There is no dignity in being Lebanese. There is no pride or honor. Telling people where we’re from sounds more and more like an apology and hearing where we’re from sounds more and more like an accusation.
How can we even begin to address unity when we’re killing people who live in our neighborhood and belong to our own country and our own religion? How can we discuss improving way of life when we can’t even depend on affording bread? How do we envisage the possibility of being “more green” when we are on the streets burning tires? How do we talk of having independence and autonomy when we’re surrounded by countries who wish us ill and who want nothing but to see us fail and crumble?
There is no dignity in being Lebanese. There is only fear for not knowing what the next hour holds. There is only amnesia because we never learn from our mistakes. There is only meekness because we always follow and never think. There is only hatred and spitefulness because we never really solved anything and we never forgave.
Lebanon is stuck in one scene: Fairuz and Majida el Roumi playing in the background, families gathered around TVs and radios, listening to which part of the country is going up in flames and talking about the days of shelters and demarcation lines.
The rest is intermission.