Qamar

Here in the dead of time, buried deep into the falling night, I sit with the moon.
When all is quiet and peaceful at last, when fluffy dreams enter you mind, making your beautiful eyes flutter, I sit by the moon, her half orb shining upon my words and guarding your angel sleep.

The moon and I, we’re neighbors, or so says the song. Regardless of where I’m sitting, it’s the same moon that my people can see, the same moon that guards children’s dreams.

And nightmares.

You see, while our night is peaceful, only disturbed by the whisper of the wind softly caressing the lush leaves of the surrounding trees, while I sit here, the smoke of my cigarette drawing arabesques above me, others can not find enough peace to sleep, or finally exhale at the end of a long day.

But they, they are children of the moon, like you and me, and they deserve the same oblivion that we take for granted. When sleep eludes them, while we sit comfortably in a never ending dialogue with the sky, they keep hearing the sound of screams, the sound of death pounding at their door.

And it isn’t fair, and it isn’t pretty, and while the moon orbits around us, we stay silent to their plea, as guilty as the culprits bringing deaths and destruction at their doors.

Everyone deserves solace and comfort, not just you and me, but a guilty conscience or appeals to the heavens have never brought anyone any respite.

And so we close our eyes for these blissful hours, rendering our hearts and souls to the stars, but while we do so, let us not forget to fight.

For those who are stranded on the verge of humanity never give up on themselves. And they teach us a lesson.
The biggest there is, the lesson of life.

And so let us kiss the moon, let us keep our eyes open to the children of the moon, and fight, as they do, fight for a moon that shines above children’s dreams.

And stops the nightmare.

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How to live with a revolutionary without losing your head (Or WSFing his)

The Rev went to the World Social Forum in Tunis.

The Horror.

The horroooooorrrr.

Imagine. Just imagine, all these revolutionaries, so-called revolutionaries, leftists, pseudo-post-feminists, members of the second, third, fourth and even fifth International just roaming free in the streets of the Tunis, pretending they can dance to the sound of darbouka and quoting Marx right, left and center. Imagine the hippies, the Tunisian mukhabarat, the states-sponsored organisations trying to convince you that yes, Bashar Al Assad is a resistant and that Comrade Khomeiny really did stand for the oppressed. Imagine the Palestinian flags getting intertwined with the sickle and hammer. Imagine Oxfam and USAid in the middle of this, acting completely unaware that they were almost as in their right place than a cockroach in a pot of pristine white cream.

Imagine the Rev in the middle of this.

The horror.

You foolishly went with him. I mean, you really did need to keep an eye on him, just to make sure he was not traumatizing the Tunisian people, these poor things have enough on their plate. You went, thinking, ah well, I will follow one or two sessions and then what I’ll do is, I’ll go to the Madina and to Sidi Bou Said to eat myself stupid and buy local artifacts to support the local economy (translate by: to exemplify the evil consumerist urge of buying gorgeous plates and leather satchels and not giving two damns about it being an evil consumerist urge. Take that, world social forum!)

What happened was, on the very first day, you had to restrain the Rev and pull him out of not one, but two fights.

The Rev is 2cm short of 1m90. You are 23cm off the 1m90 mark. And of course, you were wearing flats, so you barely reached his armpit.
And yet, you shoved him aside like there was no tomorrow, pushing him away from the crowd and yelling at him like a madwoman.
The Rev, you see, had spotted some Bashar supporters, who, let’s face it, really did want to be spotted, what with them carrying a ginormous pro-Bashar Syrian flag (is there even such a thing?) and in case we were confused, pictures of the blue-eyed tyrant with slogans such as ‘we’re all with you’. Er, no we’re not.
Now you completely understand the Rev’s rage. You even share it, no questions asked. The teeny tiny glitch is that the setting of the fight was as follows:
– Pro-Bashar supporters: 25
– Rev: Rev (plus you, ok)
You felt the issue might not have been in favour of the Rev. So you shoved and shoved until his cries of ‘traitors! Murderers! Thieves! Cowards! The Syrian people will get their freedom ya KLEB!’ Were drowned in the peaceful chants of some organisations or others.
The fact that Stalinists roamed the campus of the world social forum really did nothing to impress you with the world social forum. I mean, what’s the point of doing a song and dance about social justice and all this ‘another world is possible’ hoopla if it’s to end up having to listen to participants glorifying war criminals. Seriously. You’d be better off at Fashion Week. At least there no one is pretending they’re doing it for the good of humankind.

