I know of at least six different people writing a book about the war this past
July in Lebanon, they think that just because they happened to be in the land
qualifies them. Yet all of them are serious about it, and each is trying to beat
the deadline to be the first to publish and rake all the kudos and praise. And
six are only those I know of, those writing in the dark and not declaring it (Or
declaring it to ears that are not mine) are proliferating by the second. All it
takes is for them to believe they can contribute something worthwhile to the
literary scene so as for them to start writing – the verification of that assump-
tion is not a prerequisite.
Books, blogs, creations, installations. Every so-called artist is trying to
produce something to “exorcise the pain” – I keep hearing those words so
completely in fashion these days. I also keep hearing about the Olympic
cigarette-smoking, the Jack Daniels alcohol-consumption, the joints rolling,
and all the classic and non classic supposed creativity triggers.
“I drink, smoke, shoot, and write” – Someone actually did say that to me. I
tried not to let out a roaring laugh.
By the hear of it, everyone is already in discussion with an international pub-
lishing house, a major art agent, or a record label representative – and that
talks are really heading a long way and the contract could be signed anytime
now.
If only they knew how Lebanon is so dépassé now. When I introduce myself
being from Lebanon, very few people now recall what happened.
”How are you doing?”
“Very well, considering the circumstances”
“Why? What happened?”
To answer such a question will require the several books already being writ-
ten, fuelled by cigarettes, alcohol, and drugs I suppose.
“Have you been to “Dahyeh”?” (The southern suburbs of Beirut which were
almost totally destroyed by Israel and which are a Hizbullah stronghold)
“No.”
“Why not? You should go there. Everyone is. You should see the magnitude
of the distruction.”
“Have you ever been there – before?”
“No.”
“Well, I have. I used to do social research there. I know people there. I knew
houses there. This is not some voyeuristic reality show.

One does not go to Dahyeh to photograph Teddy bears left behind by small
girls. Besides, how can you catalogue the destruction when you don’t even
know what was there in the first place.”
“But such research is important for my book. You know I am writing a book,
don’t you?”
“I rest my case.”
“I need to go replenish by cigarettes’ supply to last me through the long night
of writing.”
“Good luck.”
Yes, another one of those. In the last social research I did there, one major
conclusion was obvious: Women were responsible for all sexually transmit-
ted diseases. All men seemed to either fully state that, or imply it implicitly.
The other conclusion which was irrelevant to the health science survey I was
doing, but which was very valid socially, was that all women in the neighbor-
hood were cheating on their husbands except for the interviewee’s wife.
I have been told there is a rancid smell in Dahyeh now, the cheating women
responsible for the sexually transmitted diseases fill the television screens
of Al Manar – the Hizbullah opinion carrier – to complain about the lack of
interest of the government, about the slow pace of the distribution of the sup-
posed aid rations that got the country.
“These are not aid rations, these are cocktail hors-d’oeuvres!” Exclaimed one
ex-minister about the types of food to be distributed: Shrimps, fancy cheese,
and the like.
But these women have now a bigger role. They are now “mother of the
martyr” (Oum al shahid), “sister of the martyr” (Oukht al shahid), “widow
of the martyr” (Armalat al shahid), or any other legal and socially-respected
relation with the said martyr. There will be no “Girlfriend of the martyr”,
“mistress of the martyr” (According to the logic that all neighborhood
women – except the interviewee’s wife – were cheating, there must have
been one “mistress” at one point), or – the biggest disgrace – “boyfriend of
the martyr.” Martyrs have unquestioned ethical values, and were all exem-
plary fathers, brothers, sons, mentors before they fell.
“Our neighbor is a martyr”
“What he got run down by a car?”
“No, seriously. He was on the artillery division when he died.”
“Wow. That is impressive.”
“Funny how close you can get to people without knowing them. I had no idea
he was in the “hizb.” Much less that he could manipulate a cannon. He just
seemed like a regular guy. Now he is a martyr. Go figure.”