The image of Beirut in the memory of all the Syrians who had the time to listen to and examine Lebanese art, who draw an almost real fantasy, that Beirut in particular is the road leading to the ring sale journey.
I’ve always memorized the Lebanese plays by heart; every single word of them, to the point that I decided to escape from every «Rajeh»* that has gone too far in the country. In my memory, this name has become one face for thousands of murderers; I don’t know their names and I don’t know wherefrom all this evil grew in them, but I do know it is reaping years of terrorism in its other forms, in the face of ignorance, tears of poverty and tears of humiliation followed for the last two wars or more. Some of us fled farther than «Al Souane Mountains/Jibal Al Souane,» some of us failed to cross a distance greater than a torture dungeon and a grave and some of us reached the place where our memory is crowded with images of «Nawatir Al Thalj» and «Shouyoukh Al Marajel,» just as they are in the plays that I have listened to. I arrived breathless; I have lost more and more breaths at every checkpoint before the Masnaa border crossing, and maybe even after it.
My twenty years prior to this misery might go in peace, pass silently. Some of us made the noise and the noise made them, taught them how to say no, before all this noise, to the silence of the lambs.
For years, I have been seeing a clear resemblance between myself and the inhabitants of this plot of land, years of killing similar to their death, one day. Their memory chokes on names of people deceased, missing, displaced and we carry a great amount of loss that we mutually share.
They are more familiar with sadness than we are; they express everything like we do, except in love. I don’t know how I came from «Souhoul Al Dabab,» suspicious while walking among people’s looks staring at «Rajeh». They think I carry the name. For them, all my people are «Rajeh» except for the one who was able to convince them that he’s taken off the dress of evil, or did not wear it to begin with.
My hope for peace of soul disappeared every time I ran into someone convinced that there was no good in «Rajeh» and no good in whoever came from there, that place choking on sadness that leaked children and families fleeing the wind to the wind, to where the senior Mukhtar is, as well as some people who can understand the story of the wolf and sheep, with no prejudice.
I arrived [here] two years ago, aware of that I had to leave my dreams and search the streets and squares of Beirut for work. The quest drew me closer to the names and stones, and helped me meet great people who share my memory and present; their wishes resemble mine, and they have two identities, just like I do. These people and I fused until I believed that we share on this land here more than we did there; there where I had been looking for floccules of hope hidden in names from my memory. These names became the names of my present: Dora square, Barbir bridge, Achrafieh brings us together, the Hamra street that grows gets tired of our footsteps, theater stages on which stood all the names of the people who formed my memory of the place. Here is Beirut, Beirut for everyone.
I became aware and certain that people are not alike, that our hunger is not their satiety and that a death from a past in our memory and theirs is not among them or from them. They have our worries, we have theirs. We became part of them and they became part of us. We have people who hate them and they have people who hate us. We share the soil, the wind and the water. We, like them, are scared of death, immigration and night watchmen. Their blood, that you carry in your heart, resembles you and resembles them. They lend us a helping hand and we lend them one, small hands that might not breathe life. However, after melting with the warmth of the streets and biting the bullet of sadness in its rooms, I became certain that every newcomer from «Souhoul Al Dabab» now knows that the veil that blocks our vision and theirs is merely expired packaged ideas, just as the idea of «our Rajeh» and «their Rajeh» always expires.
*Rajeh: A character in the play: «The Ring Salesman/Bayya’ Al Khawatem» by the Rahbani Brothers, representing a lie invented by the Mukhtar to brag about fantasized heroic adventures. Rajeh soon appears in the role of the Ring Salesman/Bayya’ Al Khawatem and undermines the attempts of some people to exploit the character and terrorize and vandalize the village.