اﻟﺘﯿﺎ�ﺮو اﻟﻜ�ﲑ
GRAND THEATER
The Roof
اﻟﺴﻄﺢ VOLUME 01
ﺑﲑوت
Wholesome…………………………………………………………………………………………………….I once was. The ceil of our dreams, a detachment from the outside world. A filtered lens, pitching our picturesque, harmonised city. A colourful lens, casting freedom, instilling hope. On my surface, lies flowers, alive ones, providing distinct areas of happiness. Wholesome…………………………………………………………………………………………….I am NO more. Torn away from men, born in the same city, raised in the same culture, disputing over religious values. My glass panes, now stained with blood, blood from the fallen. Plastered on me, as I shelter the war. Men could be heard guttering and choking as they fall. As I lay in the red sea, I am intoxicated, I am drowning. Men are lost, families are lost, I am lost. My filtered lens, broken, distorted and abandoned. My filtered lens, protecting no one but other embodiments of myself……………….Or are they? My flowers, wilted. Their revival, unknown. The true light, an unfiltered one, now seeping through. Forcing me to gargle, gargling the corruption of my city. People witness this, they do nothing. They are blinded, weak or just don’t care. I survived the war and yet……………………………………………………………………………… I am alone. As I stand on Omar Daouk street, stunned, observing the fallen yet standing Holiday Inn Hotel. The people of Minet el Hosn mock me, laughing hysterically, imitating the shock on my face as I investigate the bullet holes indented on the façade. My stoned eyes, my fallen jaw, my delirious hand gestures, are a comedic performance for the neighbourhood. I sense the essence of their jokes, irony. Irony as they have suffered enough, sadistic emotions hidden in the dark, indented bullet holes. I don’t think they understand why I am here. I want to embody the fallen, the damaged and the ruined. I feel as if this is not enough, as if…………………………………..….I do not belong here.
“The hotel, in the summer, 38 years ago, survived the war as it humbled the rich. It stands, vacant, empty, abandoned, along with other iconic buildings, as they witness the remainder districts rising” Overwhelmed, as I listen to my uncle, a sense of urgency rushes through me, I want to laugh with those that are laughing, I want to mock with those that are mocking, I want to express my irony……………………………………………………………….……I guess I never will. My uncle, them and the city have suffered enough. It was like we were at war again Deceived, played, and used in their games of duplicity. A smoked mushroom as rubble and debris rain from above. Explosion! Explosion! Quick! Take Cover!‐ Shear Panic, Panic pre‐written in our anthologies. Knock kneed, coughing like hags, our lungs, filled with smoke. Our eyes, blood‐shot, we all choke on words. Tears of terror, and trepidation I am bleeding, you should bleed… bleeding the blackness of our skies, our wars, and our government. Men marching, women screaming, children crying, this time……………………………………united. But only through grief. The war driven conversations, twined through our carpets, become surreal. My city, submerged, along with its beauty. Driving us away. I am no longer, home.
Distance
ﺷﻬﻮة اﻟﻐﺮﯾﺐ