"Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block."
Although I am not dead yet (to the dismay of many) in am turning in my “future grave”, for nothing will never change. A deep feeling of resentment has taken over my soul; and I am convinced that once again I have taken the wrong turn in the crossroads that I thought were presented to me.
At a very young age I thought, and for a very short lapse of time, that my cause was right and that it was a cause for survival; but I was wrong then.
Then came a time in the hay days of the WMLL (world movement for the liberation of Lebanon)when I held my hopes high , foolishly thinking that it will remedy my past sins and make way for a brighter future.
And not so long ago (after a very long period of non-belonging and living in limbo ) I wrongly thought that the time was ripe for a “Cedar Revolution” that will bring back a long lost dignity, which I (then) thought was craved by many of my countrymen.
Once again I was wrong.
Just like every decision I have ever made regarding this once Biblical (and no fanaticism intended) land of mine (and to some, maybe yours) has proven not only to be the wrong one, but the one that brought me closer to disbelief in the goodness of man. This motherland of mine has proven to be nothing but a cesspool for all that is evil. No I am not cursing, nor dissing Lebanon; but I am actually cursing and dissing the Lebanese. This unique creed of pretentious sheeple who put themselves even above their 18 (legally recognized) different notions of God.
Today another nail in the coffin of what could have been (in order not to say “what was”) a great nation was hammered to the applause of many. But to those (like me) who had one last iota of hope left; it was another sad chapter in our quest for true independence, justice and the right to live free.
Today I disassociate myself from all those who still believe in any form of dialogue with all, and anyone who disregarded the results of the past elections. And furthermore I dissociate myself from those who won (because of my vote and that of hopeful Lebanese) and bent over (just to get fucked) more than once in the past two years, to the extent that it became a habit.
Your country needs you (the few remaining Lebanese) to get off your lazy arses and react. Say no to the current situation and do not wait for tents to be erected once again in downtown Beirut or for the airport road to be closed by mopeds and burning tires. Face the cold and stage a sit in in Dahieh, 3ein il tineh, Parliament square, Baabda palace; heck ABC and City Mall AND DEMAND YOUR RIGHT OF REPRESENTATION.
Say no to ALL our political class, voice your disdain in public (for once) and DEMAND a radical change.
Bidna n3ish you say? ASSUME !
Wlek Tfeh !
Showing posts with label Marillion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Marillion. Show all posts
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
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??????
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??????
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Forced resurrection
The old "nick name" I used is surfacing again.
This "Jester" had chosen to lay low for over twelve years in order to survive.
This "Jester" had started his journey filled with love, heartache, deception and hope.
This "Jester" indulged into politics, and lost his purpose.
This "Jester" is now remembering why he was shunned by many.
This "Jester" is now aware that the tears he once shed are no longer applicable.
This "Jester" now knows that he took the easy way out.
This "Jester" regrets having succumbed to the threats.
This "Jester" is in doubt with regards to his own wisdom.
This “Jester” still recalls why he called himself a jester.
This “Jester” still has the tattoo to prove it.
This “Jester” is now being resuscitated.
I will, from now on, revive the “Jester” within me only for those I love and who believed in me. For the rest of you out there I will remain Marillionlb.
For the very few, you will eventually make the correlation.
This "Jester" had chosen to lay low for over twelve years in order to survive.
This "Jester" had started his journey filled with love, heartache, deception and hope.
This "Jester" indulged into politics, and lost his purpose.
This "Jester" is now remembering why he was shunned by many.
This "Jester" is now aware that the tears he once shed are no longer applicable.
This "Jester" now knows that he took the easy way out.
This "Jester" regrets having succumbed to the threats.
This "Jester" is in doubt with regards to his own wisdom.
This “Jester” still recalls why he called himself a jester.
This “Jester” still has the tattoo to prove it.
This “Jester” is now being resuscitated.
I will, from now on, revive the “Jester” within me only for those I love and who believed in me. For the rest of you out there I will remain Marillionlb.