However, the Rev, with his sweet, forgetful nature, was soon enough feeling better and while severely criticizing and despising the pro-criminals people (KLEB!) he managed to meet up with every comrade under the sun he could get his hands on, attending meetings, organizing and coordinating campaigns, drafting statements as if they were going out of style.
He even went to Gafsa to talk with the workers on strike there an offer his solidarity, luckily without falling into a phosphate mine while he was at it.

You? Oh, after telling a SWP member that you belonged to the 4th International (just to see his face fall, you like being mean to people),you spent most of your time in Sidi Bou Said, like a lizard in the sun.
The fact that you don’t know the difference between the third and the fourth international is irrelevant, and in any case, when the Rev explained it to you, you were not impressed.

I mean, who CARES if the USSR was a state capitalism system or a degenerate proletarian state? Seriously people, that’s what they’re fighting about.

Who cares? I asked the Rev. The USSR is extinct anyway. For fuck’s sake.
The Rev looked at you ever so kindly, then laughed. Truth be told, you thought, these people could do with a laugh. And with a serious make over.

You’re in the process of founding your own international. Invitation only, of course.

You Are Not My Comrade

The world social forum is a ginormous gathering of people thinking creatively together and sharing ideas to create a more just, equal world.

Or so they’ll have you believe. Participating in the opening march, I found myself severely thorn. The march was aimed, as all marches, at reclaiming the streets but also , on a more specific level, at demonstrating to governments preaching austerity measures, oppression, discrimination and neo-liberal policies than another world is possible, that standing in solidarity with all people of the world was possible, and that us, the people, were to become one and fight the capital back.

Oh sure, you had more Comrades than your eyes could handle, you had your usual Che Guevara wanna-bes (I almost wrote lookalikes here, but then thought better of it) and you had your various flags and banners, all calling for more solidarity, more self-determination,more peace).
Among which, flags and banners of Pro-Bashar Syria, with pictures of Bashar to match, with ‘we’re all with you’ slogans to boot.
Now Oxfam marching away as if they owned the place (which they probably do, given than they’re one of the main donors of the world social forum, along with the French Institute and Bread for the World (imperialism? Neo-colonialism? What? Where?)) I could probably stomach, regardless of the fact that the irony of the presence of an organization feeding a 100% into the neoliberal paradigm of NGOs slowly taking on the economic and social duties of the state at such a march was apparently lost on them. I could even stomach, albeit with some difficulty, the countless people wearing Hugo Chavez T-shirts and his pictures, calling him Commandante as if he fought alongside Lenin in the Russian Revolution, even if these people seemed totally oblivious that the world social forum was taking place in a region that has direly and is still direly suffering from the catastrophic effects of dictatorships and that aforementioned Commandante was one of the closest and fiercest supporter and friend of Gaddafi and Al Assad. I can understand Venezuelans value Chavez for the improvement of their socio-economic conditions he brought to his country. I do. What I don’t understand is the very basic anti-imperialism rampant in the left that makes every little middle finger extended to the USA and Israel a supreme act of anti-imperialism that deserves reverence by all.
It is this minimal and quite limited understanding of anti-imperialism that leads some leftists to remain staunch supporters of perpetrators of monstrosities such as Gaddafi and Al Assad. I won’t even bother to go into the details of how much considering Al Assad an anti-imperialist is wrong. News update my comrades, imperialism and neo-colonialism can also be performed by other states than the US, and in the case of Syria, I don’t recall Al Assad opposing the imperialist tendencies of Iran and Russia. As for neo-liberal policies, I will only refer you to this article, explaining at great length how much Al Assad’s policies created a greater class divide, how much whatever economic ‘improvement’ and integration within the globalized economy only benefited a small clique of big cities bourgeoisie. Surely that’s not how Comrade Marx intended socialism and communism, am I right?
As of those still living in the delusion that Assad is opposing Zionism and will free Jerusalem, kindly inform me what he has done to free his own territory, the Golan, before he takes on freeing Palestine. Apparently there are plenty of ammunition to kill and slaughter his people but there are none available to free the Golan.

It is for all these reasons that I do not get the enormous pictures of Al Assad within the world social forum March. It is because war crimes are happening, it is because mass slaughters are happening, it is because peaceful resistance and opposition were met with ferocious repression, torture and unlawful use of force that I do not get, my sweet Comrade, how you can smoke your oh so not subversive weed, look me in the eyes, and tell me that we’re all with Assad, the great anti-imperialist.

Surely, my Comrade, this is not how Comrade Marx intended it?

Tales of the Phoenix City – Chapter 24

It was always the food. Grace had noticed that during her early upbringing in Paris. The insistence of making food that reminded you of home. The comfort of smelling well known flavours, the pleasure of doing something that linked you with your homeland, the bitter sweet sensation of your heart tasting home yet unable to be there.

This is why she became a chef. She wanted to recreate this comforting sense, but she also wanted to add a bit of joy to the nostalgia, she wanted to be creative, to give hope.

Exile is the bitterest bile, the pain gnawing at your soul in the most corrosive manner. You leave your life behind, it’s as simple as that, you leave in a hurry, you forget half of your things, mostly because you think you’ll be back in no time, but also because you don’t want to take everything with you. No, that would make things definite.

Some left never to look back, to shield themselves from the pain. Others could not let go, just little enough to make life bearable again, and thus let themselves drown in a pool of guilt and regret. How could I leave? What did I just do? How is my family going to cope? Shouldn’t I be next to them, sharing their fate? Reclaiming one’s right to have a peaceful life never quite made it up for this insane feeling of foreboding and shame emigrants feel.

And so they cooked. The Lebanese would make large vats of hummus and tons of tabbouleh, the Palestinians would fry cauliflowers and aubergines until blue in the face for their makloubah and sprinkle their kitchen red with sumac for their msakhan, and now, now the Syrians. Grace was more and more invited to dinners where kebab bkaraz was lovingly made with special cherries from Aleppo, the last frozen remnants that people who left did not forget to pack, eating the muhammara with a knot in her stomach as she tasted such an acute sadness and longing for home she could barely swallow.

Gabrielle and herself had started a cookbook that was due for the end of the year, when her publisher wanted to release it for the holidays. The book was called Twisted: Creative Lebanese Cuisine where she would artistically present her rose water Muhallabieh sprinkled with almonds and raisins and Gaby would shoot it to make it look like an art piece rather than something that was meant to be eaten. The book was almost done and ready to be sent for printing but somehow Grace seemed dissatisfied with it.

– This is lovely and it will probably sell well and be very popular and keep me from having a day office job for a while.
– But?
After five years, Gabrielle knew where there was a ‘but’ in sight.
– But this doesn’t feel right. Something’s amiss. I feel it’s a bit pretentious, missing the point of what I had wanted to do in the first place. I don’t know if I’m making myself clear, but what I truly would want to do is sit down and cook with other people and talk and apply a balm to their wounds.
– With Olive oil or something?
– Mock all you want, this is what I feel.
– Well then do something about it!

Unlike Gabrielle, whose philosophy ran along the lines of ‘Jesus Fucking Christ, stop whining about it and bloody well do something about it’, Grace’s will was as strong but more reflective. She needed to ponder on things before throwing herself in them.
And so she thought about it. She thought about it when she was talking to her editor, she thought about when when she was cooking, each spices revealing their secrets to her, she thought about it when she was picking pictures with Gabrielle for their book.
And so one day, she found herself knocking on Nina’s door.

Her friend’s pregnancy had started to show and she had never looked so radiant. She told her as much, leaving Nina to look at her doubtfully.

– Radiant? Are you kidding me? Habibti, I throw up what seems to be a gazillion times a day, I feel pain in muscles I didn’t even know I had and most of the times I feel like sitting down with a one kilo pot of Nutella and eat myself through the remaining 7 months except I can’t because everything makes me nauseated. Radiant, my ass.

– I find it uncanny how pregnancy is almost channeling the inner Gabrielle in you. If you start yelling Jesus Fucking Christ every second, I’ll take you to a voodoo priest to lift the spell from you.

– I might let you. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?
– I need you to put me in touch with the different women you work with, especially the Palestinians, and women from different parts of Lebanon. I’ve already spoken to my Syrian friends.
– Oh-Kay. May I ask why?
– I’m putting together a soul kitchen. I am calling it Cooking for Exile. The idea is to form a core group of people cooking together, mixing specialties from Lebanon, Syria and Palestine, and then sell what we do, but with no prices. People can come and buy their food at the price they deem just. All proceedings will go to women refugees and organisations that put in place gender friendly spaces, as I hear it’s been quite a catastrophe so far. This is why I need to speak with the people you work with. I know you pay them decently and they might be interested to participate even though it’s not going to bring then any money.

Grace finished her explanation feeling a little self-conscious and sheepish, bushing slightly while Nina exclaimed: brilliant! It’s fucking Brilliant! And they can bring and sell as well the pouches, collars and and clutches they make.

– So will you help me?
– Of course I will! And Lily can give you coverage on her newspapers, since she’s been subtly changing the focus of her column.

For the first time since she had formed her plan Grace exhaled.
She was determined to make exile sweeter, with what she could do, with what she knew what to do. Love, she found, even though directed to an indistinct mass, was a powerful drive.

A Day in the Life of The Revolutionary

A day in the life of a Revolutionary

07:30: Alarm rings. The Revolution never sleeps, why should the Rev? And by extension, why should you?

07:31: Opens eyes. Asks you if you’re a socialist revolutionary. You’re a 28 year old highly tired woman who hasn’t had her coffee yet. Your eyes still closed, you say no. You distinctly remember mumbling something along the lines of ‘fuck off, you and the revolution’

07:35: Anguish. He’s married to a bourgeois reactionary. How did that happen?

07:36: No point in dwelling on this, after all, isn’t he supposed to attract people as much as he can to the cause? He shall overcome. Gets out of bed.

07:37: Turns on YouTube. Puts on his playlist ‘Revolutionary Songs for the Revolutionary’.

07:38: L’Internationale blaring from the computer for the whole world to hear. Enters showers. Starts singing.

07:39 – 08:20: Showers, get dressed, while you’re being treated to Bella Ciao, L’Internationale, Na7na El Thawra Wou El Ghadab, complete with his own voice and a little dance routine. Murderous thoughts threaten to choke you.

08:25: Practices mock speeches in front of mirror to other make believe revolutionaries. You tell him he looks like a rambling dictator. Abruptly stops, looking wounded. He has woken you at an ungodly hour to the sound of L’internationale. You consider yourself entitled to hurt him. You have no shame. You live to vex him.

08:30: Asks you again if you’re a socialist revolutionary. Tells you you have the thinking already, and that the step from feminist to socialist revolutionary is really quite minimal.

08:32: Applies band aid to where your shoe hit him.

08:35: Makes you coffee.

08:36: Sits in front of computer for the daily ‘Revue de Presse’.

