… And the bombings over Beirut intensified, and I found myself…
Strange how some statements seem ageless and dateless, as if their only
reference is simply their own being. The above could have taken place any-
time between 1975 and 1990, then sporadically – yet recurrently – after that,
although choosing 1996 and 2000 would give a better statistical opportunity
of be dead on. Excuse the pun.
It seemed the same as saying “the sun rises”, a benign statement with no im-
plications whatsoever in the grand scheme of things, a mechanic, repetitive
act – a little like sex when the initial impulse of the discovery of the other’s
body has gone.
Bombings over Beirut? The sun rises? – Harmless statements in ready-to-
dismiss formats which bring the fundamental question “What’s the weather
like according to the paper?” For those not paying attention, “the sun rises”
was a direct plagiarism of the weather pages. Zap immediately to the sports
section, it will save you time.
But the bombings over Beirut did intensify, and I did find myself in the
United States of America.
Flashback to February – same year. Location: American Embassy in Awkar, a
little on the outskirts of the immediate Beirut.
I had already paid my non-refundable 100 USD to the Credit Libanais bank
sometime before, and my appointment for the visa was scheduled some three
weeks later.
The waiting room is divided into two parts,
As I sit on one end, the security guard,
Well, one of the security guards,
Asks me to sit on the other set of chairs with no explanation offered,
As the room slowly filled, only three couples sat on that end,
So I assumed that it must have been the couple section,
Only to discover that many other couples were sitting on my end,
Which I thought was reserved to some lower class individuals,
But it wasn’t, apparently.
Then an over-obese young woman who seemed American sat there,
She was blond, blue eyed, and carrying an abnormally deformed area for a
waist,
As she held hands with a Lebanese bearded man,
I imagined the scenario – he needs to go to the US,

She needs someone to make her feel loved,
So they settle together and it’s a win-win situation,
Like two lovebirds they cuddle and caress one another,
And I cannot but imagine the way how they have sex,
As both his hands cannot embrace her fully.
People with livid faces sitting on chairs,
The guy next to me is wearing a full suit,
Dark grey with a pastel colored shirt,
Assorted with such an ugly graphic imprinted tie,
Suddenly one young man storms out murmuring angrily,
As he heads for the no-return exit door,
I know for a fact he was turned down,
He wasn’t convincing, he said conflicting statements,
Or perhaps they didn’t like his head simply,
Or like they told me last year,
“I didn’t see any convincing evidence that you’ll come back,”
Any excuse, or no excuse at all can do.
The supermarket bell they use to grab attention while calling out names
makes me edgy,
With my hearing disability,
I am afraid they would call out my name,
And I would not notice it,
So they would either deny me interview,
Or get pissed for holding everyone behind me because I did not show up,
So they would move my passport to the bottom of the pack,
Differing my interview for a few hours,
So I make sure to introduce myself to the dark-gray suited man next to me,
That way, if they call out my name,
He would signal it to me that it was my turn,
Suddenly panic takes hold of me,
What if he is called upon first,
Who will notify me? Who will make me realize that it was my turn?
To make things worst and distract me more,
A woman with a crying 6 year old comes and asks me if I know English,
I dread that question and somehow there’s always someone to suspect I know
English,
Be it at the internet café, or at airports, or at social settings, or in foreign
countries,

Or in waiting rooms such as this one,
And somehow I never learn as I answer affirmative as I always do,
Good, she says as I contemplate her flashy display of her jewelry,
Her headscarf compatible with her Moslem faith must be hiding earrings,
I am sure – with two rings, a huge medallion, several bracelets, I was sure
there must be earrings underneath the headscarf,
And so yes, I do know how to speak English,
And I find myself filling the baskside of her son’s application automatically.
Is he going to participate in terrorist acts? No,
Has he ever has his visa revoked? No,
Does he know how to manipulate firearms?
Are they kidding? Apparently not, so it’s a No again,
And so on, I make claims on behalf of an annoying six year old who wouldn’t
shut up,
Crying for lack of anything else to do,
Shut him up damn it I seem to tell his over made up mother,
Between his fake whines, you asking me questions about what I am writing,
And the supermarket bell asking people to come forward to “Window (Pick a
number between 3 and 5)”,
I was so afraid that my worst case scenario would be fulfilled,
As Little Mr. Bassam Hassan’s application has ended,
I let out a long sigh of relief as I can now go back to my seat,
Concentrating on the bell ring with my name after it inviting me to step for-
ward to “Window (Pick a number between 3 and 5).”
As I sit down again,
Annoyingly another woman asks me if I could fill the missing backside of the
application of her daughter,
The same missing page of annoying little six years old Mr. Bassam Hassan
who is still audibly whining,
Her face is oddly familiar – that over made up face, that strange accent, the
huge medallion,
Oh my goodness,
She’s the headscarf woman’s sister I automatically conclude,
Except that this one has no headscarf,
And I was right: She has earrings, large ones at that.
The supermarket bell rang and eventually my name was spelled out,
And I heard it instantly, analyzed it, and knew it was myself who was con-
cerned,

Despite the fact that the dark-gray suit man was called in before me,
The lapse of time between his own calling and mine made me even more
alert,
“Good morning” she warmly greeted behind her bullet-proof window
number 3,
Giving me a set of bullet-proof aligned white teeth,
I am sure she spends her spare time as the “after” girl in some toothpaste ad,
“What is the purpose of your trip to the US?”
And I start giving answers a little bit numb,
My mind wandering elsewhere,
Imagining the over-obese woman having sex with the Lebanese man,
And so on and so forth she wanders through the application.
“And what about…” she half-asked.
Only to answer herself as she looked at the backside of my application,
A backside, that unlike the two over made-up sisters I remembered to fill,
Am I going to participate in terrorist acts? No,
Have I ever has his visa revoked? No,
Do I know how to manipulate firearms? Yes,
Oh my goodness, yes. I am a suspect, behind her warm good morning,
Lies an evil plan to deny me the visa because I know how to manipulate
firearms,
But it is not my fault, I was forced to do military service,
I was forced to get trained on handguns, Kalashnikovs, rocket launchers,
Yes, the same rocket launchers that can be used to make airplanes that just
left the runway fall from the air,
And I could dismantle and reassemble a Kalashnikov in a record time while
standing on one foot, yes – one foot,
Yes, I know how to manipulate firearms,
Unlike crying Mr. Bassam Hassan who was still damn crying,
They are going to give him that little whining machine a visa but not me,
Even though it was I was told them that he didn’t know how to manipulate
firearms,
I should have lied on the unfilled backside of his application,
I should have said that he knew how to manipulate firearms.
“And what about…” she half-asked.
Only to answer herself as she looked at the backside of my application,
“Oh all right”, she said in a tone of self-satisfaction,

With her loop-shaped golden earrings and toothpaste advertising white teeth
showing,
I shall grant you the visa,
To me, you are a “proven returnee”.

I was satisfied with my granted visa,
Until I pictured myself trapped with six year old Mr. Bassam Hassan,
On a transatlantic flight with him hijacking the plane with a Kalashnikov,
The same Kalashnikov I knew how to dismantle and reassemble in record
time,
While standing on one foot, yes – one foot,
The boy knows how to manipulate firearms,
I should have known,
Perhaps I am not a “proven returnee” after all.