“Love your country,” they said.
Well I tried. I really did. In fact, I’ve spent my whole life trying.
Every obstacle this country has laid in my path, I’ve managed to overcome or at the very least, neglect. I’ve done it with an absolute tenacity, stemming from an assumption that I was to build my life in this very country. That, for whatever reason, Lebanon was my true home.
Then one day, not too long ago, I happened to be watching television and came across a friend of mine on a political show. As I sat there watching her joust her way against an array of patriarchal and corrupt politicians, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were all too pointless. When I noticed in them this glaring imperviousness to her words, I wondered if she weren’t, in her sanguine tussle, merely throwing a few futile jabs at this imperial immortal beast. And if I weren’t indeed with her on that same boat, fighting for a lost cause… So, I poured myself a drink and wrote her a message.
[With the exception of a few words that I’ve had to censor due to the fact that well…I’m applying to Portugal after all and don’t want you lovely Portuguese thinking I’m a real brute, the message went quite accurately as follows:]
It’s been a while Sara…
I saw you on TV. And as usual, you were remarkable.
I am writing you today for an inquiry that I hope you will truly take to heart. You see, as I sat there watching you, I couldn’t help but wonder, when I wasn’t particularly preoccupied with what dumb patriarchal ***** your opposition all were, how such a smart, highly educated and articulate woman could find interest in this ant-sized nation known as Lebanon.
I mean don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy life in Lebanon. And although I have not been all over the globe, and not nearly as much I would have liked, I believe I have been around enough to establish that Lebanon does indeed posses an alluring quality. But so do many other places on this planet you see…
And I’m not just talking about the inherent value of Lebanon as a nation. Even if we forget about that for a moment, I wonder: can one really have an impact over humanity as a whole by leading a fight in this very small, particular and hostile corner of the world?
As I watched you, I couldn’t help but wonder whether your talents weren’t being put to waste in leading a fight right here. In this gutter.
Sara, I have been working extremely hard for the past few years over here. Every goddamn stone I’ve scrupulously laid in my small company has been laid here, in Lebanon. And every once in a while, most notably when our gullible leaders find yet another ingenious way to **** us over, I would stop to contemplate: Why here? Why plant on sordid grounds? Isn’t a seed going to grow stronger when planted elsewhere?And I don’t know what kind of seed you carry, hell I don’t even know what kind of seed I carry, but I have an almost indisputable conviction that there is naiveté in building on quicksand. There must be.
And it’s the same in business you see. Even when I’ve had to pitch for rounds of investment, investors would always end up asking me the same thing: “Why are you placing so much effort over this very particular and small market?”
Sara, I’ve always looked up to you. I’ve watched you time and time again, taking on giants with an unparalleled resolve and a never-fading smile. And I’ve once told you: to me you’re like these igniter guns that you sometimes have to reach for in order to light up the stove. When my flame is too weak, when my stove isn’t lighting up and is in need of some external igniter gun support, I’ve turned to you in the past. Once more today, I am asking you to be my guide.
Tell me: Why is it I’m working in Lebanon? Why is it I’m working for Lebanon?
I’m counting on you.
A day passed. I went to bed and woke up to check my phone. The message was on ‘read’.
Good. She’ll answer any second now.
And then it came. The revolution. October 17, 2019. The Lebanese people took to the streets in millions. Muslims and Christians hand in hand, marching against corruption. Marching against the oligarchy of warlords that has been sucking their souls dry for half a decade. “Down with the crooks!” they cried. “Death to sectarianism!” they screamed. And when the news came that the Prime Minister tendered his resignation, even more people took to the streets. They chanted and danced. I stood there amidst the red smoke of the flares and the echoing of cheers and laughter. People took me by the hand and started dancing. They handed everyone free beer. They handed me free beer. Then they passed around some lit up joints. I inhaled for the first time in over a decade and stared at a planted fist raised up high. I decided to walk towards it. I had to move away from the crowd. After a few minutes of walking and when the cheers and cries were but a distant echo, I arrived at the fist. The word “revolution” was inscribed upon it. It stood tall above me. I took another hit at that joint and got sucked in. Did the Lebanese really raise their fists in protest? Are we finally taking matters into our own hands? Is this it? Is this freedom?
And then suddenly, I heard the roar of a motorcycle. Before I knew it, a man was standing to my right.
“What’s that in your hand?” he asked.
“A joint of Marijuana, I believe.”
“Where did you get it?”
“People were handing it out back there.”
“You’re coming with me.” He showed me some police badge. Military Intelligence.
Within minutes I was in handcuffs, being transported in a shitty old Nissan to the nearest police station.
“Did you really think you could smoke Marijuana in the middle the goddamn city and get away with it, you little prick?” asked the man in the passenger seat with the haughtiest smile I’ve yet to lay eyes on.
“Why weren’t you in your fancy chalet in Faraya instead?” He went on. “With your fancy French speaking girlfriend having fancy sex?”
The driver let out this juicy laugh. “Ah oui oui!” he uttered.
Then the man in the passenger seat turned around and stared at me.
I smiled.
He kept staring expectantly.
“I was too busy freeing a nation,” I said.
My reply seemed to amuse them quite a bit. They cackled for a good ten seconds. “Oh you’ll free the country alright. With your so-called revolution of drugs. Your revolution of whoring and dancing! You do realize that out of the 2,000 people in Martyr Square, 1,000 are undercover cops, don’t you?”
My phone vibrated in my pocket. “Could it be Sara?” I wondered. The thought made me smile even harder. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. She’ll explain everything. She’ll vindicate me. I know she will.
At the station, I got interrogated.
“How long have you been a drug addict?”
I chuckled.
His brow arched in anger. “You think this is funny?”
“I am not an addict.”
“Well how long have you been consuming Marijuana then?”
“If you mean when was the first time I ever smoked Marijuana, I believe that was around 10 years ago, when I was 18 or so.”
He wrote down: Addicted to Marijuana from the age of 18.
“What you wrote down on that report is flawed.” I said with a smile. I didn’t care. I knew Sara was going to reply any time now. In fact, that could’ve been her earlier. I just needed those damn handcuffs off me to check my phone.
“It’s all the same.” He said, with a dismissive gesture. “Off with you.”
They put me up against the wall and took a few pictures of me with, I kid you not, a Panasonic handheld camera that could not have been from the 21st century.
Naturally, I smiled for my pictures.
“Why the **** are you smiling?” My photographer snapped.
“Because, my good man, Sara will explain everything.”
He froze and stared at me for a couple of seconds before proceeding with his routine, as if dismissing me as a madman.
They stripped me of my belongings and most notably my phone before I could even see who texted me. Then they stripped me naked and asked me to kneel and cough. And I did just that. With a smile. Because I knew Sara’s reply would make it all worth it. Every second of it.
And then they threw me in a dark damp room half the size of my bedroom, filled with 25 god forsaken human beings. 26 now.
I greeted my new cell mates: “Good day, fellas.”
Then I sat in the corner. A smile still carved hard on my face. I didn’t care. Sara was going to write back anytime now…
The time passed. The men in there spoke of women. They spoke of a futile revolution. They spoke of politics. But most importantly, they spoke. And I just nodded and smiled.
The big guy, or cell leader so to speak, came up to me and said:
“You know, in all my time in this cell, and that’s 6 months of people walking in and out of here on a daily basis, I’ve yet to see someone walk in with a: Good day, fellas”.
I laughed.
“What’s your story?” He asked.
“Well there’s this woman, you see… She’s beautiful. And she knows the answers to the complicated questions.”
After two days and two nights of sleeping in my clothes in 30 degree heat with absolutely no shred of light, they finally called my name.
“Why do you do drugs?”
“I don’t.”
“Why do you do drugs?!” He raised his voice and stamped his hand on the table.
“I don’t.”
He threw half the documents off the table in anger.
“Do you think you can lie to me you piece of shit?!” He screamed.
“I think you are a pretty experienced man who’s had to deal with quite a number of addicts in his time.” I answered. “So no. I don’t believe I can lie to you.”
“If you don’t tell me who gave you those drugs, I will have you transported to Hbeish.”
Hbeish is this prison where drug addicts are tortured for information. Or that is the circulating rumor about it at least…
“You do realize this is weed we’re talking about?” I asked.
“I ask the questions here!”
“You ask the questions here.”
“Do you know that Marijuana is the gateway drug?”
“I do.” I obviously did not.
“Will you continue doing it after today?”
“No. Not in Lebanon.”
“Are you saying you would do it outside Lebanon?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. “Go piss in a cup.”
“Sure thing.” I answered. “I’m great at pissing.”
I pissed in a cup. Two hours later, they told me I was free to go.
I tore the plastic bag open and reached for my phone. I turned it on. Goddamn it why is it taking forever to start? I clicked on Sara. My message was still on ‘read’…
It was still on ‘read’.
I walked out. It was raining threads. I crossed the road to where my father was standing.
“Are you okay, son?”
“Never better.”
We walked towards the car. Then when the rain started coming down thick and fast, we decided to stop for a minute under a shade. I was soaked from head to toe. And the message… was still on ‘read’.
I turned to the storefront to my left. Hung right there in front of me was a Cristiano Ronaldo kit.
“The weather is nice in Portugal,” I thought…
