Forgotten Sons !

Although born to the land of the Cedars, I embarked in the mid eighties on my quest for greener pastures and ended up in England. Too cold and disconnected I felt in the beginning; so I travelled back and forth to the next best thing (France notre mère patrie), only to find that we did share a common evil.




My travels took me to different places where I encountered many different cultures. But what I found (in retrospect) disturbing was that, we Lebanese have not yet moved forward. Most of the countries I have visited and lived in have had their fare share of strife documented in their history books, and such a page was turned. But we, Lebanese, still live reminiscent of our bloody past, refusing to turn the page; and moreover anxiously awaiting for the next (bloody) chapter.
My curiosity took me to Belfast Ireland in order not to better comprehend, but to compare. Maybe it was the evil part of me who felt the need to get a whiff of freshly spilled blood or maybe it was just my own twisted way to fit in.



I was somehow disappointed, for I was touched by the goodness of every single soul I encountered.
16 years later I thought I had tamed the devil in me, and I came back home with open arms and an open mind. This Euphoria did not last long. The animal instinct in me started resurfacing and finding a breeding ground within the smallest memory I could recall from my stolen childhood even at the expense of the few good days I had before the war. Before all hell broke loose my grandmother use to sing us to sleep to Moustaki, Grecco, Reggiani, Aznavour…etc; and what springs to my mind these days (when I think of such artists) is (could not find Moustaki's version on youtube):



Endless nights whilst I was listening to Cohen (before I left into myself inflicted exile) have I been moved by his words and how I could relate to them; today by admitting to that I am a traitor. A traitor to those who decided to have a selective memory, to those who forgot that at a certain point in time they were convinced that me, and the likes of me would be better off dead; and so they tried.



This is supposed to be my golden years, and I came to spend them “bi trab baladi”, but “baladi” has changed to the extent that I feel it is no longer mine. No, I won’t give up, I will reclaim it. I will shed my blood again if need be. I want the “cocody”, “spinneys” by the airport road, the Latin Church at the beginning of Hamra street, “Toyland”, Aysar 3amer” …etc; I want my son to witness all that and never to have to feel the need to carry a weapon against his fellow brother and fend for his life. One major hurdle to my aspirations is Hizbullah. And in order to spare my son's blood, I am willing to shed mine so that he will not have to go through what I had to in order to preserve "his" freedom and this land that is his home.



N.B: Where is Joseph Sader??????

The story of a middle aged man

A middle aged man with simple aspirations and dreams, tucked safely in his chosen exile far away, had the misfortune to believe in the homeland again; for God filled his home with the cries and laughter of a new born child. His heart could not contain the joy and pride; such a lovely boy, an heir to the throne, someone to carry on the legacy. Five weeks of paternity leave made him realize that he could no longer be on call and fly at a short notice to the four corners of the world, catering for those with no family values and ties. Relaxing one evening, over a glass of wine and Dylan singing in the background (while baby asleep) the mother came with the idea of the return to the homeland. Calmly (but calculating) she argued the notions of cultural differences, better values, family, early retirement, and the “Paris of the Middle East”. It did not take much arguing before this middle aged man started proceedings to liquidate businesses and take the next plane home in search for business opportunities (10 days). Although the separation was hard to bare (endless daily phone calls), within five weeks all was set. Less than a month to pack home and the move was made.
All was rosy in the very beginning and the future looked very bright, a small puppy was added to this blessed family and old friendships rekindled. While rediscovering the mother land (re-vamped) this middle aged man was surprised to see slogans and car stickers that made him truly believe that the fifteen years of war were forgotten and forgiven by his fellow citizens. Every day on his journey to work he would listen to Timbuk3 “the future is so bright I got to wear shades” and fight the traffic (the pot holes, the bad drivers, unsafe cars...etc) with a big smile on his face, after all this is part of Lebanon’s charm he tried to convince himself.
Little did this middle aged man know that in his homeland personal checks would bounce, promissory notes are mostly never honoured, bank managers could be bribed, contracts (even with penalty clauses to both parties) could be breached with no consequences, cash money could be counterfeit, and payments always delayed!
Well needless to say the shit did hit the fan, his family of four was split in half, the business partner (a family member) took off to Canada (with his life savings); and the middle aged man was left to clean up the mess in his homeland with divisions much greater than the ones that pushed him into exile.
This middle aged man did not resign to his fate, but grew more attached to his son and to his country.
This middle aged man rebuilt his life (and still is in the process) with an ever growing belief in his heritage.
This middle aged man has a duty to towards his son to make him proud of his Lebanese decent although he was born British.
This middle aged man, after having lived the civil war and witnessing the current bullshit, can spit in the face of all current politicians.
This middle aged man will never give up, and will never be silenced !