SMS

Last night, I re-read a message that my boyfriend, who is back in Beirut, sent me on the 13th of July. We were scheduled to meet up in Spain five days later for a music festival.
"My aya, let's just wait and see what's going to happen these two days. It's not going to last."

It's almost been a month.

He's now in Syria applying for a visa to come to London, just in case.

What frightens me the most is that this is what people must've thought back in 1975. "It'll be over this week, let's just wait and see." And before they knew it, fifteen years had passed...

What I fear more than coming back to a disfigured home is coming back fifteen years passed, like my parents did once before.

Day 28

It's hard living a normal life on this side of the continent.

Suddenly, all conversation beyond world politics and media bias seems futile and only lasts a couple of minutes before it starts irritating the brain. I have become the epitome of anti-socialness, only partaking in group dynamics with the presence of my body. My mind remains somewhere in anxiety and dread.

How will I my city appear to me when I go back? Can I pretend none of this is happening? Am I still allow to dream of my return, of the children I want to raise there, of the apartment I furnish in my head, of my blue pebbled beaches, of my dusty mountain roads and turkish coffees in plastic espresso cups on the Corniche?

Is it shameful to say that I don't want to neither fundraise nor demonstrate anymore? With every chant, it makes it all sound so much more real...

I go to work in the mornings and spend 50% of my time doing work for a city whose government I resent, and the other 50% of the time reading up on the news. But it's the blogs, and most essentially them, that give me a more poignant and accurate report of the ongoing sordid events.

BBC will never tell me that my friends and family are receiving automated calls from Israel in which they equate Hezbollah to rats infesting our streets, and glorify their own Zionist state.

They do not tell me that the Israeli Minister of Justice (how ironic a name...) wonders why there still is electricity feeding Baalbeck.
And they do not tell me that Israel has a worse coverage of the war than the ranch-owners of Midwest America.

They do not tell me that the people of Israel chant "A good Arab is a dead Arab", which makes the military's half-hearted sorry excuses for civilian deaths in Lebanon a cover-up for their dream of annihilation and ethnic cleansing.
We are told and retold stories of the horror of the Holocaust and of the plight of Jews throughout history, through Spielberg movies, and endless documentaries, and here they are wishing upon others what they love to spread guilt about themselves. And I almost believed them when I was a spotty-faced teenager...

It's all maddeningly heartbreaking. A surreal nightmare I wake up to every morning with the on-switch of the computer. And that I am now starting to live in my slumber too. Slowly, the war has crept into my dreams and has placed me in the heart of it all. And I want nothing more than to wake up from the nightmare, and then wake again from the reality...

My father has told me that he has enrolled my sister in the Lycée of Saudi Arabia. They will not be going back home any soon. I could not stop bawling all day...

...

The Independent did not cover us on its front page today.
I died a little.

Does it take another Qana to keep your attention for a little while longer?

Cyber-soldiers

The Times newspaper printed an article about new Israeli army recruits whose operation is to flag Lebanese blogs and flood them with pro-Israel propaganda comments. This explains the many virulent taunts propping up on Lebanese anti-war blogs.

It also means that they are scared of the world opinion overwhelmingly swaying against the Israeli military actions.

I can imagine them scavenging through Blogspot, barely able to catch up on the reports, and vomiting their comments in a rush, which explains their dyslexic spelling and muddled logic.

But they only manage to enflame and irritate, coming across as the new web viruses.

It's all really sad...

Badge

Beirut

It took time to take to the keyboard and speak, but I think it is now time...

I think that most of all, I was ashamed of not being in Beirut.

I am not in Lebanon.
I am in London, cooking my dinner, celebrating my birthday, going to work for the British, looking for a new flat, and all the while, I am halved. My brain is functioning in London, but my heart is being torn apart in Lebanon.
I am glued to the net, reading up on the news, following the blogs, and I want to cry.

