Happy Anniversary bunch of liars!

April 13,
Friday 13,
37 years after...

Yeah yeah, the bus of Ain El Remmaneh, war symbol of Lebanon is out again for one day.
Yeah yeah, few people standing chanting "no to war again" (tenzakar w ma ten3ad).
Yeah yeah, you're watching TV from the luxury of your home, sitting on your couch, switching between electricity and generator, jumping to the roof checking your water tank, and cursing war and its memories.

Yeah yeah, you're all nothing but liars!
What have you learned from war? What are you doing to prevent it? What will you do tomorrow if it starts all over again?
I know you liars! I see what you're telling your kids inside your walls. Silly! you think they keep your hatred and your fear of "others" at home??? They carry it to schools and vomit it to their close friends without even knowing what they are saying! They are repeating your madness!Verbally for now, until next round.
Bravo to you! you deserve a standing ovation! Now you're sure to have your kid carry your flame, till grave do you apart.

Yeah yeah, I believe you when you say you love Lebanon! You love it your way, you see your truth, a tailor made country, created to fit your squeezed, narrowed tiny sick size.

Yeah yeah you're right
Yeah yeah, they're wrong
Yeah yeah, your God is better
Yeah yeah, he will prevail with your help
Yeah yeah, you don't want war but will not stand here watching if "they" start
Yeah yeah, you accept others, BUT
Yeah yeah, you respect diversity, BUT
Yeah yeah, you are Arabs, BUT
Yeah yeah, you want peace, BUT

Why don't you shut up a little, why don't you admit a little.
Admit you are the same as 37 years ago, following the same leaders, the same myths, the same policy, the same path???

You learned nothing! you are liars! Your new generation is the proof! Willing to go back to war if it starts, meanwhile doing nothing to prevent it. Look at them waiting for their sons to come back... This is war! it's death, loss, tears, and regrets...

Credit: Ramzi Haidar AFP

You did nothing during all the time you had to learn, nothing but weep your destiny for being born in this part of the world. Nothing but chewing the same hatred and stereotypes. Nothing but electing and re-electing and re-re-electing the same people. Nothing but cursing them the next day you bring them for four years before going back to re-elect them once more.

You want things to change? really? you fat ass lazy corrupted little human beings! LIARS!
Read history, if you want to learn. But you choose the comfort of staying where they put you. You carry the Stockholm syndrome in your genes! Go read what Stockholm is all about!

You learned nothing!
And you're doomed to repeat your same mistakes.

So go on, cry a little, or cry a river, have your mea culpa for a few. Then go back to your hatred lessons again, you're so good at it!!!

Credit: Olivier Rebbot

Happy Anniversary bunch of liars! See you on the next round!

Essential tips to become an Arab political leader

-Be the "son of" or "from the family of" (Ben, El, Ibn...). In this part of the world, whatever you do, you will always be judged according to your family roots.

-Have a family tragedy in hand, a story to tell, to raise compassion. A chain reaction story. Someone killed, followed by another... any kind of drama that can always pop up when needed. Everybody knows story telling pays.

-Spend some time in the army, or in a militia or guerrilla. Try to take part in an armed conflict, be it against an external enemy or an internal one. Better be in command if available. You can create the hero story people strive for.

-Following your "wars", make money. If you did not inherit your several generations money, your chances of political leadership are lessen, BUT, you can always get with the right people, and make the "right" business, wait few years, become a mogul, then attack politics. That's when you succeed.

-Do charity, do charity, do charity. Always give enough to keep people starving and coming back to you for help. And try to archive every step there. Have the press always next to you.

-Talking about press, be very generous with some of them. Choose carefully. Be creative. And they'll be at your feet. And if you face some stubborn journalist, have enough power to shut his/her mouth up.

-Flirt. With superpowers, with oil countries, with intelligence, with men, with women...Just flirt.

-Once in your dream place, in real power, keep the smile, but strengthen your place.

-Eradicate any antagonist.
-Set your laws. Your rules.
-Get married, have children quickly. Have a boy (preferable). Raise him to become your heir: tell him your family name history, your family drama, your family trauma, your heroic battles, your achievements, or just your money. Put him next to you during charity acts. During media interviews...
In other words, read above, copy and paste in your heir's head.

Then, don't forget to thank me :)

Writing my history of the Lebanese civil war (1975-1990)

Chapter six

My first funeral.

Before having the chance to see the horrific broken Down Town of Beirut, I had to live another strong moment. My first funeral.
In Lebanon, it is a moment you never forget. An experience .
When the dead is young, the funeral becomes a macabre dance, a wedding, with rice and petals, screams and sad songs, drums and trumpets. The coffin swings and turns in public places, and the departed is for the last time, dancing without expressions.

The funeral I wasn’t invited to, was our young neighbor, Zouzou.
My memories of him before he died are vague, but full of fear. He used to scare me. He had a poker face. No expressions. No smiles. No words. He was rarely in the neighborhood. I loved his other family members, but not him.

I didn’t know where he used to go for long periods of time, until the day I heard screams.
He was killed.
He was a martyr. Shot in the heart of the battle, Down Town Beirut, in what was called: Harb el Aswaq or Battle of the Markets.

Quickly, our neighborhood became very busy. Waves of people, all in black, white ribbons on the street, on the balconies, sad faces, no laughs.
All houses were open to receive visitors. Every woman became a coffee maker. And a traffic of small traditional cups next to the coffee pots started.

I was confined in our house. No way I could go to Zouzou’s living room. “The body is on a bed in the middle of the room! Not a scene for kids.”
I didn’t get the “body” idea. But was okay not to go in, since Zouzou scares me.

Few hours later, the streets were filled with black dressed people, my mom took me up, to stay with two young girls (teenagers) living on the first floor. Directives were clear: "Take good care of Tanya girls, stay inside, don’t go to the balcony.”

We did right the opposite.

When the band started playing, with drums and trumpets, we ran outside all excited. But we quickly noticed we shouldn’t dance. Everybody was head down, sad or crying.
Suddenly we heard women lamentations. A group of “professional crying women” (called Naddabah in Arabic), paid for the occasion, came out. They used to come to funerals with the responsibility to repeat unbelievably moving sentences while crying, to help create the mood... (This tradition almost disappeared now).

Then, the real screaming and crying started. The family came out, with Zouzou sleeping on a tiny bed, his open coffin. We had the same reaction at the same time, the girls and I. We stepped back. Then, we knelt and grabbed the banister to watch without being seen.

The procession was right below us. The rice was showered from other balconies, the petals too. Then a series of barbaric gunshots started filling the air and nearly muted the music and the paid crying ladies.
We got scared, but curiosity took over, and we stayed. At a certain point, Zouzou was right below me, less than 3 meters away...and time stopped. He was asleep, waxy skin, no smile, like always, wearing white. But he had cotton in his nose and mouth...

I nearly fainted of fear, he was surely going to open his eyes and give me his weird look.

But he didn’t. This was the last time I saw him.
He became our street’s martyr, our tax of the war, he paid our due, he became a hero.
That was the official story. But everybody knew the real one, and kept the secret.
Who cares? He passed away, he became a hero, I saw him dead, and now I can live happily ever after without being afraid of him. Life goes on.

They say (a message of peace from the land of fire)

This was the song I wrote for the international non-violent day. We celebrated it at UNESCO Beirut.

The young people I work with in Melkart school were on stage singing peace and love. Sending a message of hope. A simple message but as strong as love.

You can follow the link below to watch it on Youtube:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXzd0YcunvA

True, violence is loud
True, it can bring out the croud
True, it makes the news
And true, it's all around
But it's also true, as you may know
We seek peace, and we know how
Life can be if we take time
And listen to the whispering voice
Of humanity and conscience
Just like the wind blows
When sun shines after the rain

Chorrus:

They say my land is made of fire
I tell them that it's made of love
They say it is doomed forever
I tell them not if there is love

True, Nonviolence is here
True, it speaks very clear
True, it is in the news
And true, it has achieved
But it's also true, as you may know
A lot is still yet to do
A whole lifetime is not enough
But listen to the whispering voice
Of humanity and conscience
Just like the wind blows
When sun shines after the rain...

What do you mean by: "For better and for worst"?

What do you mean by worst?
What is the worst you can imagine?
Is your worst a bearable one?
What do you mean for better and for worst?
For better is easy to understand. We all want to believe in "happily ever after".
But what are the limits of worst?
And why don't you give a better explanation? A list, or something.
Worst is a dangerous word. A word carrying nightmares hidden in soft letters.
What is the worst thing for you? What is YOUR limit of endurance?
Because it might be different from mine.
When you say those words, people barely hear you. They're busy making sure their look is great, their friends are having a blast.
But, really, do you have any idea of what you're saying? what you're telling them?
You're telling them to bear the unbearable, if it comes...
Till death do them apart!!!!
You're deliberately putting people behind bars! (golden ones).
You're telling them to never think back again. Even if heaven turns into nightmare. You're telling them to hold on when everything is collapsing.
You're telling them to be saints. To leave their humanity. To be your image.
Have you ever experienced "worst"? I mean the real "worst", not difficulties. Have you lived a daily nightmare? Have you the slightest idea about what goes on in couples' nightmares? Really. Have you?
Have you opened a door and saw suffering souls behind?
Do you know that worst wars are happening behind those doors?
You're just saying a mechanical sentence, without even thinking. You're just forcing others to hold time, change, age, experience, memories, hurt, wounds... frozen.
Do you really think it works?
Look around. Open doors...you'll see what your words have done to simple minded souls.
Have a look, and you just might not sleep again.

“Demoligion” schizophrenic symptom

I’m not the sick one! You are!

I have no schizophrenia, you do!

I’m on the right side, you’re on the other one!

I will be in heaven watching you burn in hell!

If you have a democracy, I have created the demo-ligion, a fine blend of democracy and religion (as I see it), where I choose what suits me when needed.

In my Demoligion, everything is special.

I vote again and again for the same people. I know my vote “makes a difference”, but I choose to keep things as they are. It’s more fun to have topics for nagging all year long.

Roumieh prison: the national “trash bag” of humanity

    Every time I go inside those walls and those metallic gates, I come out with a heavy heart and head, with shame and disgust of what ever happened to our humanity.

    Yesterday, we did it again. We went visiting the death row inmates in Roumieh prison...

It was cold and rainy outside.

But we were offered toothless smiles and a warm coffee.