For the very few, you will eventually make the correlation.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Senses
A crowded place filled with strangers, a soul half asleep numbed by recent events beyond comprehension. Bodies intertwined packed like sheep perfectly groomed within the confines of yet another nameless watering hole.
It has been a while since I ventured within the dark alleys of local debauchery.
‘En connaissance de cause’ I agreed to go down for what was supposed to be nothing more than yet another night out. Half asleep (from lack of interest and not from sleep deprivation), with an inquisitive eye wondering across a two leveled room; my senses were awakened.
It all started with the vision of a bad episode of Dr. 90210, when a clean swoop across the room made me realize that the common denominator amongst the female crowd was that of: nose, lips, tits, and tummy tucks. Little attention was paid, for I was happy just to watch from afar. As the night went ahead, and alcohol was consumed (by me and all the crowed), the vision became clearer; and the “filter” on the “eye camera” was removed. From so called friendly gestures to drooling smiles on perverted faces, the evening progressed , on an even happier tone. Who is with whom, and moreover, who’s returning with whom?
The microphone is being passed from one punter to another, in an attempt to impress; not the one you came along with; but those YOU can pick up and add to YOUR black book of conquests. The song ends (thankfully in most cases) and everyone applauds out of politeness. Your table of four quickly becomes of six, eight, five, nine…for those sharing your euphoria, are sharing it with others as well.
A non intended brush of a skin, a masked smile, a whiff of a smell; transport you for a split second into a not so imaginary world. You try to recollect and auto analyze what was the reason that brought you here.
A sense of guilt which you refute; for you haven’t done anything wrong YET; allows you to enjoy it even further. It is just another boost for the ego you say. But in the back of your head the bitter truth sets in. A voice inside your mind keeps on telling you that although this chapter of your life has come to its painful conclusion, you won’t regain your youth.
So you go back home and scribble your thoughts on paper.
The fourth part of this enclosed song says it all:
"It's getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper
Something's gonna give under this pressure
And the cracks are already beginning to show
It's too late
The weekend career girl never boarded the plane
They said this could never happen again
So wrong, so wrong
This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous
This time, it's looking like another misplaced rendezvous
With you
The parallel of you, you ."
It has been a while since I ventured within the dark alleys of local debauchery.
‘En connaissance de cause’ I agreed to go down for what was supposed to be nothing more than yet another night out. Half asleep (from lack of interest and not from sleep deprivation), with an inquisitive eye wondering across a two leveled room; my senses were awakened.
It all started with the vision of a bad episode of Dr. 90210, when a clean swoop across the room made me realize that the common denominator amongst the female crowd was that of: nose, lips, tits, and tummy tucks. Little attention was paid, for I was happy just to watch from afar. As the night went ahead, and alcohol was consumed (by me and all the crowed), the vision became clearer; and the “filter” on the “eye camera” was removed. From so called friendly gestures to drooling smiles on perverted faces, the evening progressed , on an even happier tone. Who is with whom, and moreover, who’s returning with whom?
The microphone is being passed from one punter to another, in an attempt to impress; not the one you came along with; but those YOU can pick up and add to YOUR black book of conquests. The song ends (thankfully in most cases) and everyone applauds out of politeness. Your table of four quickly becomes of six, eight, five, nine…for those sharing your euphoria, are sharing it with others as well.
A non intended brush of a skin, a masked smile, a whiff of a smell; transport you for a split second into a not so imaginary world. You try to recollect and auto analyze what was the reason that brought you here.
A sense of guilt which you refute; for you haven’t done anything wrong YET; allows you to enjoy it even further. It is just another boost for the ego you say. But in the back of your head the bitter truth sets in. A voice inside your mind keeps on telling you that although this chapter of your life has come to its painful conclusion, you won’t regain your youth.
So you go back home and scribble your thoughts on paper.
The fourth part of this enclosed song says it all:
"It's getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper
Something's gonna give under this pressure
And the cracks are already beginning to show
It's too late
The weekend career girl never boarded the plane
They said this could never happen again
So wrong, so wrong
This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous
This time, it's looking like another misplaced rendezvous
With you
The parallel of you, you ."
