Friday, July 6, 2012

Beirut, a bruised exotic.


At this point we are all saying what’s already been said. We are all screaming together but we are failing to attain a power, we are failing to move, failing to infiltrate the system, failing to be heard.


A crazy malady that a nation, altogether, is suffering from; what do we do with that? We let the suffocation be? We write against it? We dream about an alternative? We leave? We lose? We take our pills and hope for a better day? We have group therapy sessions? What the hell do we do as a nation?


The infamous Skybar is packed every night, the underground scene rising to level the mainstream only harder, only stronger, only crazier. Always underground, never current. Hamra pubs are packed; you never find a place to park, ever. People are getting wasted. People are getting high. Expensive beach resorts are filled with unemployment every day. Free beaches, if any, are filled with only hungry men and if at any point a girl walks in she will most probably come out pregnant.

“If anything us Lebanese know how to do is party”. Even more, if anything us Lebanese know how to do is party harder to the sounds of our crumbling country.

We are numbed by leisure.

Our weapons don’t fire any more. Our pride and dignity is measured by how much Jack and Johnnie our system can take. And our self-worth is brought back through getting high and having sex.

Beirut, severely suffocating, is becoming the city of burned out youth and damaged hope.


The country is in a state of emergency. Lack of electricity, failed phone connections, unresolved political issues, burning wheels as people please, the newest of all our charms is the break-down of our internet and of course our devastating politics.
The problem in our beautiful Lebanon is the people. We can never witness a revolution because the problem itself is within the hearts of the people who should be revolutionary. We lost. We lost the battle. We lost the war. We lost it all.

I don't want to be thought of as exotic because I am Lebanese. I don't want to be thought of as interesting just because my country falls apart every day. I don't want credit for my very own curse. I don't want to be “a Lebanese writer who addresses the issues of a sunken third world country while discovering sex, drugs and alcohol, mixing it with a personal suffering. A writer of contradiction and war.” I don't want recognition and attention for my sting.
The lack of electricity is not an idea, an interesting distant challenge in life. It is not. It’s having your whole life stop, freeze and somewhat disappear. It’s a mess. It is not a bittersweet misery. It is shit.

And it is hot.
But, it is always hot in Lebanon.  
I wont complain because I am sure we all love the heat to some level.
But actually our kind of heat is the one that leaves a rash on you, burns you to some unspoken degree. It is not the heat from under the covers that climaxes with that which makes you scream; or maybe that, but its not coming from your own consent. It’s the one that penetrates you from all sides while you beg on your knees, while you try to flee. The heat that holds you, face down, and devours your self-worth.

Rape.

It rapes you while you bleed. You hurt. You scream.


I’d trade my rape. I just want to live. 

2 comments:

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  2. Zee I love what you are expressing and I hope that one day I will be part of this change!! When all the youth will start taking responsibility and understand that they have a role in this country other than just being followers!
    Hope all is well!!

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