08:37: You break a glass, cut yourself, noisily look for a pretty band aid, burn yourself with your hair straighteners, call your mother who yells in the phone as if you were in Zimbabwe (while she actually lives 30 minutes away from you). Rev doesn’t budge.

11:00: Finishes reading up daily press round up. Newspapers in English, French and Arabic have been read, shared on Facebook, insipid authors have been duly insulted, inept so-called political leaders (real oppressors, sucking the blood of the people, more like) have been exposed. All geared up for next attack.

11:00-12:30: Updates blogs. Keeps finding new photos, writes new articles. ‘This is the real face of the revolution, not the crap mainstream media is showing! Let Us show the truth’

12:30: Doesn’t eat. Having lunch is for bourgeois capitalist who have the luxury of time. The Revolution can’t wait.

12:35: Calls you. Asks if you’re a socialist revolutionary. You tell him his persistence reminds you of the black days of Stalinism, and would Comrade Trotsky approve of this oppression he’s exerting.

12:36: Whimpers. Did you just call him a STALINIST????

12:36-18:36: Reads.Writes.Researches. Reads. Writes.Researches. Occasionally speaks to self and computer. Reads. Writes.Researches. Reads.Writes.Researches.Sends emails to political groups admonishing them for lack of activism. ‘I want the flyer ready for this Saturday, I insist, we need to spend the afternoon traipsing after people, pressing it on them until they’re too scared to refuse’. ‘Did you do the flyer? Did you?’ ‘Ce n’est pas sérieux!’

19:00: Has dinner with you. Artfully leaves books on the hope that you’ll read them. You toss the anthology of the Bund aside and very purposefully open a stupid novel in front of him.

19:05: Starts actually telling you about the Bund.

19:06: Gently removes your head from the oven, promises he’ll stop, then takes off for Revolutionary meeting.

23:30: Comes back. Wakes you up ‘we’ve had a fantastic idea! We’re gonna do a flash mob, a round table and a demo on Saturday afternoon! yes! At the same time! Yes!’

23:35: Skulk as you told him no one will come to the three at the same time and why does he like waking you up all the time? Why?

23:40: Starts first Skype call of the night with Comrades abroad. Half asleep, you hear some ‘jokes’: ‘And THEN! I Told him he was an entrist! HAHAHAHAHAHA’. You believe you were facepalming in your dream.

02:40: Finally turns off light. Gives you a kiss.

02:41: In the dark. All his blissfully silent.

02:42: Asks you if you’re a socialist revolutionary.

Our Destiny is to Fight

Our destiny is death and destruction she said. Just because we’re from this land, they call it Holy, I don’t see the holiness in all this helplessness, our destiny is death and destruction and warplanes above us she said, from the sandy Sinai to the blue immensity of Lattakieh, from the fertile plains of the Bekaa to the ever resistant Palestine, our destiny is death she said.

Our destiny is tears she said, all of us under that blackened sky, from below the exquisite mosaic of the Qom Mosques, to up above the white Mount Sannine, to the green valleys of Kurdistan to the hot sand storms of Iraq, our destiny is tears she said.

And she kept imploring a God she wasn’t so sure she believed in, imploring to know why it was our destiny to die our faces crushed in the cracked mud, imploring to know why our people were becursed, trying to find answers and logic in the dissolution of her world, trying to impart blame, Oh God, let me make divine bargains with you, protect me from evils and I shall put my faith in you.

Our destiny is death and destruction and the tears for our martyrs she said.

And so I picked up a stone left astray in the rubbles by a previous battle, and put it in front of her.

We choose our destiny, and our destiny is to fight I said.

Our destiny. Is. To. Fight.

This post is for all my beloved people from Aleppo, friends and family and husband and stangers I do not know whose hearts are slowly bleeding for their beloved city and country. We shall overcome. We will be back to rebuild Aleppo. 

