mornings in Beirut
i woke up at 6 this morning. the light wake me up. it has become a consolation to see the light go up on this spot of the earth.
when i checked the time, i knew i had to force myself to fake sleep again. Days have become too long.
the first thing i do when i wake up is look from my window, my wide window that hosts the sky; i used to love this room because of its window.
Now, a part of me feels too close to the sky, too close to the neighbouring sea.
And there are strange fish and strange birds in this sea and sky, ones that carry metal objects that hurt.
my morning activities go as such:
i jump out of bed and check the electricity station is still there, unharmed.
then i go to my brother's room and i check he is there, sleeping.
And now, i can start my day.
i can see, as i write, ships evacuating the remaining foreigners from Lebanon.
it has become a consolation to see them and hear their helicopters pass over our house; they are a small guarantee that we will still be alive, for a while at least.
i saw on TV this morning a man boarding a ship dressed in a "union jack" flag. i wondered for a long time why he would do that.
he already got on his ship, was he trying to remind me there was no room for me on that ship?
was he praising his country for saving him from a country on fire, from hell itself?
when i was abroad, for months, for two years, i listened to feiruz singing:
take me plant me in the soil of Lebanon
in that house that watches the hill
and i'll open the door
and kiss every wall
and kneel.... under the most beautiful sky.
did he not see this sky? did he not taste this soil? did he not see a grandmother returning 20 years later to her land and planting a flag of thorns and memories in her small garden? did he not have an olive tree that waited for him since he left it when he was three?
maybe he did not. maybe it's only me.
God save the queen who makes it her personal business to facilitate every british citizen's passage throughout the world.... and out of this world again.
Yet i know one british man who refused to go. one british man who stayed and wanted to embrace this thorn filled sky and kneel on this mine planted soil, and pretend even for the small time of a war, that he was us, like us. i saw his tears. his tears as he stayed and his tears whilst they made him leave.
he was us.
will we soon become an olive tree and a grandmother and a brother and sister and a memory shaped hole in the sky?
In 20 years, when you will come and visit this land that might have a different name by then,
remember we lived.
you will hear our voices on the walls, you will taste our ashes in the soil, and see our dreams in the sky.
come fire and thunder and birds and fish on a mission, we remain , awaiting, for this world is ours no longer, a world of fire and thunder and birds and fish on a deadly mission.
when i checked the time, i knew i had to force myself to fake sleep again. Days have become too long.
the first thing i do when i wake up is look from my window, my wide window that hosts the sky; i used to love this room because of its window.
Now, a part of me feels too close to the sky, too close to the neighbouring sea.
And there are strange fish and strange birds in this sea and sky, ones that carry metal objects that hurt.
my morning activities go as such:
i jump out of bed and check the electricity station is still there, unharmed.
then i go to my brother's room and i check he is there, sleeping.
And now, i can start my day.
i can see, as i write, ships evacuating the remaining foreigners from Lebanon.
it has become a consolation to see them and hear their helicopters pass over our house; they are a small guarantee that we will still be alive, for a while at least.
i saw on TV this morning a man boarding a ship dressed in a "union jack" flag. i wondered for a long time why he would do that.
he already got on his ship, was he trying to remind me there was no room for me on that ship?
was he praising his country for saving him from a country on fire, from hell itself?
when i was abroad, for months, for two years, i listened to feiruz singing:
take me plant me in the soil of Lebanon
in that house that watches the hill
and i'll open the door
and kiss every wall
and kneel.... under the most beautiful sky.
did he not see this sky? did he not taste this soil? did he not see a grandmother returning 20 years later to her land and planting a flag of thorns and memories in her small garden? did he not have an olive tree that waited for him since he left it when he was three?
maybe he did not. maybe it's only me.
God save the queen who makes it her personal business to facilitate every british citizen's passage throughout the world.... and out of this world again.
Yet i know one british man who refused to go. one british man who stayed and wanted to embrace this thorn filled sky and kneel on this mine planted soil, and pretend even for the small time of a war, that he was us, like us. i saw his tears. his tears as he stayed and his tears whilst they made him leave.
he was us.
will we soon become an olive tree and a grandmother and a brother and sister and a memory shaped hole in the sky?
In 20 years, when you will come and visit this land that might have a different name by then,
remember we lived.
you will hear our voices on the walls, you will taste our ashes in the soil, and see our dreams in the sky.
come fire and thunder and birds and fish on a mission, we remain , awaiting, for this world is ours no longer, a world of fire and thunder and birds and fish on a deadly mission.
posted by RR at 11:48 PM
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