***

Last night, Qana was massacred again, 10 years on, and the same pictures, the same history. Repeating itself.

***

I wear my badge, it is my resistance during the routine, "Stop destroying Lebanon", it says. It is small, but it works. The guy at the check-out counter of the supermarket is reminded, the woman facing me on the tube looks on and will think of it once more today. "Are you Lebanese?", they ask. I nod, and in their eyes I know they are with us.

***

I went to my third demonstration two days ago, in front of an empty and unresponsive 10 Downing Street. As usual, policemen were all around, quiet yet observant, waiting for any sign of restlesness to call for back up. I approached one of them, Lebanese flag and white flower in my hand, and asked him: "Do you believe in our cause?". He smiled a small smile, and I insisted: "Are you with us? Do you believe in our cause?
– I can't answer to that, ma'm, I'm just doing my job.
– I know, but I need to hear it from you. I need to hear if you are with us. Are you with us?
– My uniform does not allow me to answer to that, I'm sorry.
– Please, I need to hear it from you...
– I'm sorry, but if I was out of my unifrom...
– Wink. Wink if you believe in our cause...

And he winked.

And I smiled relief.

– Thank you."

***

Every morning, I check the papers to see if we still make the headline. The day we will be relegated to page 5, with stories of the heat wave or some sex scandal taking priority on our demise and stealing our front page, is the day my will breaks.

***

I've added a list of links to blogs that keep me sane. They say more than any CNN or BBC ever could.

The Grand National

Well, today was the Grand National here in the UK, i.e Horse-Racing Betting Day.
I've always categorically refused to bet, ever since I lost £1 to my then 6-year old brother forever-ago over a Batman album sticker card. I learnt my lesson pretty early. But since all my friends were betting this morning, well, it was part of the attraction of the day and I had nothing else to do. I usually fret over £2 for a coffee, yet there I was knowingly throwing away £8 for nothing. I have learned to trust and think by my streaks of bad luck.

To aid the act of choosing a horse out of 40, The Sun newspaper is smart enough to offer a whole spread dedicated to the horses' history, as well as the sacred bet-odds list. So, after a whole year and a half of boycott, I finally drowned over the Sun newspaper. Yes, the journal infamous for its page three girls was now going to make me rich!
The horses' names: Lord of Illusion, Shotgun Willy, Nil Desperandum, Just In Debt, or Tyneandthyneagain... but I chose Numbersixvalverde. Because he wasn't the favorite, thus lesser odds, and because his name was kinda cool. And also because Samer, who is doing his PhD, bet on him too. You see, I trust people with PhDs. So, £4 on Numbersixvalverde, and another £4 on Iznogoud, one of the three shittiest horses, but with a 1-200 odd, so, what the heck...

And off they go!! All bidders in Bethnal Green staring at a bunch of horses running on the TV screen of the local pub. Of course, it's all a jumble of horses seen from the stratosphere, and the commentator with a tone straight out of the 30s mumbles out random names, so you don't really know what the hell is going on. Sometimes you catch him saying the name of your horse, and you squeal with delight, and then realize he could've said "xxxxxxx is a real goner" for all you know. Until you get towards the end, and you realize Numbersixvalverde is in the top three, and your heart starts to beat, and you're fucking scared because there are horses falling at every hedge, and your whole life depends on those £4, when you realize that Iznogoud just is no good, and Numbersixvalverde (no nicknames allowed) goes in the lead, and there are no more hedges, and he's whipping his horse's ass, and Samer screaming "whip him harder! harder! faster! Faster!!!!" and... NUMBERSIXVALVERDE IS A WINNER!!!!!!!!!
And my £4 are now £48, and I think, Damn! I'm one inch closer to being a gambling millionnaire! And you beam left and right at the Bethnal Greeners coz they bet on the favorite, Clan Royale, who, with a 1-5 odd, would've brought them almost nothing anyway... And you're there, throwing it all in, taking a risk, and it pays off!
Damn the sun is warmer when that happens!

...

I just love it when life spins around and slaps you in the face... All it's trying to say is never to contemplate relief, and see it all as a goddam mountain of mashed potatoes where repose only awaits us on our deathbed.
Yipee yey. Can't wait.

(Nice piece of advice from myself to myself on a Tuesday morning after a shower and a fourth Gitanes.)

Zara

He brushed her hair, removing strands floating in her face, he patted her waistcoat. She was very still. He adjusted her collar, peered in her eyes, and gently brushed her hair again, fixing her fringe so that her eyes showed. He buttoned her shirt, and stroked her nose. She still stood poised, and now perfect.
She was Zara's new clothes mannequin, all plaster and plastic, and he a simple floor manager... but it was the most tender scene I had seen in a long time.

Hoorah!

Dear All
(who still check in despite the recent drought, and for that, I thank thee),

A simple announcement:
I have at long last found a job.
Not just a job, but a satisfying wonderful experience-to-be, and an answer to my year and a half of struggling in this Goddamn designer-infested city.
Not any ol'job that I could've done in Beirut, but a job for which my stay in London makes worthwhile. A job that is, as yet, inexistent in Beirut, and which I will ultimately re-import back to the homeland (if I sound arrogant, I do apologize).
Not any Dr.Health, not any psycho-boss, not any " non-paid :-( " exploitative mini-companies...
I am officially designer within an established magazine, part of the small yet efficient team. It took me 6 months of flirting on and off, 6 months of popping in, 6 months of "have a good vacation!", 6 months of slaving for free (yet enjoying it all the while, I must admit)... 6 months! 6 x 31=186 days of 'hanging around'. Ouf. Feels immensly good...
I congratulate myself, and do give myself a firm and amical pat on the back. Well done, me. Well done...

...

I feel tragically empty, and little things irritate and turn my owl-head into obsessive mania.
Like my 'space' key on the keyboard: it squeaks lightly when I press it, and I know it is a conspiracy to make my quest for balance quasi-impossible. And the fact that I have a blue haze on my screen that no amout of calibration can make disappear. And my 'acharnement' to buy those Pantone books on eBay, always being outbid by some anonymous ****head from Devon, or Putney, or Strafofooajdjfha-shire... The remnants of Blue-Tak on my pristine new room walls cause glitches in my brain. The sound of mutated pigeons gloating at my window at 6.00am, the squashed dog shit on the corner pavement, and the smell of my own cigarette fumes that I can't seem to cut down on! And there's never any soup left at Cofee@ when I want some!! The squeaking! The squeaking of the Space bar!!! UGHHHHHH!!!
Ouf. Did not help that I have added yet another design job to my list, with the little PS that goes "unfortunately, it is not paid ;-("... I run a design charity. Jolly me. How do people envisage buying cars? Or sofas, or microwaves, for that matter? Let alone a chandelier for £785?
I feel empty, and it is quite disturbing.

Good to Be Back

God, that trip to Spitalfields Church feels like years ago!

In the past month, I've been to Beirut and back, celebrated a hectic and very drunk Xmas, as well as an origami-filled home New Year's, designed a whole magazine for £250 instead of £4000, moved flat for the 5th time in a year and a half -after the mice found me again-, and am now starting on a the design of a new magazine where I am paid, wait for it... zilch.

Basically, I lasted two months in Spitalfields. My flatmates ended up being worse than the cockroaches or mice of Bethnal Green, with moulding food in the kitchen and hairballs in every corner of the tortuous Amsterdam-type house. And they were very big fans of the heating system, which turned my tiny room into a sauna by 3am. The last straw came with yet another mouse roaming in the kitchen; and knowing that there was as much food on the floor as there was in the cupboards, there'd be a new civilisation within 2 weeks. It was all a sweaty, vomit-inducing experience that I am happy to close the chapter on...

I feel immense gratitude when my feet get cold in my new room.

