كل الحق على ايلي حبيقه

بما ان لغز انقطاع الكهرباء ما زال معلق - كما اسلاك سرقة الكهرباء من الجيران- ما بين البواخر، والجباية، وتجار المولدات والمازوت، يتبدى لي، ان المسؤولية كاملة، ومن دون ادنى شك، تقع على كاهل وزير الموارد المائية والكهربائية السابق ايلي حبيقة.  ومع ان خبرات وتجارب العديد من وزرائنا السابقين واللاحقين تتشابه وتجربة السيد حبيقة فإن المسؤولية تقع طبعاً عليه دون غيره، لأنه اولاً، خدم الفترة الأطول في الوزارة، كما انه ثانياً، وزير الطاقة الوحيد، منذ العام ١٩٩٠، الذي انتقل الى رحمة ربه (مما يسمح بتقييم ادائه، وفقاً لأصول محاسبة الزعماء في لبنان).

من يذكر منكم بدايات مرحلة "اعادة الأعمار" بعد انتهاء حربنا الأهلية الأطول واتفاقنا طائفياً (نسبة الى مدينة الطائف طبعاً) على الغفران والمصالحة (فيما بين زعمائنا قبل اي شيئ)، يدرك ان تصالحنا انتج فيما انتج، وزيراً للطاقة، علمته ميادين الاقتتال الداخلي ادارة الوزارات والمصالح العامة، بما يتناسب وحجم مسوولية اعادة الكهرباء الى البلاد. ويصح القول ان الوزير السابق ارسى البنيان الذي على اساسه تعمل الوزارة اليوم، وتُتحفنا كما باقي مؤسسات الدولة بإنجازاتها. 

قبل ايام، وانا احاول التسكع في احد اسواق بيروت، ادركت مدى استفادتنا من تجاربنا السابقة في ادارة اوضاعنا، وارتباطنا المستمر بعراقة ماضينا، حين ذكرتني عتمة ورطوبة المحلات التجارية المنقطعة فيها الكهرباء، وأصوات المولدات الصغيرة الممتدة في الشارع التجاري المسمى سياحي، بالأعوام الأخيرة من الحرب اللبنانية. حتى الوجوه التي افرغها حر آب من تعابيرها، بدت كأنها لبائعين ما زالوا على حالهم منذ عام ١٩٨٧، ينتظرون عودة الكهرباء. المهارات التي تعلمناها في حربنا سيئة الذكر لم تذهب سدى، واليوم نحن قادرين على ايجاد الحلول "الفردية"، لمشاكلنا العامة باتقان نُحسد عليه. فكل مواطن لبناني،  تخطى مرحلة اضاءة الشموع عند انقطاع الكهرباء، ويعرف على الأقل كيف يشغل مولداً صغيراً، وكيف يستخدم بطارية سيارته ليشاهد المسلسل الرمضاني، وان لزم الأمر، كيف يمكنه ان "يمد بريز" برضاً من جاره او عدمه. 

ربما لم يكن ليتسنى لنا الحفاظ على تراثنا المعرفي في مجال الكهرباء وانقطاعها، لو اننا قمنا يومها، كما طالب البعض، بمحاكمة مجرمي الحرب على ما ارتكبوه من مجازر تعود ذكرى احداها هذا الشهر، ولربما حرمنا الاستفادة من خبرات الوزير حبيقة لو ان مطالبنا بكشف مصير ما يزيد على السبعة عشر الف مفقود في الحرب اللبنانية، استجيب لها في حينها.

صديقي اسماعيل

البارحة صباحاً، يوم الخميس ١٨\٩ تم اعتقال صديقي اسماعيل.. على حاجز للجيش اللبناني في منطقة العبدة وهو في طريقه لاجتماع في مخيم نهر البارد. اسماعيل، الناشط الدؤوب بمصداقيته وأفكاره المثالية  ما زال سجيناً، وقد تمت احالته الى المحكمة العسكرية .. صديقي اسماعيل لم يخرق القانون.. بل كتب في مقال نشر في صحيفة السفير منذ ثلاثة اشهر (لقرائة المقال) عن مهزلة ما يجري في مخيم نهر البارد، الذي ما زال، ثلاث سنوات بعد تدميره، ركاماً: 

وليست المشكلة بنقص التمويل أو بوجود تحديات تقنية – أبدا – بل ان أساس المشكلة يكمن في السياسة التي تتبعها الدولة اللبنانية إزاء المخيم، وذلك على كل مستويات الدولة: التنفيذية منها والتشريعية والعسكرية الموكلة بملف الإعمار، بما في ذلك الوزارات والدوائر الحكومية واللجان والمسؤولون والقيادات والمستشارون

ثلاث سنوات مضت وليس هناك ما أعيد إعماره باستثناء أعمدة وأسقف الطوابق الأولى لثلاثين مبنى من أصل 1900 مبنى. والإعمار «الجاري» معطل ومؤجل ومؤَخَر بسبب «باقة» من القوانين والإجراءات والتعقيدات والبيروقراطيات الشائكة. في غضون ذلك، تنْفُذْ معونات الأونروا المخصصة كبدل إيجارات لثلاثين ألف نازح ما زالوا ينتظرون حتى اللحظة إعادة إعمار بيوتهم. كما يستمر منع أهالي المخيم من الدخول إليه ومن إعمار منازلهم بأنفسهم، أو حتى من نصب خيم فوق أراضي بيوتهم. وهم أيضا ممنوعون، بسبب الحصار الأمني والعسكري القائم منذ ثلاث سنوات حول المخيم وفي محيطه، من ممارسة أعمالهم وتجارتهم وأي شكل من أشكال حياتهم اليومية بشكلها… الطبيعي

صديقي اسماعيل يحاكم غداً، بسبب تعبيره عن رأيه، ربما املاً ان تسكته، وتسكتنا جميعاً من بعده، سلطة الترهيب. هي تلك السلطة من جديد، التي تهددنا بحرب اهلية، او بانفجار هنا او هناك، او باغتيال سياسي، او زيارة مخابراتية. هي السلطة ذاتها، مهما كان المسؤول عنها. هي السلطة التي اعلم انها لن تنتصر غداً.

Beirut's De(con)struction

2008 - From my balcony

2010 - From my balcony

The beautifully calligraphed verse of the Quran in the horrendous gold frame has been hanging on that same old nail sine sometime in the late 70’s. It was bought by your aunt after the week you spent in the hospital, to protect the family from the evil eye. It was, with no doubt as she says, the cause of the series of illnesses all of you had suffered, and this particular verse would counter it. Your mother hung it then, on that spare nail, thinking that she will soon find a better location for it. You now have to remove it, after 30 some years, wondering if the family will still be protected.

Houses were just like women you thought, and the house were you were born and grew up has changed and taken shape just like your mother moved through phases of her life. Here was the house she arrived to as a bride in the early sixties. She was pretty then, with soft eyes, a small build and the certainty that life will be kind and generous with her. The cold of the new tiles of that second floor apartment welcomed her chubby feet on that hot summer day when she cleaned them for the first time. This was the same day the big sofa arrived, the fridge, and the stove. The high wooden bed, on which many secrets were shared and a whole family brought into being, came a week later. From then on, both the house and your mother started building up the layers of warmth and memory.

The kitchen has almost reached perfection. There is nothing that has not been exhaustively used, and not an ingredient missing or without the appropriate shelf or jar. The pots and pans seem to have the ability to cook the exact amount that is needed for the family, and when they cooked more, the family had to expand; new children, new friends, nephews, nieces, lovers, wives, husbands, and grandchildren. Your mother measures nothing and follows no recipe. The pans seem to tell her how much of each ingredient to use, and if by any misfortune she had to cook in somebody else’s house her dishes always seem to fail. Some of those plates on the shelves are older than you. They have been downgraded though, from being fancy china only used for guests your mother sought to impress, to a couple stand alone dishes, complete sets of which have been broken over the years. That odd plate that remains is used only by her, for the fruit she has in the early evening on the balcony. Your memory resides in the corners of that kitchen, just like it does in every corner of the house; early morning labneh sandwiches for breakfast before school, the all too many bowls of lentil soup you had every winter, cold yogurt Ayran in hot summer afternoons, your attempts at contributing to the cake your mother was making.. they were all there, with the smells lingering in the pockets of memory you had well preserved.

You almost can’t go further, you think they might as well take it down with all it contains. But they want you to go through this - you need to hand them an empty house. You need to peel of the years these walls have witnessed layer by layer, and give it back to them clean and blank. Even cleaner than when you received it; you now have to empty it even out of hope, of the prospect of a tomorrow. The living room now looks empty without the sofa, which might be the only piece of furniture sturdy enough to survive the move. You are hoping your mother would be just as strong. You almost never imagined it could look that empty. Too small for a family of six, the room seemed to have expanded beyond its walls. The shelves have gone all the way up to the ceiling, heavy with what you and your siblings attempted to, or were forced into, filling your brains with; Marxist ideology books, with the necessary accompanying literature of Gorki and Tolostoy, Saadeh next to Aflaq. Nietzsche, Ghazali and Saadawi. All that you have devoured at one point and despised at another, many hidden behind not so elegant photo frames and vases, sitting on pieces of crochet knit by some grandmother. Munif, Kanafanni, Steinbeck, Orwell, and Marquez. The poetry of Drawish next to Lorca’s, al-Feytouri, Najem and to your dismay, Kabbani. And there were the ones you had forgotten all about, introduction to botany, principles of demography, and notes from the history 101 class. The cards you received for your teenage birthdays next to notes from a meeting of what seems too distant of an activism time. Stacks and stacks of archaeological evidence of how your and your siblings’ handwriting and life aspirations have changed in the past 40 years.

The living room had also claimed the balcony. One old sofa sits on the edge of it, the same one that has witnessed your damned first cigarette. In the other corner is the closet that was your sister’s when she was a baby, and become the space for all the odd things; empty plastic pots of all sizes, old table covers, rusty tools, pieces of cloth, wool, and needles. What a treasure box this was when you were a child! what toys have these shelves created again and again.

It was in the small space between the closet and the balcony edge where you hid as a child. That is where you went for solitude, for silence, for individuality. That is where -right before your mother came with a sandwich and the juicy sweet cucumber you adored- you had cried, convinced that had you died right that moment, nobody will notice. That was where you felt safe, protected by the proximity of the liveliness and noise coming from the living room and liberated by that piece of sky the balcony gave you. The sky had shrunk over the years, as the surrounding buildings were getting taller and taller. It is on that balcony corner that you wish to be today. Only that space would have felt safe now. But you are on some other balcony, watching your childhood house and years of memory, dribbling down like a string of beads that was just ripped apart.

2008 - From my balcony

2010 - From my balcony

                                                             

  

This post is one of several published by fellow female bloggers on #PhotosFromMyCity. The idea of a shared monthly theme came up in an event organized by Danish Pen, in Cairo in May 2010. This post is a much delayed one about Beirut, my city in text and photos, check out other post on this theme, between Jeddah and the US, Day in Vienna,  Mourning Cairo, Me in the City - Amman,  Mapping Copenhagen, and the below participating blogs and websites for other upcoming ones.
هدوء نسبي; ميرون; Manalaa; Noter ; مدونة; Shaden Blog; WHEN IS A CITY; لَسْتُ أدري; Zaghroda , 7iber , Torture in Egypt blog, Arab Digital Expression

The Jellyfish Attack

The events in this text took place in the right side of the brain of the writer; a pure random and imaginative act. Any resemblance to real events, characters, names, and places is a mere coincidence.

The text is inspired by the film "Dr. Strangelove" by Stanley Kubrick.

A Hot Sunday in June

The public Beirut hospital was full of patients as usual, even on a hot Sunday in the month of June… They came in running, wearing their Gucci swimming suits as they didn’t take the time to change. The burn on her leg was so unimaginably large with the intensity of a thousand suns.

-Did Israel bomb the Laguava Beach today with phosphorous chemicals? I didn’t hear anything on the news. The doctor said in shock.

-No sir, it is a jellyfish sting. But this Jellyfish is huge, almost 1.3m in Diameter with long tentacles stretching over 2m ahead. I have never seen a creature like that before. The girl answered with tears and pain.

The doctor tried as much as he could to heal the wound. The girl in yellow bikini left the hospital with a limp.

Three hours later, as the doctor’s shift was about to end, and as he was ready to leave, three cars stopped in front of the Emergency doors with seven patients coming out with the same exact burn!!!…

Horror in the streets

Within the next two weeks following that first jellyfish incident, one hundred people were hospitalized. Eleven of them are in serious conditions, while one young person is dead.

The local and international media, the schools, the taxi drivers, the families at home, the Facebook freaks; everybody is talking about the Jellyfish invasion.

Michel Hayek was surprised that he didn’t predict that tragedy coming, although he did speak about possible political assassinations taking place!

And the shiny summer that started as a haven for tourists from the entire Gulf, began to look gloomy and full of danger. The hotel reservations were dropping like autumn leaves. The beaches were arid. The economy, which is %98.7 based on touristy donations, was plunging into another crisis. The situation was catastrophic.

The politicians

The politicians were forced to react, urged by the growing sense of discontent within the public opinion. During the National Truce & Reconciliation meeting number 112, they agreed to switch from the Defense strategy & Hezbollah arms to the Jellyfish attacks.

They requested a civil investigation to be provided within 36 hours.

Two days later, the report was ready and they met again. The report allocated the jellyfish area in one condensed zone that spread over 5km along the shore and 2km deep into the sea. They listened to Sea Experts giving reasons for such huge jellies:

-With the artificial expansion of our Consumer Society, the explosion of the number of malls & supermarkets, the opening of Vero Moda & Moustache every 25 meters, and the absence of waste water treatment facilities, plastic bags were being dropped abundantly into the sea, and turtles were eating them and chocking to death: They are confusing them with jellies. An expert wearing brown glasses explained.

One politician asked:

-Can’t the sea turtles differentiate between bags & jellyfish?

The room was silent.

-Why are they so big then?

-Respected Sirs, the existence of the rich monumental and fruity Jabal of Zoubaleh near the city of Saida plus the direct drop of all our bodily fluids & trash into the sea are providing them with extra vitamins.

-What is the solution? Another frustrated Member of Parliament shouted.

-Without the turtles, I don’t know sir. The lady with the brown glasses answered.

The meeting continued for three more hours. At the end of the day, they didn’t agree on a common basic & simple solution or procedure.

In this limbo, troubling disagreement, and loud angry public opinion that crave for a solution, they all agreed on a very original idea:

Why don’t we let the Army take care of the Situation?

The Army

The commander of chief, the chief of staff, the deputy & generals met within 24 hours to respond to the urging call of the Politicians.

The generals quickly thought in their heads without any hesitation:

Why don’t we bomb the Sea?

Everybody agreed to that logical & natural strategy. They highlighted, on the bombing maps, the 5kmx2km area between Jiyyeh & Rmeileh. They called the Air Force, the navy and all field military experts who were in high command during the Nahr El Bared war.

The Air Force artillery

The Air Force quickly released its latest air weapons:

-The “Dove”: Its full name is De Havilland Dove. It was used by the British army in WWII as a military transport plane.

-The “Bulldog” Aircraft: A very good training aircraft from the 1970s.

-The Aerospatiale Puma Helicopter: It comes fully loaded with machine guns & canons. It appeared in the movies Rambo: First Blood II and III.

-The Cessna Caravan: It is the latest acquisition; a gift from the most powerful army in the world. It has the lightness of a gazelle and the aggressivity of a tiger. It is the Phoenician Bird in the sky and out of the ashes.

