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??????

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