It's good to be back in London, where business is yet again slow, and the skies grey, and cheek-pinching family members of the 13th degree are far, far away...

A Merry Afternoon

As I was cycling home this afternoon, the bells of ChristChurch of Spitalfields were on full blast. There was to be a Christmas Carols mass, and for some strange reason that happens once in a blue moon, I decided to participate. I usually only ever go to church at odd hours when it is eerily quiet and resounds with the echos of my steps. But a bit of Karaoke seemed alright for a Sunday afternoon of Xmas shopping.
And as the violin played, and the choir did its tremolos, and the old and young, and babies, and fathers and teens and bright young ones sang with their croaky voices, with photocopied Bethleem lyrics in hand... i was touched. I was touched because I realized that not once since school did I ever stand up and sang dedicatedly with a hundred others. Not since Independence Day in Beirut, not since Singing classes in Primary classes, not since the school plays of my 5ème... Never does it ever happen that we sing with strangers with the will to hit that note right and melt in the masses.
It was heartwarming for the first two songs, and then I said Amen, and went home, all relaxed and yoga-like, and cooked myself some Tesco Kiev.

++ MISSING ++

Someone stole my white leather gloves tonight at a pub. They were dirty and grey from all the smoking and general mis-handling, but it still pissed me off. Who'd so desperately want a grey pair of white leather gloves?! I had to cycle back without them, and now my fingers are blue. I really need a new pair of gloves. Gwen doesn't work in this weather without them... Shit.

UAE to London

You know when you have so many things to do that you end up doing nothing. I've been very lazy lately, especially with blogging, but i'm hoping to get back on track starting as of now! So i did go to Dubai and my conference talk went extremely well. I was a bit nervous beforehand about speaking to such a large audience, but i have to admit the minute i was up there i enjoyed it so much (i think i may secretly love the limelight) and it felt good to be sharing my work with everyone. People were very much intrigued by the research and the blogging phenomenon in these 3 countries that it went to two newspapers and a local TV (this better not be my only 15 minutes of fame, i swear!). Anyway, the conference in general was interesting, some views were a little extreme and a little disappointing, but there was definitely a general sense of enthusiasm and interest in new on-line movements and journalism, and their projection on our societies. It was a very short trip but also my first time in the Gulf and a relief to be away from freezing London for a while.

0800-Self-Employed

I like being Self-Employed. It means that I can never be Unemployed again. It's technically impossible. If I have no projects to work on, it is because "business is slow".
I still have office hours, but I set them myself: 11.00am to 8.30pm, with a 2 and a half hour lunch break. I can work in my pyjamas and lick my plate with one hand while I type with the other. I can put Brel's Amsterdam on repeat and no one can object. I can scream curses out loud. I can give myself a pedicure while on the phone with a client. I can -and will- claim tax-back on any book or magazine I buy, and that includes OK!, Marie Claire or Harry Potter, because they are my "source material, my inspiration" as a publication designer... Hey, I can even claim tax back on bike mileage: 20p for each mile!
Including unpaid projects (and that accounts to 60% of my workload, but that's OK because they're great projects), I have never had as much work as when I stopped being employed with that demon... I am now working for a clothing label, three magazines, an insurance company (OK, curtesy of my father...) and a jewellery designer (SCHRmm, for that matter).
God damn, I loooooove paying my own taxes! Because they're mine! ALL MINE!!

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Yes, This is how I feel today.
Multiple full-frontal stab wounds from a Hegellian British boy idiocy, but still looking really sleek and design-y...
It would make a wonderful Xmas present from me to me, especially that there aren't actually any sharp knives in my house, which leaves me to slice up my bread loaf with a spoon.

