You’ll see it is vast and full of political problems…’
Amin objected to my escapism. Art was just a way of avoiding the ‘real issue’ and I was just another dreamer who cared a great deal about the nation’s disappointments but had found a means of escape in journalism and writing film reviews. It was the same with all our people… Everyone found his own way out. But that day our debate exploded into an argument.
‘I’ve chosen my path and you won’t succeed in changing it. So leave me in peace!’ I threw back at him viciously.
And from then on he did indeed leave me in peace. Our conversations were limited to women, art and memories of before the war … If I asked him about some political event or consulted him about what would happen next, he would say, ‘Read the newspaper. It has all the details.’
One day, I secluded myself in my bedroom and tried to write a poem. When I finished I was surprised to find it packed with the language of war, blood, conspiracy, explosions and bullets. I knew Amin was right. People cannot escape the reality in which they live. I heard the sound of his friends in the other room debating as usual. I felt the urge to join them so went and knocked lightly on the door. I opened it to find a set of alarmed faces. ‘It’s you! You frightened us,’ one of them shouted.
Who did they expect? The police … I could barely believe it. I should have realised there and then that they were a dangerous organisation directly involved in the war … and not had to wait for Amin to be absent for two days without notice for me to open the chest, looking for one of his friends’ telephone numbers to ask after him, and discover the naked truth …
Yet I missed him terribly. Why can emotion not speak the language of reason? He deserved to be banished from my house, to take all his filth and walk away. I had made my attitude to politics, life and the war clear to him several times and treated him as if he owned the house. I did not even let him contribute to the rent! I allowed his friends to visit whenever they wanted and sometimes made them coffee. I liked them because of Amin. They resembled him in their modest outward appearances, the fire that burned in their eyes and their enthusiasm, which appeared to go no further than debating politics. All of them, then, were involved in the killing and the burning of Beirut. I should have realised this before opening the chest. Once, one of Amin’s friends summoned me. His name was Fu’ad and he was the friendliest to me of the group. I had often read him my poems. ‘Come sit with us,’ he said. ‘We’d love to listen to you talk. You’re the peace-lover, the denier, the dreamer.’
‘What’s your view on revolutionaries?’ Amin went on.
I addressed my reply to him directly: ‘Dreamers and revolutionaries are one of a kind. They both know about change.’
‘But a revolutionary initiates change while a dreamer simply goes on dreaming,’ responded Fu’ad. ‘A revolutionary pursues action and reaps the fruit of his efforts but a dreamer, if he is educated …’
‘Most of them are educated,’ cut in Amin, ‘he observes, analyses and passes judgment on the failings of revolutionaries from the comfort of his armchair.’
This was the debate they loved. I could not see how I could carry on the game with them. Once I tried to use my knowledge of films and quoted the Italian film director, Rosi, the one who was thrown out of the Italian Communist Party. I told them he used his film
Revolution is Not Always Right
to vindicate his and others’ expulsion from the Party.
Before I could finish my sentence they went for me, scornfully dismissing Rosi. They were like my colleagues at the magazine – quick to jump to conclusions and apportion blame. As I stood up to leave I made a remark that struck Amin: ‘My grandfather once told me that when you are young you blame everything. When you mature you blame yourself. And when you get
Amin objected to my escapism. Art was just a way of avoiding the ‘real issue’ and I was just another dreamer who cared a great deal about the nation’s disappointments but had found a means of escape in journalism and writing film reviews. It was the same with all our people… Everyone found his own way out. But that day our debate exploded into an argument.
‘I’ve chosen my path and you won’t succeed in changing it. So leave me in peace!’ I threw back at him viciously.
And from then on he did indeed leave me in peace. Our conversations were limited to women, art and memories of before the war … If I asked him about some political event or consulted him about what would happen next, he would say, ‘Read the newspaper. It has all the details.’
One day, I secluded myself in my bedroom and tried to write a poem. When I finished I was surprised to find it packed with the language of war, blood, conspiracy, explosions and bullets. I knew Amin was right. People cannot escape the reality in which they live. I heard the sound of his friends in the other room debating as usual. I felt the urge to join them so went and knocked lightly on the door. I opened it to find a set of alarmed faces. ‘It’s you! You frightened us,’ one of them shouted.
Who did they expect? The police … I could barely believe it. I should have realised there and then that they were a dangerous organisation directly involved in the war … and not had to wait for Amin to be absent for two days without notice for me to open the chest, looking for one of his friends’ telephone numbers to ask after him, and discover the naked truth …
Yet I missed him terribly. Why can emotion not speak the language of reason? He deserved to be banished from my house, to take all his filth and walk away. I had made my attitude to politics, life and the war clear to him several times and treated him as if he owned the house. I did not even let him contribute to the rent! I allowed his friends to visit whenever they wanted and sometimes made them coffee. I liked them because of Amin. They resembled him in their modest outward appearances, the fire that burned in their eyes and their enthusiasm, which appeared to go no further than debating politics. All of them, then, were involved in the killing and the burning of Beirut. I should have realised this before opening the chest. Once, one of Amin’s friends summoned me. His name was Fu’ad and he was the friendliest to me of the group. I had often read him my poems. ‘Come sit with us,’ he said. ‘We’d love to listen to you talk. You’re the peace-lover, the denier, the dreamer.’
‘What’s your view on revolutionaries?’ Amin went on.
I addressed my reply to him directly: ‘Dreamers and revolutionaries are one of a kind. They both know about change.’
‘But a revolutionary initiates change while a dreamer simply goes on dreaming,’ responded Fu’ad. ‘A revolutionary pursues action and reaps the fruit of his efforts but a dreamer, if he is educated …’
‘Most of them are educated,’ cut in Amin, ‘he observes, analyses and passes judgment on the failings of revolutionaries from the comfort of his armchair.’
This was the debate they loved. I could not see how I could carry on the game with them. Once I tried to use my knowledge of films and quoted the Italian film director, Rosi, the one who was thrown out of the Italian Communist Party. I told them he used his film
Revolution is Not Always Right
to vindicate his and others’ expulsion from the Party.
Before I could finish my sentence they went for me, scornfully dismissing Rosi. They were like my colleagues at the magazine – quick to jump to conclusions and apportion blame. As I stood up to leave I made a remark that struck Amin: ‘My grandfather once told me that when you are young you blame everything. When you mature you blame yourself. And when you get
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