony. It is the season when Lebanese take on, and adopt international identities (Germany, Brazil, Italy, France...) and become fervent supporters of "their chosen countries"...
Good luck Germany! (Although I am afraid of what the artist Ronaldinho can do)
If you have some time to spare, take a break, and watch this video clip.
It amuses me to think and imagine that the situation in Lebanon shouldn't have been too different, between two roadblocks during the "events" of 1975 -1990. During the war period, four world cups passed. Warring factions supported their own chosen teams. They had to keep busy in order to withstand the atrocity and the bitterness of what was happening. I am sure many goals were scored, but who were the winners? That, I guess, will never be disclosed.
If I may, here is a recommended reading for Football fanatics like myself:
I recently read a very interesting book that I think you should check out: How Soccer Explains the World, by Franklin Foer. He is a journalist that basically traveled around the world, and interviewed people from peculiar Football milieus, and the communities that live and breathe around their Football clubs; the clubs that soon become extension to their own being.
Photo source: www.lotharmatthaeus.de
Labels: memories_ nostalgia
Ode to a Polaroid!
My fascination with Polaroid technology goes years back.
I remember one year, on a sunny Palm Sunday (sunny as it should be) I was on my grandfather's shoulders (as every kid should be) carrying a giant white candle, when one of my technology buff uncles joined us for the march. It was a beautiful day, everybody was prettied-up, and parents were hailing their kids with pictures...
Everybody had a camera, but his was exceptionally more interesting than most. He always had the "top-of-the-line" toy to bring along, and tickle our greatest curiosity and amusement.
- Look here... Smile! he said...
click!
Soon enough, he pulled a square format sheet of film from the bottom of the camera, and there I was... just as I had been a few moments ago... on my grandfather's shoulders.
A photograph usually freezes the moment! One snap and your present becomes an immediate past, with only a mental representation; your memory... You can still revisit it and reminisce whenever you call for that particular instance in your memory, or through another rather physical representation... the picture!
Your photo repertoire (album, digital folder...) becomes an indexification of your past in your memory. You pull out a picture, and there it is... Flashback to the past!
But this photosensitive process is a little different in a Polaroid. To my mind, It even carries more meaning and depth... and is actually funny in a way! By definition and theoretically Polaroid cameras are supposed to be instant cameras, they are everything but:
Your history "appears" in front of you... it surprises you... almost like remembering glimpses of your past after amnesia... Snaps and shots... your past is fragmented, indexed on paper, and you take on past knowledge as you move through these indexes... these icons...
Polaroids are visually and sensibly connected and layered with the past. This memento, give us the chance to, instantly, see what we have seen...
We wait in the present, which actually is the immediate past, for something from the past to appear in the near future, that is soon to become present, and then past...
Labels: memories_ nostalgia
al Bosta [the bus]
I saw al "Bosta" tonight!You know, at first I thought that in some instances the colors and the set design were exaggerated. Actually, in general, the movie is vivid and abundant in meaning, insinuations and analogies. Because it is musical, I sort of dreaded the fall into the Bollywood trap, but then again, there are too many stories to tell! We have too many things to say; I would have done the same. This movie is defying and defining Lebanese Cinema. The Director (Philippe Aractinji) must have had many dilemmas while editing his ideas... It is ok! He is trying as we all are and should! We did not yet reconcile with our past in order to go on. This is a step; the one that comes after would surely be more refined. The next one will surely be more sophisticated while better structured as per the words of Kobena Mercer.The music was nice, the Landscape sublime, the photography fantastic, and the acting was great. It triggers good feelings of nostalgia, especially when I sat with many of these actors on the same steps of the same university at the same time. It brought back many memories and rich souvenirs. I thought that it was both brain filling and heart touching... A wonderful movie.If it is "remembered" that the war [the events] started with a bus, why not re-live it and maybe try to end it with a bus! Take the bus and tour Lebanon with it!On another note...and that is just for my own healing and learning...There were some instances in the movie where I felt uncomfortable. Like for example, the two scenes where we see a herd of goats... At the beginning in a pick-up truck and then when they journeyed through the villages. To my mind, you don't see this scene very often (I lived in cities as well as in rural settings), and therefore two appearances were a bit too much for one movie. Why was I even compelled and forced to doubt whether it was a real life depiction, or a construct? Maybe it is true to the representation and maybe it is not... that is not the point. Was I ashamed of what the "foreigners" would say (the notorious Lebanese paranoia)? I was proud of the movie to the point that I was eager to show it off, while at the same time, I wanted to dissimulate and attenuate a reality that still exists in my "urban" world... A reality that is now reminiscent to the uncivilized, the primitive and the old. I instinctively and subconsciously decided to archive the traditional, the genuine and the "classic" in oblivion!"beyn ba3edna meche el 7al! bass mech eddem el ajenib!" (Not in front of the "foreigners").Too bad I am such a hypocrite! Too bad for my sake.Kamal is, in the end, every Lebanese that left, saw, lived and experienced something else, and then came back home looking. Digging the hurtful past while others who stayed behind, tried to forget and go on, is not a very welcomed attitude... And often, it is countered with hatred, sarcasm and belittling. Like the accusation that Kamal does not care, or the insinuation to the fact that he left and they stayed behind, therefore they are more Lebanese than he is and are entitled more to decide how to deal with Lebanese memory, history and identity...It is not easy, looking the beast in the eyes and then walking away. But we have to reconcile our past in order to move on. Our generation did start the war... But we lived it... We had to suffer its consequences. The wound is still open, fragile and apparent. It is time to ponder upon it, understand it, make peace with it... And move on!remember/bleed, understand/heal, debate...and move on; always with a glance to your past... respect it, understand it and learn from it... it could easily come back to haunt you!Labels: memories_ nostalgia
Home / Dec.2006 / Beirut, Lebanon / Nikon FG
