…I drank my morning coffee while listening to a beautiful woman play the piano. She has soft hands that delicately hit the keys and a warm smile.
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything worthwhile…
Diary entry: 29 November, 9:44am.
Dostoevsky and Fanon’s words lay beside me as the final apple slice oxidizes and my tea chills. I’ve been sick, a profound illness that kept me sweating under four blankets for days as the Mediterranean winds shook the window by my bed.
Beirut has turned cold; grey clouds fill the sky, tear open, and flood the city streets with rainwater. I’m happier here. I returned to Lebanon in September to stay for a few months, as I’ve landed a journalism gig here at an online magazine I like. Most of my energy has been there, as the political climate in the region since I landed has been no less than chaotic.
Food is better, and coffee kicks. However, I’d prefer to spend my time in the mountains as I did for most of my trip last year.
That’s not to say I’m not enjoying my time in the city. It’s different than Toronto, which goes still after 9pm apart from a few hot spots. Beirut doesn’t slow down. It’s a beating heart of 148 BPM, Tommy Flanagan’s piano keeping up with John Coltrane taking giant steps past blinding storefronts, the sounds of car horns and angry drivers, and the smell of smoke and diesel mixing with the sea breeze. There’s always action, as we say.
A deep sense of sonder fills me whenever I catch glimpses of conversations in these rich streets. To be cliché, everyone’s a character.
The couple on the university street ordering coffee and food at a café between classes, will their love survive? The two elderly friends strutting down Hamra Street, giving each other diet advice. The pictures of martyred men sprinkled across the honourable Beirut suburb, eternal glory be to them.
A looming melancholy floats across the city, a deep sense of angst that’s roared annoyingly in the back of everyone’s mind since October 8. We all quickly made plans as to what to do if the missile fire stretched to the city, as they did back in 2006.
The support for Palestinian resistance is high, “israel” being a historic enemy who’s been humiliated and kicked out of Lebanese land twice; nothing will bring peace to the region until the occupation ceases to exist.
It’s been a constant point of conversation by locals these past few weeks. While waiting for coffee, or a bottle of pomegranate juice by the fruit stand, or the sweet old lady on the bus, “do you think there’s going to be a war?” is the million dollar question.
I enjoy going back and forth with them and hearing the thoughts of those who’ve lived through war(s), debating them for a few minutes on what would happen, despite potential political differences depending on the area. I listen to their various theories about how things will play out, only for me to give a half-optimistic “there’s nothing to worry about until the first rocket lands in Beirut.”
The Lebanese are very passionate people, politically aware to the best of their abilities, and use lots of hand gestures and fiery expressions when explaining their war tactics. This is the Lebanon I love.
There’s support for the resistance in the South, keeping the border safe and poking out enemy eyes. We saw warplanes fly above our heads while on a trip to the village and heard the annoying buzz of an MK drone. At times, a deep boom rings through the mountains from an attack on a border town. You can see telegram notifications light up the screens of almost everyone’s phones, a nation of war survivors turned war monitors.
Despite the looming angst, I’m enjoying my stay here. I brought some books with me to spend some free time reading. I regret not bringing any of my coffee gear along though.
The streets are full of life, and every smile is beautiful. Revolutionary tongues never hide behind shut lips, and the people’s hearts are full of pride in the resistance’s fight against the brutal occupation.
It’s my first time spending December here in the Levant. It doesn’t feel as cold as it does back in Toronto this time of year, but the climate focuses on making your elbows and knees feel as stiff as possible instead.
The stray cats are adorable, playing around tree beds and hiding under cars, kittens try to scare people by faking an attack from behind a pole so thin you can see them charge up to strike.
I’ll be 25 soon. I’ve never been one to hyper-focus on my age and let it spiral me into a depression, but 25 feels like I should’ve gotten some things done by now that I haven’t started yet.
It’s like a whirling anxiety that brings back false thoughts for young minds that I’m running out of time.
I’m trying not to think too hard about it, spending my time listening to ambient mixes and eating clementines, peeling the outer skin in one piece, and picking off all the pithy white parts from each slice. The fruit leaves a strong citrus smell on my fingers that clings to all the books I read. Crime and Punishment has never smelled better.
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