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Fresh Lebanese rant: the old man and my brand new bicycle

Is it really not Europe? Because when I got on this bicycle I thought I was going to Rembrandt square, how the hell did I end up in Verdun?

Oh hi, I’m sorry, does my face look poor? Oh or maybe because I’m using my legs to walk and not driving a fancy car? No? Oh this thing? Yes it’s called a bicycle, nope it has no relationship to my wealth or my social status.


Well I don’t like traffic, I don’t like to get angry for stupid reasons, only important ones. I also really like the environment, and trees and oxygen. You could say I’m a moderate person who tries to do what they could.

Where do I think I am?

Beirut, why I can swear it too.

This is not Europe?

No! Really? Don’t say that, don’t crush me like that. Pardon my French Mr. Francophone man, why are you stating the obvious and hating on this really well made, and actually quite good looking bicycle?

People especially those who bellow at the top of theirs lungs: do you think ur living in Europe? (مفكرا حالك بأوروبا) are the exact and utter reason why we have not yet evolved. They hide behind their embarrassing ideologies, they repeat non-sensical sentences, and hide behind The man, the establishment.

They think that they deter the younger generation from rising into the future by reminding us and projecting their own insecurities at us, they keep telling us just how irrelevant we are as a community let alone the deep and pathetic inferiority complex they want us to inherit. It is not my fault that you accepted your living conditions old man, so you do not get to lecture me.

So no old man, I’m not living in Europe, I’m living in Beirut, f u and all that you stand for, if riding a bicycle and all of the freedom that it entails threatens your inability to be original or crack the ceiling of fear and oppression that you operate within, i feel bad for you.

You know what, just move over, and let me pass, my friends and I will take it from here.

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We Are Your Future. 

It is hard for me to fall asleep tonight, and I think it’s hard for you too. Because what about my future? And what about yours too? What if we stay? But what if we go? If we end up leaving our marks, where will they show? 

This generation, my generation, we know something nobody else knows. We know that life is what we make of it, hard work, brains and heart are our tickets to go. We believe something can change, because we changed our selves, because we are no longer afraid. We feel things nobody else does too. Our emotion stirs from music and from shout, we hear the rhythm as we march through, and nothing can stop us because all that percussion, it’s ours too. 

We see this world differently, we painted it in our art, and in our songs, we color it through words and action. We are not you. We have dreams. We have skills, we learned history too. 

Nothing looks bleak anymore because we broke our backs and that silence you shoved us through. We know things you don’t know, and we believe in ourselves, more than you’d ever do. 

See, it all comes down to that step, that walk into your fire; that hell you put us through. Except we will rise, generation upon generation of youth better than you. The days will come long after you, those wooden chairs will burn and your biggest fears will have come true. You do not live forever, and a Phoenix from the flames forms anew. After all, we know things you will never know. 

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All Too Human

Perhaps it is unethical of me to require magic when I do not possess it myself. It is surreal to believe in a fantasy of continuous return, when you are barely present right now.
It is a flaunted reality they all believe in and I am absent. I am absent in mind, body and soul; I cannot pin point myself on a map to save my life. Perhaps I have not acquired the power to believe in anything yet; maybe that is the only barrier between me and this world.
Sometimes you are more quiet on the inside than on the outside; sometimes it’s not peace; it’s an undermined war. You know that keeping still won’t awaken the terrors and won’t allow the body counts. You know that creeping around hiding from your own voices is how you get to flaunt a blank unreciprocated emotion.
You cuddle with your aggression and your anguish swollen feet feel heavy and half dead. You have no roots, you have feet that feel and touch the world alone. You have no skill but walking, and the moment you begin; it rarely ever stops. So you dwell in your pause until your prose attempts to move you, to no avail.
Perhaps it is unethical to exist among those who forget about their feet way too soon and blame them for taking root…
So I put away my boots and I press my feet into toxic ground in hopes of becoming immune. I stop feeling as they have informed me; and a sense of appalling foreignness bestows itself on me.
I turn it all off and I refrain in a shadow of a poisonous city. Foreign and foraged, my name crumbles into sheer letters I have learned to answer to. Nothing within and everything without; I am not magic, I am real.
“Human, All too Human”-F.N