The worst part is the hope, it is deceitful above all other things, it dupes and
dopes, ceasefire, or rather ceasefires, multiple ones, for one is never enough,
never too powerful, never too correctly brokered, never too serious, never
reaching the “rogue elements” that end up breaking it, never well-meaning,
always correlated to other terminologies such as “cautious calm” (Houdou’
hather), or to “interrupted bombing” (Kasf moutakate’e), or to the “editing
office with a new info” (Maktab el tahrir fi khabarin jaded), and the “blood-
bath” (Hamam el damm), with the radio dial swinging every quarter of an
hour to different stations with the hope of catching the “sum up” (Moujaz),
or the more elaborate “bulletin” (Nahsra), with so many antagonistic voices
and opinions, and alliances shifting like dunes in the desert, a desert of
love, where no tree ever grows, where only scorching heat of bombs shines
through, and bombs mimicking satellite moons illuminate the night, with the
hope that every sunrise meant a sunny REO speedwagon day, where every-
one was captured in love forever by Southside Johnny, where time can never
mend the careless whispers of George Michael’s good friend, as foreigner
were seeking to know what love is on behalf of everyone of us, and the
stranglers’ sun shone forever and the Communards pleaded not to leave them
this way, all while Cyndi Lauper just wanted to have fun as Madonna was
on holiday, and Michael Jackson was dismissing Billie Jean’s claims, and
Patti LaBelle was on her own, as Patti Austin’s baby came to her, but people
only saw “fame” and cried, as other people lived forever, while the rest of us
might not make it through the night as shelters collapsed, and children cried,
and mothers soothed, and dogs left out in the open screaming madly before
every bomb falling with their superdog hearing, when superman was no-
where to be found, people hanging on to life while tangoing with death, and
I once asked an undertaker, you know, the eternal bed maker, “How is work
these days?” He smiled and said without delays: “Good, people are dying
aplenty nowadays!” was he joking, or serious in his own ways? Can you let
your wrath on him really grow? He makes his living from death, you know,
I know that the hearse was stationed in front of the church for too long, its
engine unexpectedly broke down, the coffin must have been sun burnt, and it
makes me feel good to know, that even dead, you are uncomfortable where
you are, you must be toasting inside, too bad you are already dead to suffer
a little more, but at least I’ll be happy in the knowledge that, even dead, you
are uncomfortable where you are, all those evil wishes coming to

fruition, although I admit now it is too late, but for me your funeral is just
as good a time because, even dead, you are uncomfortable where you are, all
those satin linings on the inside, and those soft cottony layers you now lie on,
they cushion you post-rigor mortis, but thanks for the sun, even dead, you
are uncomfortable where you are, two days later, in the dark of the night, the
morticians will go back to where you were buried, and exchange your oak-
tree coffin with chrome handles, with one of the plainest woods, and have
someone else die in the coffin, for just two days at a time, before a third gets
the royal treatment, and hope – even when dead – is deceitful above all other
things.