memories

Beit-Chabab (Beit-Chabeb to be correct), photo courtesy of cazanova lebnen

i remember my first memory. my first memory ever. it is not a memory of pines and marguerites, of little walks along dirth paths, of climbing trees and climbing stairs. it is not a memory of the center of my universe at the time (which is debatable to this day). no, not a memory of Beit-Chabeb.

i see myself behind some multi-coloured beads dangling from the vault of a lebanese restaurant in West Beirut. it must have been 1980-1981. i remember this memory as a yellowed photograph of fading colours. my father, my mother laughing hysterically with their west-beirutian friends, bassam and leila. my mother's autocratic measures to feed me at all cost. their efforts to clap, tap and twist so i would eat. kafta. nothing would make me eat. until they mentioned the word 'lunapark'. and i ate kafta like it was chocolate. we did not go to the lunapark. as soon as that last bite of kafta went down my parents packed, stuffed me in the car, and the peugeot bleu-marine whirred along empty roads. i do not remember more than that. but i do know that the next time i saw beirut, or 'West Beirut', was 5 years later, when i was leaving forever.

(cont'd tomorrow, tired.)

pls read this article that came out in the Washington Post today about history repeating itself on our land