Cessna has been used by FedEx and DHL for the past 15 years…

The Action

After two and half months of continuous bombing of the sea using up to 350,000 rounds of soft-tipped bullets, and two hundred and fifty-five tons of small American-pre-approved-missiles, the results came as follows:

- 300 tons of fish was found dead on the shores. The fishermen organized a strike that almost toppled the government.

- 250 tons of sea corals were spread on the shores. They were quickly crushed, mixed with concrete and used for another land refill around the Biel area.

As for the Jelly fish extermination, there was no guarantee for the success of the strategy. The army failed to count the dead Jellyfishes since they do melt when exposed to the sun.

The end

The army was victorious.

Despite two pro-jellyfish-Hippy-Hamra-candle-solidarity-action-demonstrations funded by ten local NGOs where five people showed up, the people were happy again, the beaches were full again, and the tourists came back again.

Then, towards the end of September, the Al Jazeera Network receives a written Email message. It is a press release from the Head of the Jellyfishes: “We are not dead, we will sting again.”

Two days later, the Beirut Public Hospital was filled again with jellyfish victims. This time, they were Gucci Bikinis coming from Jounieh area.

To be continued…

Beirut and the discontinuity of happiness*

I chose to return to Beirut, yet living here is not painless. The every day struggle to have a regular day of problems is energy, nerves, & pills-consuming. My eyesight has shrunk from daily tensions. The Dalai Lama would curse in Beirut.

In the middle of the electricity breaks, the car honking festivals, the summer water cuts, the dirty floors of the ministry of Labor, there exist instances:
The smell of a chawarma sandwich in a tiny snack in a side street next to a parking lot
The sudden appearance of sparkling stars over blue & green waves after a forty-five-minute-traffic jam
The right balance of ingredients -sound, wind, light, and cup of tea- in Rawda Cafe
The old man working at the sweet shop in Hamra that looks like my late grandfather
And I suddenly understand why I am here.

After a tough day at work, where the basic ethics and rights are trashed with a mental paper shredder, there exist instances on the way home:
An unusually funny Taxi story, the right Abdelhalim Hafez song, while the spring sun joins along the ride
An unexpected gesture from an unknown man selling fruits: you don’t have money habibi, no problem, take the bananas, and bring it later
A warm hello from a person you barely know while crossing the street giving you back some of the respect you have lost in the morning
And I suddenly understand why I am here.

Everyday, I live nature’s four seasons. I laugh, I fume, I lose my mind, and I cry.
But then, there can be moments:
Walking on the “corniche” with a woman, and the waves whispering new lines of poetry
Listening to a friend singing, with a voice as sad as a flute in a summer night
Growing under my grandmother’s cotton blankets and the smell of stuffed grape leaves in sick afternoons
And I suddenly understand why I am here.

*This text is inspired from a poem by Mahmood Darwish entitled “على هذه الأرض ما يستحق الحياة"

جنس

...على شرفتي، دون حياء...

حكم الماضي في مرآة الواقع - محاولة قراءة

من أين تـنبع القيم والأخلاق؟ وكيف تتدفق في حياتنا اليومية لتكون المرجع والميثاق والبوصلة؟
هذان السّؤالان نطرحهما دائمًا، مع أصدقاء لنا، عند تقويمنا للوضع العام والراهن، أمام فشل الدولة ومؤسساتها، وتردّي الأوضاع الإقتصادية، وغياب الرّقابة، وانعدام المساءلة والعقاب. نتساءل عن دور الأخلاق حيال الغلاء المعيشي وفقر المواطن، في وجه غنى البعض الفاحش، وتفشيّ شتّى أساليب النّهب والاحتيال والغش وتبييض الأموال.
على السؤال الأوّل، يأتي الجواب سريعًا من التربية التي نتجرّعها ونعيشها في البيت كما المدرسة. كنّا وما زلنا نتعرّف الخطأ والصواب من خلال تجاربنا اليوميّة، وكنا في الصغر نكافأ على الصّواب، و نوعَظ عند الخطأ.
فلنسترجع سوياً بِضعاً من تلك الأمثال والحكم والنصائح التي كنّا نسمعها صغارًا، ولنحاول إعادة قراءتها وكتابتها على ضوء التجارب المادّيّة الّتي اختبرناها:

"المال الحرام لا يدوم".
كان جدّي، رحمه الله، دائمَ التّرداد لهذه العبارة. والحقيقة أنّي، بعد أن كبرت وعملت بجهد وصدق ونزاهة ضمير، اكتشفت أنّ المال الحلال لا يدوم. فعندما يحين الأسبوع الثالث من أيّ شهر، يكون هذا المال الحلال، والقليل، قد اختفى تمامًا. وبعد التدقيق والتّمعّن في الموضوع، استخلصت بأنّ المال الحرام هو ما يدوم في الأرض، ولعدّة أجيال لاحقة، بل يصبح ثروة، ويستعمل فيما بعد في مشاريع خيرية لمساعدة أولاد الحلال أمثالي وأمثالكم.

"من حفر حفرة لأخيه وقع فيها".
ولكم أضحكني خالي عندما كان يقول أنّ من حفر حفرة لأخيه، ليس من الضروري، أن يقع فيها. فشروط "أن يقع فيها" كثيرة، منها دولة قانون، والمؤسّسات المجتهدة، والقضاء المستقلّ، والأعين العادلة الّتي تسهر وتراقب وتحاسب. فالتّجارب الواقعيّة أثبتت لنا أنّ من يقع في الحفرة هو الأخ الذي حُفِرت له خصّيصًا، أمّا الّذي حَفرها فإنّه يعبر فوقها براحة وطُمأنينة، ولا يتعثّر في مشيِهِ لأنّها ملأى. وما رسوم الميكانيك الّتي ندفعها، كلّ سنة، ضريبة امتلاكنا سيّارة، سوى لتغطية تكاليف معالجة تلك الحفر.

"من جدّ وجد ومن زرع حصد".
لنكن واقعيين وصادقين، حتّى وإن كان الواقع حزيناً. في لبنان، هذه الحكمة تصبح على الشكل التالي "من جدّ ومن زرع هم أناسٌ كادحون ومجتهدون، أمّا من وجد أو حصد فهم أهل الواسطة".

"من غشّنا ليس منّا".
حكمة لطالما ردّدها أستاذ اللّغة العربيّة في أثناء الاختبار. لكن، وللأسف الشديد، من غشّنا يربح الانتخابات، وهو نائب، ووزير، ومدير، وله مؤسّسات الرّعاية الاجتماعيّة والمدنيّة توزّع علينا جزءاً مما جَناه حين غشّنا.

"حبل الكذب قصيرً".
أعتذر ممّن أطلق هذه العبارة، فحبل الكذب طويل، وطويل جدًّا، وقد يكرّ و يسحب لأربع سنين في مجلس النواب، فضلاً عن التّمديد والتّجديد، و لسبعة وستين عامًا من عمر دولة على سبيل المثال.

"من طلب العلا، سهر الليالي".
ينبغي لبننة هذه النصيحة لتصيركالآتي "من طلب العلا، ذهب مع والده وانتظر لساعات في صالون ضيافة أمير الطّائفة لنيل رضاه، ومن بعد سنتين في العلا، يمكنه أن يسهر اللّيالي في الجمّيزة أو شارع الحمرا".

"من سار على الدرب وصل".
أي لبناني شاب، سار على الدرب، وسلاحه العلم والمعرفة والكفاءة، وصل إلى مطار بلاد الهجرة بسلام و الحمد لله.

لا تسيؤوا فهمي، إنّ المشروع الأخلاقيّ أساسُ أيّ مشروع سياسيّ، أو اجتماعي، أو ثقافي، أو مشروع نهضة دولة ما، أو حتّى علاقة زواج بين اثنين. ولكن الأخلاق منهج وطريقة حياة وأدوات، وليست نتائج بالضرورة. لذلك، وأمام انهيار هذا المشروع الأخلاقيّ في الحياة العامّة، وَجب تحصين هذا المشروع الأخلاقيّ على المستوى الشخصيّ والخاصّ، كما وجبَت إعادة صياغة بعض الأقوال والأمثال والحكم بتشجيع النهج الخلوق فيها، وفصل النهج عن النتائج المرجوّة، لأن الواقع الذي يحكم وينتج، للأسف الشديد، واقع لا أخلاقي...

About Negotiations & Grey Colors

(Fiction based on real facts)

The Sunday afternoon was as clear as a civilian fighting occupation. The sun, with the elegance of a feudal lord, made winter disappear. And the old café by the sea, devastated- few days ago- by rainy storms, has reclaimed his charm. So we sat down, and awaited our friends to arrive for a nice relaxing gathering in preparation for a busy working week to come.
He came with a friend. It was the first time we all meet him. He had a square-like face, and a very confident attitude. He spent the first hour eating and didn’t pay attention to the conversations on the table. But once he finished his food, he started to penetrate the conversation and quickly affirmed himself as a pillar among all the voices that were intersecting and carefully knitting the social moment. The theme of the talks didn’t matter to him as much as his role in them.

He started speaking about his work at the U.N., about Israel, about the importance of dialogue as the non-violent mean to bring peace in this Middle-to nowhere-East, about the essential & needed existence of the U.N. to the entire world and its role in bringing Law & Order. He talked above all of us, as if his mental structures were higher in horizontal perspectives. He ridiculed the violent struggle of people, as if it was bad poetry written in a book left on the shelf of a small library being read by dust and cockroaches. He talked about globalization, about technologies of communication, about the fact that it was all grey and that black & white were obsolete colors.
-But what about 1948; the biggest land theft operation in the entire history of the world? How do you solve the loss of land & the Diaspora of its people if the other antagonist side is refusing their recognition and the logics of a just solution? My friend said with honesty & anger.
He didn’t answer directly this question; rather he used a lot of sentences and historical facts from other nations and other examples to dilute the meanings of justice & right of return. In other words, Historical pain happens all the time, and it is time to accept rather than change it: you take panadol, you don’t go into surgery. He mentioned the Armenians, Kurds, and Native Americans as examples of compromising Peoples.
-The negotiation should be based on 1967 with the flexibility to give & take as well in accordance to the International political context, and world key players. Wake up guys, this is the real world. Falasteen is not a young Alice in wonderlands, but a tired woman in her sixties sick of fighting, of correcting wrongs, of facing situations she is not choosing, and ready to compromise. And drop your violent instruments; they will not lead you to nowhere. He answered and changed the topic to talk about the real estate in Beirut.

Three hours passed by on that table. The sun got tired; too many people were consuming his energy. The Café got louder. And I decided to return home. So I said goodbye, and as I was walking away, I noticed the beautiful jacket of the stranger with the square-like face on our table. It was a petroleum-blue color, straight-cut, Bohemian-Bourgeois type of jacket, similar to the one I lost few years ago. In fact, I thought it was mine at that instance where I pushed him firmly and quickly wore it. It felt it was the right thing to do. Is it a coincidence that it fits me perfectly?
He didn’t understand what was happening, as he saw me, calmly, walking outside. He ran towards me and started yelling. Then he grabbed me, and tried to undress me like a crazy maniac with such a conviction in his violent act as if he has the right to do so.
He started pushing. His color became red-blue. And as I was resisting, he completed lost it, and turned into a wild beast. Twenty minutes later, he was lying down on the floor in his own blood and heavily breathing. So I looked him up and said:
-Since I am wearing the jacket, logically, it is mine now. As for the wallet and the car keys, well we can talk about that. Unfortunately, next week I am out of Beirut. How about we meet on Wednesday in 10 days from now at 8am in my office? My friends on the table can give you the address. Salamu Alaikum my friend. Your violence will not lead you to nowhere, let’s negotiate. It is all grey…

