I keep hearing that everything pales in comparison to what’s going on in my
country. If there’s one thing to be learned from a war is that day to day life
continues on the background of falling bombs and intermittent ceasefires.
Bad hair days and engine problems become just as important as finding milk
for babies and water to drink. The force with which lives continues goes ten-
fold, and everything ends up being important – if not more, at least as much
– as the setting where the war rages. It is simply a shift of “place”, the city,
town, suburb or village ceases to be the physical container of the war, and the
war in itself becomes the geographical location where other parameters start
to take shape.
I smile at myself at the mirror sliding door of the bedroom closet; it is sup-
posed to be cheering myself, but it all winds up a very impersonal affair,
much like the faint dismissive smile one gives the neighbor in the elevator. I
use the phone.
“Hey! I’ve been very worried. I knew you’d awake at this time of time. With
the bombs and all”
“Bombs? If I am awake it’s because I just came back from a restaurant. It
was packed full! We had to wait to get a table” the voice said.
“I know what it’s like in Lebanon, some areas get hit. Others get the night-
life. So is there anything missing there? Bread, whatever…”
“Not where I am. I mean there’s just me and four cats in all of this district of
the city. Everyone else fled to safer villages or whatever.”
“And are you feeding the cats?”
“Seriously, what I am missing is a radiator. The place where radiators are is
somewhere that got a savage beating. So I have to wait before I can put my
hand on that radiator. But everything is fine, don’t you worry about it.”
“I feel as if someone pressed “pause” on the remote control of my life.”
“Then change the batteries. They have double AA batteries in the US, don’t
they?”
“I am serious. I have no life here. I have no life in Lebanon. I have no life.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I don’t want to cross the line between dramatization and self-victimization.”
“If I were you I’d go to Disneyland.”
“I am not in the mood for fun.”
“Well, then go to Disneyland and try not to have fun. It will take some effort
though.”

“I wish I could come back.”
“Stop being unreasonable. What do you want? To come to Damascus and
attempt the stunt of going back to Beirut? Apart from the danger, taxi drivers
are charging as much as 500 US Dollars for the trip. Even someone as altru-
istic as you doesn’t want to be that good for the Syrian economy.”
“I guess you’re right. I am not making much sense, but all of this has been
dabbling with my sanity. What if I don’t get my life back?”
“Don’t worry. No one would want to take your life. You work too much,
worry too much, have sex too little, have fun even less. Would would want to
take suck a life. Even if was lying on the street. Oh, and going to the “Torino
express” in Gemmayzeh on Sunday afternoon a month doesn’t really make it
more appealing. It makes it more pathetic.”
“It’s not exactly the words I need to hear right now.”
“Whatever. I am missing a radiator. You know. Well, I must get going.”
“Hey, that’s my line. I am the one calling long distance.”
“Be safe.”
“That’s my line too. Now that you’re taking my lines, are you sure you don’t
want my life?”
“Bye”
“Bye”