Hot Red Face After Eating

Pictures of my childhood

is flipping through a picture book that I thought of my childhood, particular images, characters that have not known, places I've been able to determine neither the time nor the space, situations that I can not understand this fascinating violence that both arouses disgust and voyeurism, disapproval and interest, so many conflicting feelings that eventually landed the key issue, how to react against the swirl of barbarity Lebanon has caught this boat drunk who until then moved quietly to the likings of the winds.
Caught this album, I could not get rid of after having traveled from end to end, I tried to scan each photo, trying to imagine the strange life before the violence, more intrigued by publicity at the time, any poster, the name of a street, cars of the day, by the desolation and death, cold and impersonal, trivial as this photo of "Blow Up" which when enlarged, reveals a murder that the anonymous photographer himself did not suspect.
Children born with the war, the military imagery was almost natural for me, it was part of my life with friends at school or elsewhere, the sound more or less distant explosions was the background music that accompanied our first years. We felt no particular fear that if we guessed on the tired face of our mothers, we hastened to bring home the days of great battles. We were attracted by the aura of these young people under the pretext of defending an area against each other, having fun to tickle the trigger of the Kalashnikov as a transgression almost Sexual prohibited. We defend against what? Am I just asking? There was an enemy, we could not see because camped on the other side of the fence in the street next to ours, in our imagination akin to a monster, which strangely echo the villains of these tales rocked our nights before sleep. It was only much later that I realized that this monster looked like me strangely, the only difference being that he lived in this place that was forbidden because it is too dangerous. Each photo
gathered a lot of individual misfortunes, anonymous, picked up instantly, only remnant of a life, a love gone forever, a fate ruined because of the bloody romance of a small band of puritan idealist. Some of them are young soldiers posing proudly in front of the camera lens, marking one hand the V for victory, the other holding a submachine gun, which gave rhythm to the days of Beirut. Unshaven, poorly dressed, some with a bandage over his forehead, the other brazenly wearing a cross, the fighters seemed to please the lazy game design, as if the camera gave a consistency to their tragic lives meaningless.
At the bottom of each photo, a little legend, the name of a politician, a battle, the scene of an attack but also a date. This last information that hailed me more than any other. I tried without much success to add a moment of my own childhood. September 1982, I was 7, I was asleep when the first militia probably sneak into the camp of Sabra and Chatillah attacked with impunity and women, children and helpless old men, probably when I woke up the smell of warm blood emerged already miserable alleys that housed the refugees we demonized and harmless now that I think if I played at last when the first news of the massacre reached us by the foreign media. The years pass, it remains only to show these pictures of horror, the torturers as well as the victims were scattered in our collective unconscious, to reappear at times at the turn of a conversation. They are neither Palestinian nor Lebanese, they are no longer, because what defines a human being is only his life, death being the final destruction which returns all to the condition of being perishable, eternal character a Photo by definition immutable. A photo of Antonioni captures a murder, the photos are perhaps another form of death, what she leaves behind the memory of a happy or tragic moment, not even time to breathe.

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Nausea

Funny country, funny custom, masses gather around an orator, hanging from her lips, accepting without questioning or doubts his speech, his worldview, as if he had a truth unknown to all as if he was capable of thinking for thousands of people responsible for their lives, their destiny, their happiness. I do not know
Therefore, I always had the suspicion of crowds, slogans recited in unison, the crowd compact in which only the account number, the crowd reacts like a single person, where the individual is nothing without those around just a unit of all, just an echo of the thought of a charismatic leader who will follow whatever says, although he does that will be acclaimed.
absence of true democracy, gatherings of this kind will follow in Lebanon, 14 February, 8 March, 14 March, 22 September, our politicians seeking legitimacy in the street, legitimacy against something, never for build, always assert themselves, these adversaries who share the same land, the same fate, same wars but we do not tolerate, who is accused of treason and corruption.
No dialogue, no debate, no projects, events and time again, the logic of war, we must spread its power in these referendums live, raise those flags sometimes red, sometimes white, sometimes yellow, sometimes orange . Colors will never take as much importance in the political life of a country, never has been marketing ideological proportions, image display shock launch the catchy slogan to excite this fiber partisan buried somewhere in all of us, those phrases that give goose bumps, these tirades that more drunk by the intelligence of their dresses, that the ideas they convey empty .
If at least there was no hypocrisy! We break the ears with national unity, patriotism, nationalism, solidarity, then for each faction is hiding in his region, with its people, its community, its rites, its feudal leaders, its own policy. One day the southern suburbs, the other Harissa, when we finish with these noisy cars, which run the streets, not knowing where to go, in which dozens of people crammed with their emblems, their photos, their extremist ideologies sometimes nausea ... I saw them pass before me, this feeling almost nihilistic nonsense that there is nothing makes sense, despite their difference and hatred of each other, I am unable to recognize which side they belong, the motivations that drive them to defend the same impetus to the group a common thought, if not totally retrograde at least inapplicable.
I sometimes nausea, I can not help it, it's physical ...