Letter to a Revolutionary

Ya Qalbi,

Yesterday I read a letter from Mashrou3 Leila:

“Today I found myself walking down Hamra Street, humming Abdul-Halim Hafez’s ‘Ana Leik Ala Tool’ to myself, and I could swear I heard you singing the harmony into my ear. It made me giggle a little burn into my chest. I worry you might get caught in a protest, imprisoned, kidnapped, missing, gone. But I know you need to do what you need to do; I wouldn’t ask you not to, but please be safe. Someday, I promise, worry will be a sentiment completely alien to us.”

These words spoke to me, they spoke to the little demon worrier that seems to have taken residence up in my head. The letter spoke of fears of loss, it spoke of courage and of strength. It spoke of accepting the evidence of the need to fight, despite the dangers and the intimidation, despite the worry and the dread. You know this is what I struggle with the most, you know I couldn’t bear to lose you to the claws of an absurd regime. You know me, inside and out.

Leila’s story is fictional but for us it is all too real, or maybe she’s just a projection of a million fears experienced by a million hearts, making her more real than we could ever be.

You and I my friend are the children of the demise and disappointment of all our comrades before us, and the parents of an angry movement of hope : we tried and are still trying to revive the spark of contestation and revolution , and we’ve managed to a certain extent, or so I would like to believe. We’re marching for our present, yes, for our future, certainly, but we are also marching for our fallen friends, the ones who got killed and crushed and harassed and silenced. The ones who are still alive, They’re older now, they’re bitter, too, they don’t seem like they still can find the strength in them to carry on, yet you can find them next to us, their eyes barely daring to believe again, carrying in their hearts the memory of all they have lost, just like we carry in ours the smiles of those of whom we’re separated from by the inexorability of death or by the atrocity of prison walls and tortures.

My love, it seems like we have lost the innocence of youth and with it the ability to enjoy things in their superficiality. We can not be fooled anymore, and perhaps some days this realization is too painful for us to bear. My love, we are too dangerous for them to avoid us, they will hunt us down, we shall be prepared.

I keep hearing people comfortably sitting on plush chairs pompously labeling what we do: the Iranian “Green Movement” or the “Twitter Revolution”, as if Evin had never existed, as if the Iranians had never risen before the invention of social media. “The Arab Spring” now being replaced by the “Arab Autumn” or even “Winter”, as if revolutions could ever be expressed in terms of fucking seasons, as if we were sleeping and awoke like some sort of natural process, what are we, fruits or something? Pardon my language my sweet friend, but condescension irks me and I’ve never been one to shut up.

It has been a long time since we’ve started my beloved, and we are tired, yet the road up ahead seems even more tortuous and long, paved with too many traps for us to comprehend. Some of us decide to retreat, others become suicidal, we lose a few along the way, the sufferings are too much for anyone to bear.

Yet there we still are, despite the tears and the frustration and the tension and the deaths and the threats. Yet we continue, doing what we can, each at its own level, because we owe it to ourselves, to those who died, to those who fight, to those who lost, to those who are too deprived of privilege to attract wide attention to their cases.

This isn’t a Winter, this isn’t a season, this isn’t a moment that shall pass. This is a Revolution, a process, and it shall take its own sweet time.

We’re ready for it.

This Morning, I woke up in Lebanon

“We Will Never Learn” – Picture by @Z_iad of the devastation caused by this morning clashes. No amount of words can speak more loudly. 

I woke up this morning cursing. Tfeh! Wou Tfeh! Shi be arref! 

I woke up this morning in Lebanon.

When my friend asked me how come I could stuff my face with jelly beans while the country was burning, and what I was on, I soberly answered, denial. 

I was happy in my little chemical bubble of jelly beans, keeping the fear and the anger at bay, utterly resisting the urge to wildly scream: FOR FUCK’S SAKE NOT FUCKING AGAIN. 

