اﻟﺘﯿﺎ�ﺮو اﻟﻜ�ﲑ
GRAND THEATER
The Win dow
ِ اﻟﺸ�ﺒﺎك VOLUME 01 بريوت ﺑﲑوت
What have I become . . . . Look at me . . . I feel ashamed of myself. Torn between two sides I am not sure if I even know myself. Am I the typical Arab . . . . . .
I do not feel like myself.
I have conformed to something else, something that is not from this land, my homeland, something alien. Am I merely an assimilation, a French derivative? an Arab man, or a French man? Can I be both? Or am I neither? Just a mix – a mut – a new breed, that has lost their lineage, their heritage, their culture, and their place. The window stands confused, Its Moorish extravagance, of exaggerated arches, and intricate ornamentation. An Arab archetype that has some how mingled, with another genealogy. The taboo mixing of cultures. The Corinthian columns dominate and control the infrastructure, the new support system that the window now depends on to hold its self-up and stand grandly for those to look through.
The streets of Beirut amaze me sometimes. There is beauty that can be found in the disarray and the mess, a Frankenstein of materials that somehow have been put together. The individual spaces that the citizens have made their own, unorganized and …. Wait……,What is that. The streets have started to align. The winding irregular shapes of the urban landscape have narrowed in. I can see what looks to be a clock on a tower. I continue walking further down the street and continue to notice that the streets are all pointing towards this one tower of a clock. The next street the same and the next and the next . . . . I give in. I have been drawn in. A sign lets me know that I have entered Place de étoile. The architecture of the buildings has changed to something to being ordered, every building complements the next as if it was connected, as if it were one building. It is hard for me to form a distinction between them. I check my google maps to find I’m in the heart of Beirut’s City Centre. This out of place layout reminds me of something pulled out of Paris, Collaged . . . . slapped onto Beirut. I finally reach the clock tower, the center piece of the city, Rolex written on the clocks face.
What is the state of our government, what has happened to all the promises of reform?
Our leaders have left and abandoned their positions; they have abandoned us. . . Is there anyone to fill their shoes and take ownership. So many questions are raised but we have given up hope. Hope in our government, Hope in rebelling and protesting, Hope in finding an outcome, a resolution, a change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Its hopeless. If my government can’t help us then how can I help myself, we must seek help! I want to stand strong, to be patriotic, to hold my head up high and call myself a beiruti. But we need the French. . . . I submit, maybe things where better when they were in control No! I hang my head in shame to how reliant I have become . . . . . . dependent . . . . . . We Give up.
Distance
ﺷﻬﻮة اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺐