The world is a dangerous place to live in

There’s always a plan B when Plan A doesn’t work, but is there a Planet B, if our planet is ruined?

Most of the people don’t think about this, even I didn’t usually think about it. And then I was awaken on the sound of an explosion, I saw black clouds rising in the air, at that moment I realized my life is going to change forever. Then, along those three past years, doors for outside my self were closed and other doors that led deeper inside me were opened.

During this time I saw my country turning into a hot spot, then into a headline in all international newspapers, then into a main interest of the humanitarian societies, who knows maybe in a few time I will see it in Hollywood horror movies .

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La Madeleine á la Veilleuse
Georges de La Tour

Syria…

A country that doesn’t have many records to be proud of, but the first known Alphabet in history, the oldest inhabited city, most of the oldest churches, one of the oldest written laws, nothing new to be proud of but a nice small peaceful country.

Actually I was proud of my old city, I was proud of being a “Muslim” who celebrates Christmas , who can doubt anything that’s supposed to be believed in, I was proud of being raised as a free spirit, proud I can draw and sing, I can love.

Sometimes we need to be proud, to belong , and today I was reading an article and found out that Syria now has a new record:

THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE IN THE WORLD.

Hmmmm. Well nothing to be proud of. : /

Aw wait, I live in the most dangerous place in the world!! That kind of makes me feel better, my depression then is normal. I’m not sick , and guess what, I am a strong woman : P

Being able to write while listening to  music and shelling sounds is a blessing, and I am lucky to be a strong lady and live in the most dangerous place , to spend the best years of my life in the most dangerous place is an opportunity that most of the world’s youth can’t have …

And I am lucky that I knew how it is like to live in a normal place where going out with friends is something you don’t usually appreciate, and being home safe is something you don’t notice.

Lucky…. Yes lucky : (

Lucky I realized when Syria is destroyed there’s no Syria B other than refugee camps. Will there be an ear to listen or an eye to read ?!

every thing I said about being lucky is a lie, don’t believe it.

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The only story to tell in war is how to live without fear

I will not give a comment, By Francesca Borri , her words just took my breath.. she said what I don’t have the fluency to say : 

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the only story to tell in war is how to live without fear

Syria is no longer Syria. It is a nuthouse. There is the Italian guy who was unemployed and joined al-Qaeda, and whose mom is hunting for him around Aleppo to give him a good beating; there is the Japanese tourist who is on the frontlines, because he says he needs two weeks of “thrills”; the Swedish law-school graduate who came to collect evidence of war crimes; the American musicians with bin Laden-style beards who insist this helps them blend in, even though they are blonde and six-feet, five-inches tall. (They brought malaria drugs, even if there’s no malaria here, and want to deliver them while playing violin.) There are the various officers of the various UN agencies who, when you tell them you know of a child with leishmaniasis (a disease spread by the bite of a sand fly) and could they help his parents get him to Turkey for treatment, say they can’t because it is but a single child, and they only deal with “childhood” as a whole.

But we’re war reporters, after all, aren’t we? A band of brothers (and sisters). We risk our lives to give voice to the voiceless. We have seen things most people will never see. We are a wealth of stories at the dinner table, the cool guests who everyone wants to invite. But the dirty secret is that instead of being united, we are our own worst enemies; and the reason for the $70 per piece isn’t that there isn’t any money, because there is always money for a piece on Berlusconi’s girlfriends. The true reason is that you ask for $100 and somebody else is ready to do it for $70. It’s the fiercest competition. Like Beatriz, who today pointed me in the wrong direction so she would be the only one to cover the demonstration, and I found myself amid the snipers as a result of her deception. Just to cover a demonstration, like hundreds of others.

Yet we pretend to be here so that nobody will be able to say, “But I didn’t know what was happening in Syria.” When really we are here just to get an award, to gain visibility. We are here thwarting one another as if there were a Pulitzer within our grasp, when there’s absolutely nothing. We are squeezed between a regime that grants you a visa only if you are against the rebels, and rebels who, if you are with them, allow you to see only what they want you to see. The truth is, we are failures. Two years on, our readers barely remember where Damascus is, and the world instinctively describes what’s happening in Syria as “that mayhem,” because nobody understands anything about Syria—only blood, blood, blood. And that’s why the Syrians cannot stand us now. Because we show the world photos like that 7-year-old child with a cigarette and a Kalashnikov. It’s clear that it’s a contrived photo, but it appeared in newspapers and websites around the world in March, and everyone was screaming: “These Syrians, these Arabs, what barbarians!” When I first got here, the Syrians stopped me and said, “Thank you for showing the world the regime’s crimes.” Today, a man stopped me; he told me, “Shame on you.”

Had I really understood something of war, I wouldn’t have gotten sidetracked trying to write about rebels and loyalists, Sunnis and Shia. Because really the only story to tell in war is how to live without fear. It all could be over in an instant. If I knew that, then I wouldn’t have been so afraid to love, to dare, in my life; instead of being here, now, hugging myself in this dark, rancid corner, desperately regretting all I didn’t do, all I didn’t say. You who tomorrow are still alive, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you love enough? You who have everything, why you are so afraid?

 http://www.cjr.org/feature/womans_work.php?page=all

Mom, I’m on my way home don’t worry

Mom, I'm on my way home don't worry

this is my way home, the scene is missing some snipers too ..
this reminds me of a conversation in the movie “lord of war”
Yuri Orlov: You read the newspapers, Vit?
Vitaly Orlov: Newspaper? It’s always the same.
Yuri Orlov: You’re right. Every day there’s people shooting each other. You know what I do when I see that? I look to see what guns they’re using and I think to myself, why not my guns?
That’s all it is . people who really can do something, they choose to arm.

Wine, Poetry, and Syria…

Poetry and wine. This was the name of my yesterday.

In Damascus, where you smell Jasmine everywhere, and you read the history of the world through the gate stones of the oldest inhabited city, someone decided to replace the Jasmine of blood and the history of the oldest city of some religious myths.

Bab Sharqi- Old Damascus

Bab Sharqi- Old Damascus

You read about Damascus everywhere, you see the battles and the dead bodies, you see different flags.. colorful ones and black ones , yet it’s not a matter of colors on the ground, it’s a matter of survival and control, not a matter of freedom rather than a matter of who will take the control on other people’s freedom.

An event is waiting for me in a small cafeteria that is lost among those old stones and the aroma of coffee, bread, jasmine which is the magic aromatic combination of old Damascus. A short walk from Bab Touma square to Bab Sharqi at night can be now my most huge wish, but I can’t fulfill it at present because the night bats are everywhere. Any way I had the chance to have this walk at about 3:00 pm which is not a quiet good time to have a walk in Damascus.

These streets are the main evidence for all love stories in Damascus. If you are a damascene you can’t walk there and not remember a thing, some people passed in our lives and left away, some left behind the borders and others left behind the line that separates the sea from the sky… only those stones and some of us are still there.. But when we will go, those stones will know other people and won’t be able to tell them about us.

I passed by the mosque and the church, you can see on the walls of the church a huge photo for the two kidnapped bishops..

I walked and walked, pretended to be calm when I passed near that cafeteria on the left, even stared at the table I used to sit on waiting for my love.. didn’t want to stop for a moment to see if someone else was sitting there, and as cold as Ice I had to go on…

I reached on time, my lovely friends also arrived, young men and women were there, different religions, different majors, different styles, and different political opinions, only wine and poetry gathered us…

Maybe it’s also wine and poetry that separated us somehow too… not literally of course, but it’s the concept of considering poetry and dance as arts or as a devil’s seduction that is Haram, The concept of seeing me as an independent free woman or a “jewel to be covered”…

In that old renewed space everyone said a poet he wrote, Syria was present in every word they said, it was our pain , our hope and our inspiration , Syrians are still able to drink wine despite the will of extremists , they are still able to love , and hold the hands of their beloved .. they are still able to speak up and scream, they are still able to sit together in a café but why can’t they sit together in a conference hall… I don’t know…

I think politicians must drink and start a dialogue.

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Sham mahal cafe – poetry and wine event