Friday, September 12, 2008
On a personal note
Not a day goes by without frustration in this nation of ours. Fanaticism and hatred (although sometimes masked) is predominant. Turning a blind eye is no longer a feasible cure, nor is it a solution. For those fortunate enough to have had the chance to leave for a while and encounter a hint of civilization; reality is bitter. Bitter in a sense, that upon our come back, we believed that we could actually make a difference. Little did we know that such a difference meant that we were to be looked upon as “new born hippies”, “traitors”, “high on illegal substances”, “dreamers”,…etc; even “mentally challenged”. Nevertheless some stuck to their grounds and beliefs, and tried their hardest to live up to their new found morals and ideas. In order to do that, they professed what they deeply believed in; mainly tolerance and understanding.
On a more personal note:
When the shit hits the fan (and it did), having come back to the motherland in all good intentions; reality hits you hard on the head. One deception after another on all levels, you find yourself slowly drained from all that is human within you. The “animal” takes over, and just like a “Dhamer, Bundy, Manson,…etc”, you apply your own personal frustration to your geographical context and long for “blood”. Some even will go as far as to wish for yet another war in order to justify their own perverted way (the only way they know) to vent their frustration, and feel empowered again. For in your (Lebanese that is) darkest hour, the trend has always been to grab your weapon and use it, regardless.
For a split second lately I belonged to that category, I was aching for blood, death and destruction, as a stage that would alleviate my own shortcomings (but then again, I am Lebanese); and for that I ask forgiveness.
Armalite, street lights, night sights
Searching the roofs for a sniper, a viper, a fighter
Death in the shadows hell maim you, hell wound you, hell kill you
For a long forgotten cause
On not so foreign shores
Boys baptized in war
Boys baptized in war
Morphine, chill scream, bad dream
Serving as numbers on dog tags, flak rags, sandbags
Your girl has married your best friend, loves end, poison pen
Your flesh will always creep, tossing turning sleep
The wounds that burn so deep, burn so deep
Your mother sits on the edge of the world when the cameras start to roll
Panoramic viewpoint resurrect the killing fold
Your father drains another beer, he’s one of the few that cares
Crawling behind a Saracens hull from the safety of his living room chair
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
And so as I patrol in the valley of the shadow of the tricolor I must fear evil
For I am but mortal and mortals can only die
Asking questions, pleading answers from the nameless faceless watchers
That parade the carpeted corridors of Whitehall
Who orders desecration, mutilation, verbal masturbation in the guarded bureaucratic wombs
Minister, minister care for your children
Order them not into damnation
To eliminate those who would trespass against you
For whose is the kingdom, the power, the glory for ever and ever
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Halt who goes there! - death!!
Approach ... friend
You’re just another coffin on its way down the emerald aisle
When your children’s stony glances mourn
Your death in a terrorists smile
The bombers arm placing fiery gifts on the supermarket shelves
Alley sings with shrapnel detonate a temporary hell
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
From the dole queue to the regiment a profession in a flash
But remember Monday signings when from door to door you dash
On the news a nation mourns you unknown soldier count the cost
For a second you’ll be famous but labeled posthumous
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
They’re still forgotten, they’re still still forgotten
Peace on earth and mercy mild, mother brown has lost her child
Just another forgotten son
On a more personal note:
When the shit hits the fan (and it did), having come back to the motherland in all good intentions; reality hits you hard on the head. One deception after another on all levels, you find yourself slowly drained from all that is human within you. The “animal” takes over, and just like a “Dhamer, Bundy, Manson,…etc”, you apply your own personal frustration to your geographical context and long for “blood”. Some even will go as far as to wish for yet another war in order to justify their own perverted way (the only way they know) to vent their frustration, and feel empowered again. For in your (Lebanese that is) darkest hour, the trend has always been to grab your weapon and use it, regardless.
