Dr. Nassim El Khoury
You are asking about the time when the revolution was born… It has not happened yet. It will not happen or it will not happen because the revolution in our country is a strange, strange “thank you”, neither female nor male.
We stumbled at the time of the “Surah” and returned to the back, where we were screaming from labor, pain and hunger. The T is difficult to pronounce, it is complex, it takes you back more, the great people of Lebanon. The lost gardens of your country dried up and became difficult to fertilize. From Hulagu until this moment, not a single flower of change has sprouted in the dry Lebanese sand. Every grain of sand with a mood and climate is fraught with complexes, beliefs, disharmony, and hatred. Therefore, the Lebanese ink remained a fragile sea doomed to floundering and drowning the Lebanese public in the stomachs of the two camps. Rather, the naivety and disgust of everyone who knows Lebanon intervenes and declares, or who follows its simplest news and calamities from afar. This is not a home. This is an empty, yellow buzz of the intensity of darkness and obscurantism. We have been searching for it since history in the lines of the hands of seven Holakis of Lebanon and their wrinkled faces that knew nothing but oppression, brutality, humiliation of people, their theft, and their enslavement. In the evenings, we search in the empty nests of rabbits under their sleeves and in their eyes filled with hatred, looking for a homeland.
As for those whom they placed in the category of pioneers among politicians, and students carving their names and their pistols on the walls and tables in schools and universities, they were nests of criminals who forever whitewash generations of despicable, savage sectarians, and at their best, if they mixed a little with others, they seemed conciliatory liars who patched colored clothes to cover their shameless nakedness. . This type of human being in Lebanon, as I imagine him now, is represented by the smashed inventor of the printing press, Gutenberg, who wears trousers, kimbaz, and a keffiyeh with the aim of ticks and the rhythms of drumming, honking, and dancing of religions that have nothing to do with them, or by “Sigmund Freud,” the father of psychoanalysis, who wears a galabia, or by “Marx.” And “Lenin” standing with their rags and hunger in front of a small shop in search of work after they went to the factories of the East and the West begging for a loaf of bread from the sultans of politics to be distributed by the ruler of the ruling Bank of Lebanon with the order of Hulako’s slanders not to remain healthy and satisfied in the land of Lebanon before leaving where we do not know.
How did Riad al-Hakim disappear as if he was a grain of salt without a trace in the land of Lebanon and the ocean?
But they parted from humiliation and political, banking, sectarian, sectarian, familial tyranny, and hunger….
We are strangers to our ancient ink squeezed from the bodies of dead fish, just like you in your Mediterranean black sea. Our history is alienation by alienation, and our ink is closer to tears than to the salinity of the sea. Tears in this sense are two tears:
1- An ink weeping longing for the scales of dry fish that we squeezed into a bright homeland for pride, but they let it down and we replaced it with mourning, tears, and vagrancy in the land of imported thought and atonement without thinking.
2- And heavy ink, layers, layers, with lies and appointments, so that Lebanon becomes a hotbed for loads of firewood that Hulagu piled on our backs and tied them to our arteries and our river like animals backwards… towards the last rows of states lined up above the surface of the globe.
Whenever a young girl or boy appeared in our morning like a bright, intelligent star, the West would pick her up and turn her back on this evil of yours, if her brother, relative, or fiancé did not kill her in revenge for Hulagu, and perhaps burn her over ashes.
Oh my God! Every time a feather is dipped in a daring inkwell, a new hulaco grows in it.
How many brains of my young brothers and sisters, men and women named George, Farial, Essam, Nozha, Nibal, Souad, Antoine, Ghada, Youssef, Muhammad, Jurji, Hassan, Hussein, Abdullah, Hamed and Sarrouf, each of them turned their backs on this ancient Lebanese darkness to escape from the hell of Lebanon, so it rolled like a ball towards the countries of the West, and alienation ripped off his skin and peeled off his dreams. The West did not include him in his book kingdoms and programs except after he became known for wearing the Jewish hood and being known as David, Charles, Peter and the Maaloufia, or it became and became disguising his tongue, color, and the edge of his mustache and preparing bags to conspire against the rule of his frozen country.
We have not comprehended, until today, the devastation of the slap with which Hulagu struck us. We have not been able to escape from the hair nor from the whiteness upon which Hulagu cast us, waiting for his offspring after him. In spite of the tragedies, calamities, and degradations that we have suffered due to our negligence in the heart of our homes, we still humiliate the ink, searching for ourselves in order to achieve miracles with speeches, maliciousness, hostilities, articles, and empty ink that goes in search of a way out from the increasing and accumulating graves in this Lebanon from which non-human creatures flee.
Lebanese writer and academic
Today’s Rai welcomes the opinions of the book and hopes that the article will not exceed 800 words with a picture and a brief introduction to the author.
