Grace Khawam writes:
 |
Artist: Joan Abou-Haidar, August 2020
|
She was born in the Golden Era. She was as beautiful as the sunshine in fields of wheat on a hot summer day. A happy childhood, playfully spent in carnival-like markets full of colored silk, rose water soap, scents of thyme and jasmine flowers. Visitors came from all over the world to see her, to admire her beauty as she turned into a shy teenager. Movie theaters, concerts, cultural spaces, were bursting with admirers, where poetry and music intertwined, drunken souls dancing through endless nights. Nothing predicting what will happen to her next. A bus attacked and all its passengers killed. A war declared. Scared, naïve, she is caught in the clashes, with nowhere to hide. Her body is bruised from beatings, punctured by gunfire. She endured, silently, crying tears of blood, as she witnessed hatred, greed and terror. Fifteen years of civil war, but she withstood. She stood up, an unyielding fierce young woman, prepared to pick up her shattered pieces and ready to give again. And she gave. With generosity. With love. With peace. She became the symbol of cultural diversity, of metropolitanism, of urban prosperity, of religious tolerance. This is when her fathers, her kin, but also strangers started to take interest in her. Strong, greedy men of power. Warlords. “We will save you” they told her. She needed no saving, but they did not listen to her. The self-proclaimed protectors spread out their grasps, clutching her throat, trapping her with their wretched claws. She became a prisoner. A prisoner of their narcissism and corruption. A prisoner of their business deals. She gave birth to sons and daughters, the product of her rape. She raised them with so much care and affection, with much respect for themselves and love for their country, only to see them runaway to faraway lands, escaping the clenches of the greedy powerful men. They carry with them their dreams and their memories, and her blood running through their veins, wherever they go. She is an older woman now. With heavy steps and painful memories, she moves on, as she has always done. We can still hear the songs written for her by long lost lovers. Many will chant her name, in the faint hope of reawakening her beautiful youthful days.
Until it happened. The day that changed her forever. A massive explosion blows her body, ripping her from the inside. An explosion caused by them, the greedy evil men. Betrayed by her lovers, abused by her protectors, she lies still on the floor, her bloodied hands on her butchered womb. From the top of her collapsed lungs, she screams in pain and agony. "What have you done to me?" she cries in despair. "What have you done?"
We all know her story. We all know her name. She is Beirut.