For a split second lately I belonged to that category, I was aching for blood, death and destruction, as a stage that would alleviate my own shortcomings (but then again, I am Lebanese); and for that I ask forgiveness.
Armalite, street lights, night sights
Searching the roofs for a sniper, a viper, a fighter
Death in the shadows hell maim you, hell wound you, hell kill you
For a long forgotten cause
On not so foreign shores
Boys baptized in war
Boys baptized in war
Morphine, chill scream, bad dream
Serving as numbers on dog tags, flak rags, sandbags
Your girl has married your best friend, loves end, poison pen
Your flesh will always creep, tossing turning sleep
The wounds that burn so deep, burn so deep
Your mother sits on the edge of the world when the cameras start to roll
Panoramic viewpoint resurrect the killing fold
Your father drains another beer, he’s one of the few that cares
Crawling behind a Saracens hull from the safety of his living room chair
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
And so as I patrol in the valley of the shadow of the tricolor I must fear evil
For I am but mortal and mortals can only die
Asking questions, pleading answers from the nameless faceless watchers
That parade the carpeted corridors of Whitehall
Who orders desecration, mutilation, verbal masturbation in the guarded bureaucratic wombs
Minister, minister care for your children
Order them not into damnation
To eliminate those who would trespass against you
For whose is the kingdom, the power, the glory for ever and ever
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Halt who goes there! - death!!
Approach ... friend
You’re just another coffin on its way down the emerald aisle
When your children’s stony glances mourn
Your death in a terrorists smile
The bombers arm placing fiery gifts on the supermarket shelves
Alley sings with shrapnel detonate a temporary hell
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
From the dole queue to the regiment a profession in a flash
But remember Monday signings when from door to door you dash
On the news a nation mourns you unknown soldier count the cost
For a second you’ll be famous but labeled posthumous
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
They’re still forgotten, they’re still still forgotten
Peace on earth and mercy mild, mother brown has lost her child
Just another forgotten son
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
A simple dedication.
This one is for you "Jester the court fool".
My favorite part starts with "the fool escaped from paradise". Many of Marillion's songs remind me of the Jester in me, until the lead singer ( Fish ) left the band I think in 1984.
If you ever have the chance do check their music and their lyrics.
My favorite part starts with "the fool escaped from paradise". Many of Marillion's songs remind me of the Jester in me, until the lead singer ( Fish ) left the band I think in 1984.
If you ever have the chance do check their music and their lyrics.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Jester !
The old "nick name" I used is surfacing again.
This "Jester" has chosen to lay low for over twelve years in order to survive.
This "Jester" has started his journey filled with love, heartache, deception and hope.
This "Jester" indulged into politics, and lost his purpose.
This "Jester" is now reminiscing of why he was shunned by many.
This "Jester" is now aware that the tears he once shed are no longer applicable.
This "Jester" now knows that he took the easy way out.
This "Jester" regrets having succumbed to the threats.
This "Jester" doubts his own wisdom.
This “Jester” still recalls why he called himself a jester.
This “Jester” still has the tattoo to prove it.
This “Jester” is now being resuscitated.
I will, from now on, revive the “Jester” within me only for those I love and who believed in me. For the rest of you out there I will remain Marillionlb.
For the very few, you will eventually make the correlation.
Jester.
This "Jester" has chosen to lay low for over twelve years in order to survive.
This "Jester" has started his journey filled with love, heartache, deception and hope.
This "Jester" indulged into politics, and lost his purpose.
This "Jester" is now reminiscing of why he was shunned by many.
This "Jester" is now aware that the tears he once shed are no longer applicable.
This "Jester" now knows that he took the easy way out.
This "Jester" regrets having succumbed to the threats.
This "Jester" doubts his own wisdom.
This “Jester” still recalls why he called himself a jester.
This “Jester” still has the tattoo to prove it.
This “Jester” is now being resuscitated.
I will, from now on, revive the “Jester” within me only for those I love and who believed in me. For the rest of you out there I will remain Marillionlb.
For the very few, you will eventually make the correlation.
Jester.
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