بحثاً عن سلام

كُفي يا رفيقة، لقد تعِبت. فلتهدئي قليلاً، أو فلتسمحي لي الابتعاد عن صخبك. تعِبت، غير أنه، بقدر رغبة الخلاص منك، بي شهوة لكِ، كشهوة إمرأة لزوج يعنفها، أو رغبة سكّير بمزيد من الخمر. أشتهيكِ وأبغضكِ في آن. كيف لا، وأنت ما زلت عصية على مداركي؟ كلما اقتربت منكِ احترقتُ وان ابتعدت تهت. هكذا انتِ، كرجلٍ ينأى عن الناس بهدوئِه وصمتِه، فيشدهم إليه بوتر الغموض. لكني ان تبِعتُكِ تألمت، وان تمنعتُ عاد إلي التساؤل عن تلك التي في يومياتي، منذ ان كنت في الثالثة من عمري، الأبرز والأكثر حضوراً.

أجدُكِ في كل صور طفولتي. وبعد، ما نظرت إلى أي من صوركِ، حتى ولو كانت من بلاد قصية، إلا واستذكرت تلك السنين الأولى من عمري. أتعلمين؟ كنت في صغري احسب ان الحياة كذا، تمر عليها المعارك كما توالي الفصول، يوم مشمس يتبعه حُكماً يوم ماطر. حتى ابتعدتِ، وإن لحين؛ أدركت حينها أن للأيام وتيرة أكثر اتزاناً في غيابك. وتيرة لا اعرفها فأنا في ضوضاء عفويتكِ، وتلك المزاجية المفرطة، نسيت أن أتعلم كيف تنتظم الحياة بغير إيقاعك. أنت عنوان أول ما كتبت، وبسببك تعرفت على عشقي الأول، ولسبر غورك اغلب ما درست وقرأت. أنت أول ذكرياتي، وعبرك تعرفت على الكثير من الأصدقاء. حتى تجاعيد جبيني من نحتك.

كيف لكِ اذن، بعد ان نسجت يومياتي على نولك ان تظهري لي كل هذه القسوة؟ كيف لكِ ان تسرقي مني مستقبلاً وتملئي أيامي عنفاً؟ تسبغين علي الدموع وتملئين قلبي حزناً في زياراتك المتكررة، وأنا لم أجرؤ يوماً حتى على تجاهلك. ألهذا تؤلميني؟ اتنتقمين ممن يحاول فهمك ام ممن هم اقرب إليكِ؟ لا ألومك وحدك، اعرف ان هناك من  أرسلكِ الى بلادنا، ان هناك من أكرمَكِ ورحب بقدومِكِ، واستغلكِ. اعرف.. ولن أقول أنكِ وحدكِ المخطئة. لكن كيف لي أنا التي ألِفتُكِ أن أحتمي من غدرك؟ 

اقول أُلفة بيننا، ولا اعرف ما الذي يجمعني بك، هل أنِستٌكِ أم أني فقط اعتدتكِ رفقتكِ؟ اقول رفيقة لأنكِ رافقتِ ترحالي وإن دون رفق ولين؛ ربما أخطئ في تسميتكِ.. كيف اسميك يا غريبة قريبة؟ لا لستِ بغريبة، فأنتِ مثلي ثمرة هذه البلاد.. هل أسميكِ صديقة؟ هل أسمي ما بيننا عِشرةً أم صُحبة؟ أسماؤك تستعصي علي كما فهمك. كيف لي إذن الرحيل عنك؟ كيف وأنا لست أعرف عما أبتعد؟ لا قدرة لي على الرحيل.. هل لكِ انتِ أن تغادري وتتركيني ببعضٍ من سلام، رفقاً بي يا ابنة العم؟ شدي رحالك وافسحي لي بعضاً من الحياة دونك، لأعرف ما قد اكون لو لم تكوني

Shibboleth by artist Doris Salcedo

Photo by wonderferret, republished (with thanks) under an attribution genrric 2.0 creative commons license.