Returning on land, the land that never stops burning, the land of exodus and misery, the land of Lebanon, which turns over the day immense concentration camp. Hordes dragged from village to village, from Lebanon to Syria, from Syria to an elsewhere, the only refuge of a people in constant movement. The country is emptied of its blood, as bleeding can no tourniquet to stop for lack of will. Lebanon is a big wound that will not heal, which infects more each day under the blows of a knife that hounds.
And the world watches, approves, pity, and no action. It's called voyeurism. Is this the vocation of Lebanon and to exhibit his misfortune, to show his wounds, to throw in the face of the male community these horrible images of children flaccid, without movement, without life?
I want out of the tunnel of death, escape the violence of the avenging angel who sees and punishes the slightest hope of life.
I want to escape the gaze of those who normally live with their little problems, their routine execrable. My routine is war, my desire suffering. Trivializes everything around me, life resumed its course terribly, the country adapts to the pain stoically.
Soon there will be no more tears, soon there will be no mercy, soon we will only clueless, hagards.Au already far advanced nothingness, leading off the ship of immigrants. I reject that tear, but I have my say? Others decide for me and I feel cowardly and incapable of action. I feel guilty living in a land that has engulfed 1,000 people for not much. The world must do the same, if not the dead souls will be his bad conscience, the cries of children haunt their sleep, one day maybe ...
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