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Oblivion (to lebnaniyeh coincidentally)

It does seem to me that nothing happens by coincidence in life, but life itself (the birth almost accidental), it's all about choice all due respect to fatalistic.
Very moving the text that you have deposited in my blog, I totally think like you, the situations you described are also engraved somewhere in my memory, they question me back at times, when and why? I do not know. Unfortunately the child will one day forget what anyone says, it will be the story of a sad and ominous day of the war, an example of human barbarity, nothing more. For him there was neither victory nor defeat, just a second shock after the fall of childbirth, for him there was neither a cause nor resistance, just a quick little breath from heaven, to take life to death, to bury forever in this land which thou hast chosen by coincidence, that burned Sunday morning while I was sleeping peacefully in my bed. How not to blame But I forget.
I still remember there are over 15, the day of Christmas Eve, a little girl died accidentally, a stray bullet (not her), they had passed the information quickly to log 20 hours a vulgar anecdote. Who remembers her? What is known of his games? What would been his life? I do not know why these are individual stories that touch me most about the cycle of violence that has befallen us. Maybe, because my only way of understanding the world is selfish, I feel for this girl, not one faction against another, not an army against another, not an ideology against another, I feel his instinct of survival, her terror, the blood that flows like a tear discreet and quiet to join the flood of anonymous disappeared, I feel its calming the last moment when everything stops. But I tell myself that I join him one day in the solitude of death and we forget me too, justice will be done, oblivion is my only consolation.

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April 13, 1975, the official date of the Lebanon war, the country descended into violence and chaos, friends no longer recognize, on behalf of a cause, I do not know very well why. The death toll begins in the early days, very soon the number of victims runs into thousands, the nameless dead, those who do not understand, caught unawares between 2 traffic lights, going to work, to their doorsteps, in their bath, they would later be called martyrs of the war. These, we forgot them, go for nothing, random shooting, because ideas of their beliefs, their recklessness.
But it is the dead that does not erase the memories that continue to haunt us each year as if time had stopped with their disappearance, the Christian myth of resurrection or unhealthy nostalgia, how to describe a phenomenon that we offers the spectacle of these grim pictures yellowed by the years, plastered on the walls of small streets. Everyone has their own idol, who could have saved the nation from decay, the war hero, an icon of youth, the irreplaceable, the guarantor of freedoms. They are named in poetic speech accents, it is their spokespeople are claiming their progeny, are defending their obsolete ideas, they are our conscience.
In one of his best works, "The Green Room", François Truffaut embodied a character who refused to death at the point of not wanting to live with the living, he decorated his house with portraits of all those around him died, worshiped at the hundreds of missing refusing to be deleted from his memory. But Truffaut's neurosis fell to existential questions, how to accept what we know, this individual experience that takes us into the unknown and leaving in its wake orphans of love.
The culture of death in Lebanon is other, it is demagogy, it is provocative, it is a refusal of the present moment, it is an opportunity to wave flags symbols of the fragmentation of the country, it is fanaticism. These annual commemorations, I emits no emotion, just hate, about crass politics, intentions and devious vengeful crowds.
must honor the dead for who they are, stories, a link with the past, the memory of a happy day, a smile, suffering. They no longer exist, they no longer think, let them rest in peace, take care of those left!