Alas, I did it this morning, after 3 people had died on Tarik el Jdide, after dozens of people had died in Tripoli, after the acrid smell of burning tyres had mixed with the coconut oil of the happy beach goers. The heavy fighting come after the arrest of a Salafist, Shadi Mawlawi, and the shooting, yesterday, of a Cheikh and his bodyguards by the Lebanese Army (http://www.dailystar.com.lb/News/Politics/2012/May-21/174096-lebanon-boils-after-sheikh-killing.ashx#axzz1vQw6bTjG). The institution said it would open a thorough investigation to elucidate the conditions of the shooting. 

Now I get perfectly that some certain gentlemen strive on war: they can revel in their warlord glory again, something they had been missing since 1990, they can play God with their followers, they can distribute arms and death at their will. 

Sectarianism is a system designed, custom-made for war: it absolves the state of all its important duties, such as respecting, protecting and fulfilling the Human Rights of its people, yet it creates ties and loyalties that ensure the perpetuation of family dynasties who control communities and infiltrate every aspect of political, administrative and social life. The ruling elite benefits from it, the collaborators benefit from it, the people quietly drown in that special corner I like to call “No One Gives a Shit”. It is not only because Tripoli is so close to Syria that it faces continuous unrest: it is first and foremost because it’s one of the most neglected city in Lebanon, at all levels, education-wise, socially and economically, and where public efforts have scarcely been made while weapons have gently poured over people’s heads and therefore sectarian groups have taken advantage and contributed to that situation. 

What makes me want to clutch my hair in despair is the so called calls of stability and calm issued by sectarian and religious leaders: they remind me of those pyromaniacs who set places ablaze then come back to the scene of their crimes, grinning. 

Well, maybe it is high time for us to stop bowing our heads to these corrupt, power hungry thugs and put our foot down: WE are the people, WE do not want war and WE will not be manipulated. Because we’re not stupid, and because loving one’s country, you idiotic baboons, doesn’t go through destroying it. 

Join us tonight at 06:00 PM for a candlelight in se7et el shohada. https://www.facebook.com/events/238605289582045/

Midnight Encounter: Dreaming is for kids

You walked up to us, you were haut comme trois pommes, your height not even reaching my however low waist. You looked up towards me, clutching tightly your bouquet of plastic pink roses against your chest. You asked the Revolutionary if he wanted to buy me flowers, and something weird happened. I don’t know why it only happened with you, of all the street kids I have seen, it had to be you, you that I suddenly felt the urge to hug fiercely. It might have been your eyes, or your smile, or it might have been that magic spark that make people get attached to each other, that make people adopt kids they didn’t know one second before. I don’t know what it was, it simply made me want to take you home to be safe. I asked how old you were, you said eight, and something within me fell to my feet with a thud. It might have been my heart.
You said you came from Syria, alone with your brother while your parents remained there. I asked you how you came, two kids like that, you replied with a mature shrug and a condescending tone, as if I were stupid: we came by bus, how else do you want us to come? I asked where you were sleeping, you simply told me “mashi”, to let me know you managed and also perhaps, to let me know to mind my own business, which, let s face it, you were rightly entitled to do. I don’t know what came over me, it s not like i roam the streets of Beirut asking people where they sleep a night. Might have been that urge again. I ended up giving you what I had, and told you I didn’t want the roses. In that case, let me
Be the one who opens the door for you at your car, you said.
Never a woman had such a beautiful prince open a door for her with such a beautiful grin.
You pressed two roses on me.
Never had artificial flowers been prettier, or smelt so good.
On the way back I cried. Never had tears been so bitter and angry.
And then I realized my tears were of no use to no one really. What I really had to do was fight, and keep on fighting, so that the stupid governments, the corrupt, fat, greedy puppets that pretend to govern us are no more, and are replaced by a system that won’t permit that eight year old princes are out on the streets at midnight, while what they should really be doing, is sleep, and most of all, dream.