1920s

I was lead impromptu to a little private function at a traditional English pub, where it turns out, the theme of the night was the 1920s. Not being in the least twentified, I convinced myself and others that I was a chambermaid of the time, wearing the ragged old clothes passed on by my rich mistress, a tatty skirt, a grey ageing jumper (which I bought second-hand anyway), and a friend's red lipstick applied in haste to bring on the pout. Oh, and my name was "Gazelle of the Desert"; much more Kamasutra than Surrealist, but I've started to get bored of "Like the country?" at the sound of my name...
In any case, it was all pretty fun, seeing the length to which people fit the glove of the theme. I could imagine a dusty part of their Millenium closets from which they whisk out the feathered head bands, the sequined dresses, lace gloves, bowties, tweed vests and bowler hats. Everyone looked very authentic, and played the part perfectly as they tweaked their accents to match the clothes. Apart from a couple of stray futurists, everyone was very Moulin Rouge. The Three-Piece-White-Suited Count who flew the glass of white wine out of my hand even gracefully replaced it with a shiny white smile and bow of the head. Perfect 1920s manners...
The only fault to the seeming perfection was the anachronistic breakdown of class segregation: the paperboy flirted with the Madam, the mine worker conversed with the Courtisane, the chambermaid (me) with a Baron named Marcus...
Oh, a perfect world...

Hello Unemployment!

I haven't blogged in ages, and an hour after having quit/been fired/being made redundant/driven my boss to insanity/been driven to insanity by my boss/decided I hate design studios/mutually agreed on personality clash - or whatever you want to call returning to unemployment, I had the most uplifting revelation of the year... WORK DRIVES US TO INSANITY.
My mind was sucked into the FullTimeDesigner9to6MonToFriThenWatchAMovieBeforeBed sleep mode and nothing else in the world ticked me, thus the lack of blogging activity. Very simple math, really. When you hate your job/boss/chair/studio music, it becomes your only obsession, and everything else is void. A very sad thing indeed.
Actually, some author -whom I will shortly try to recall- wrote a whole book about the subject of Stupidity, of which a chapter highlights the dictatorship by which earthlings are forced to comply to a life of automated routine into the full-throttle mode of Highest Productivity. "I Produce, Therefore I Am (Worthy)". Anything else, seen as laziness, is abnormality in the Capitalist state of things and beings (the text does run along those lines, but I have allowed myself a little freedom of interpretation, bless me)...
Yes, unemployment now feels bliss.
Actually, my boss was a psycho-tette. Heavily threatened by my presence, and resorting to agressivity and abuse of "boss" power, she loved a smirky comment (and a nervous twitch of the neck). And that little guttural giggle of the mid-life crisis pitch! I tried to play dumb employee, I swear I did! But I realized along the way that I am not dumb. So after being confronted with yet another display of Boss's sentimental bicker and over-zealous anxiety yesterday, I did the undo-able and snapped back. Sha-BAM! I reached the point of no-return, and unemployment was scheduled for 6.30pm. Which felt great... and not... but still great.
Horrible how money and the allure of a paycheck makes us settle into bitterness. Because, even though I was miserable and driven to madness by that Mary-Poppins laugh, I was Productive. I was Employed.

Actually, I wasn't technically employed, and it turns out she is unethically bending the law and liable to a big fat fine, and I to a little compensation, which might be a nice thing to investigate now that I have free time on my hands again.... HA HA HA (my rendition of evil laugh).

And Hello Again blogosphere. It's good to be back!

Blogging in one word/sentence

As you all know im preparing for the conference which is in about 10 days and converting an academic thesis into a lively presentation is definately not, as ive tediously gathered today, the easiest job on the world. So to liven it all up, maybe not the best of ideas but hey i will give it a shot (anything to keep me away from actual preparation), I would like your feedback: If you had to describe blogging in this region in one word or a very short inetersting sentence, what would it be? Im expecting the award might go to Schrmm given her wild imagination but i have faith that all you bloggers are quite the intellectuals and creatives that came about in the results ( a little hint: 42.9% of all of you are educated to a degree of masters or higher and 38.5% are in design, art, journalism and multimedia). So lets start rolling them in....