The Curtain

‫اﻟﺘﯿﺎ�ﺮو اﻟﻜ�ﲑ‬

GRAND THEATER

THE CURT AIN

ِ ‫اﻟﺴ�ﺘﺎرة‬ VOLUME 01 ‫بريوت‬ ‫ﺑﲑوت‬

I am the star of the show. With out me there is no show, no performance to please you all.

There is not start, interlude, or end to a performance without me.

I am the gateway between two worlds, My workers.

My viewers.

A break is created through me, a connection, and a chance for them to meet. But only slightly. Only for a moment. I control the divide.

The two fight over me constantly, pulling me back and forth till I am ripped and torn. . . . . They use me.

But without them I am redundant, not useful for anything, I need them.

My workers try to peep at me, through me, to catch a glimpse at my show. Although they are the mechanism that drives me and allow me to function, they can only catch a sneak peek. They see shadows and flashes of light, but no more.

I favor my viewers they come to see me with admiration. . . . . . . . . and they pay for me. To those who pay me I give access too the show. I only close myself for moments but I am completely theirs.

They can look at my singers, dancers, actors, and performers in all their glory. But my workers will see them in their raw nature.

The floor might connect them, But I control who enters.

A bazaar, a collection of the city, a cultural melting pot, where the smallest man and woman can show of their best work, artisans of their trade.

Some overlooked, but missed treasure pieces. Cheap yet priceless at the same time.

I expected my arrival to the souk of Beirut to be something to take home, a sentimental piece, to round of my trip. I want to experience the business, the culture, the bargaining that is so foreign to me. The small flourishing economic center, of products that are handmade, crafted, ……….something unique.

I Arrive . . . . . .

Glass panels, steel frames, concrete structures, . . . . . a bizaaar no more just a shopping centre. A comfortability sets in, the air conditioning cools me form the external heat of the city.

The small ecologies of bargainers, hustlers . . . . . . . . gone, concealed behind glass panels.

Rare objects and treasures of my imaginations out of sight. . . . . . . Designer brands, everything I have seen before fill my vision instead. Tourists like myself walk the path, window shopping and gazing. . .

I don’t feel like a toursit

The streets are crowded around a single shop.

A bank. To be precise the banque du liban.

A scurry of people praying, panicking, pleading in plight to be heard and helped.

Their body language, submissive, defeated as some kneel and some are slumped in their posture.

A sign that this ordeal has gone on for too long Their anger had passed, their hope diminished, they were about to quit.

The banks had closed their doors. The presence of a person, their stature, their status, their wealth . . . . . . Redundant.

No on was getting their money.

A monetary, socio economic divide no longer separated the two people.

Reducing the richest man to begging along side the poorest, a large developer kneeling with a small shop keeper. . . .A small moment of unity. . . . . . . .

How long will it last?

‫‪Distance‬‬

‫ﺷﻬﻮة‬ ‫اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺐ‬