The Facade

‫اﻟﺘﯿﺎ�ﺮو اﻟﻜ�ﲑ‬

GRAND THEATER

The Fac ade

‫اﻟﻮا�ﺔ‬ VOLUME 01 ‫بريوت‬ ‫ﺑﲑوت‬

At first glance if you saw me you would idolize me. You would admire me. You might even fall in love with my beauty and my presence. You would think my exterior is strong, intelligent, and confident, an exemplar of the perfect Beiruti.

But that’s if you don’t know me personally.

What if this was all a lie, my beauty a cover up, a face lift hiding my past, my history and my experiences . . . everything I’ve been through.

An image I have created of myself, a false façade to hide behind my insecurities, and delusions.

You see arches, and ornamentations, showing unity, and perfect symmetry, but you don’t see my scars.

My scared face, . . . . . . the marks from bullets I will not see again. . . But maybe you remember how I looked before . . .?, I wont let you see anyway, I wont remind you, No one will be able to see it . . . I hope you forget.

Forget how I drew you in, excited you, made you want to enter, but now you are not allowed, its not your property.

The corniche is a beautiful walkway. Its views to the Mediterranean, picturesque, the affinity and vastness of blue reminds me of home.

If only there wasn’t so many fences to block my view.

A grid corrupts the view from the silt fences, Gaps, breaks and openings appear, glitches in a system that denies me access to venture and explore the coastline of the rocks and shore.

Fences More fences Barriers, boom gates, . . . . more fences.

I should watch my head from the barbed wire fence, seeing the remains of clothes that hang from the splintered edges, or maybe the remains of some sort of flag, Or is it a banner?

Or a sign . . . hmmmm.

I finally reach my destination; I sneak in through another gap to get access to the rocks.

I want to see what my father has been talking about, see where my cousins swam, be apart and witness the stories that I heard so much growing up and longed to make my own.

Where are all the people?

Why is there no one here,?

Where have the fisherman’s huts gone?

The divers?

There is nothing . . . . . . . . . . .

Just a bunch of concrete blocks that cover the middle of the grassy knolls.

Empty . . . . . . . . . . .

The limbo of place and ownership defines, the perimeter of the Raouche. Owners of the land denied through authority to build, construct and develop, despite conquering, Yet carry the authority and power to dividing the people from recreation, culture, and life. Its occupants are innate objects.

Shapes, geometries, blocks. Serving the purpose to Block out the living.

The limbo of ownership and a place defines the perimeter of Beirut. Owners are denied the ability to build, construct, and develop, yet have conquered, and hold authority over who may enter.

The power to divide people from their recreational, their cultural, and their lives, secluded to their homes, a domestic paradise that allows them to be themselves, but only there and nowhere else.

Except of course for a price.

Through the blast the exposure of these private worlds exists. Through the open window frames, doors, and gates the new occupants of shapes geometries and blocks exist and dwell.

Never before seen by many of the public’s eyes.

Some eager and keen, not worried by rules that try to keep them away.

Others skeptical of their boundaries still peaking and glancing from a distance, careful not to get too close.

The rest, they do not care. They have their own problems to worry about.

‫‪Distance‬‬

‫ﺷﻬﻮة‬ ‫اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺐ‬