Quarter Life and Counting

sudddy asked: Sorry - I know this isn't a question, but i just read your paragraph on Beirut. I just got back from Lebanon on Sunday and I've been trying to explain to people who haven't been there before what it's like and I haven't been able to. After reading your paragraph, I finally have something to refer back to. You are spot on about Beirut - everything you have described is exactly how it is. Fantastic description!

Thanks! I struggled to put it into words myself. There is just so much going on in that city that you don’t quite know where to begin. Truly one of the most unique places I’ve ever visited!

I came back from Beirut a couple of weeks ago and I’m still not sure what to make of it. No doubt about it, it’s a city of extremes. But not the extremes that I imagine places like India have - depressing poverty surrounded by grotesque wealth. There was something else to Beirut, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, something that made me feel uneasy about walking around, despite being surrounded by the glossy storefronts of the likes of Herve Leger and Prada. It was the fact that luxurious 10-story hotels like the Phoenicia or the Four Seasons rose up in all their 5-star glory, looking down in contempt at the buildings riddled with bullet holes, abandoned, their paint peeling, some with grimy curtains still waving through the glassless windows. It’s a city where not everyone seemed to get a fair deal. Hotel and restaurant staff were impeccably dressed and spoke fluent English with French accents while outside, anarchy reigned in the streets, where 2 lanes would suddenly become 7, angry drivers honked and yelled in Arabic, and little children begged on the freeway. Yachts gently rocked in the newly-built marina, yet armed soldiers that looked about 16 patrolled every street corner, AK-47s slung over their shoulder. It’s a city that both awed and frightened me, a city that is trying very hard to pull itself back up after years of battering. The signs of abuse are abundantly clear, in the electricity that shuts down for a few seconds three times a day, while people wait patiently for the generators to kick in, in the bullet holes that are still visible on many of the buildings, in the young soldiers that drive up and down the streets in their camouflaged trucks. Yet to the people crowded in the shops, the cafes, the concerts, it’s all just a bad memory. Signs of war are no longer noticed and, if you’re just patient for a few seconds, the electricity will come back on, and people will carry on with their dancing, their partying, their living.

15th Sep 2012

Helpless

A very dear friend of mine recently went through a very horrific experience, and as I sat there in the hospital room and later in her home, I found myself at a complete loss for words, with nothing in my head but a numbness and a constant repetition of one question: Why do horrible things happen to good people?

It’s a question everyone has asked themselves time and time again. Sometimes God is brought into the equation, and people helplessly tell each other that ‘He only gives us what we can handle,’ as if getting shit upon shit piled onto us is somehow OK because ‘we can handle it.’

And what about the worried, hovering, anxious friends and family who sit by and watch these shitty events unfold, unable to do a thing about it but spout meaningless words about God and strength, endlessly apologizing as though it is somehow their fault for not stopping this from happening, saying that they understand. But they don’t, really. No one can wrap their head around the pain, the anguish, the hopelessness, the sorrow, except the person who is currently living it, breathing it, surviving it.

The words ‘I love you,’ and ‘I’m here for you’ are tiny compared to the nightmare this person is living. I just hope that if enough people say them enough times, they might grow big enough to become a raft, something to grab onto and hold for dear life until the waves have stopped crashing over your head, and you can keep breathing until you reach the shore.

And yet, the person who has to do the most work in order to reach the shore is the person who may have lost the will to keep kicking, to keep staying afloat.

It’s you. Your hope and your strength that will keep your legs moving enough to get you there. I love you, and I’m here for you. Just please don’t stop kicking.