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You Are Lucky My Sonby Daniah Lababidifor not being here today, witnessing these atrocious acts of human vulgarities towards your fellow man. Times held beauty here- in Beirut- filled with romance, roses and Parisian perfumes. Pleasurable hours; dancing, singing and smoking Cuban cigars. Times overflowing with laughter and a sense of belonging to land, family and friends. I remember shared walks down the Mono, and my Italian friend inhaling the purity of this place-- the essence of Jasmine intermingled with fresh summer air. I remember sitting in restaurants, music playing, glasses meeting and the taste of exquisite food while listening to the melodious unification of worldwide accents. Oh yes, my son, how I remember the nightly drives through silent districts heading toward The Lady Of Lebanon with your mom by my side licking shawarma grease off our fingers. We'd delight at the sight of clashing waves against the million year old rocks of Jounyeh, then pass by the ornamented Sidon Mosque. How can I forget the old houses in Tyre, and its narrow streets. The hopeful faces of humble people finding joy in what little they have, uncomplaining. These days, once recent, are now gone my son. A simple fortnight made our country bleed my son. Today restaurants are deserted, glasses shattered. The lone music of high pitched wailing bouncing off abandoned shapeless streets. Today the food is poisoned, bread stale, and fruits decayed. And the waves, my son, their white foam is turned to lava, clashing onto beds of corpses, fire, and rubble. Jasmine scent drenched by fear's essence and the acrid odor of blood. The songs; croaking lamentations formed over mass gravesites. Today, your Italian mom has fled my arms while Tyre embraces death. Boxes once filled with delicacies now home shredded corpses. Wine glasses overflowing with tears. Today, I feel something akin to relief, my son. You shall not witness destruction, nor these crimes against humanity. You shall not taste the bitterness of unjustifiable retaliation, nor know the true meaning of misery. Today, my son, I salute you for not being born. |
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