Arabs looked left and right, and they saw him: my leader.
I was born seven years after he died, but I grew up with him as if he were still alive.
It wasn’t difficult to grow up around him since many people consider his legacy part of life.
Nostalgia.
And every year, on every occasion, and in every crisis and every massacre, his words and pictures inhabit the streets surrounding my house. The slogans would call for him: Where are you, champ? Save us, our hero! The moon is sorely missed on a dark night.
Everyone walks down the path he mapped.
But one day, I decided to give up nostalgia.
Why? Because I don’t like to stand in front of a monument where millions of others also stand.
Maybe it’s selfish love? No, I just thought of that reason just now. As if I’ve been feeding this thought subconsciously over the years and it now came out of me as a statement against nostalgia.
The saying goes: There are those who feel nostalgic for the past and are always disappointed with the present, and those who accept the present as it is and allow it to shape their tomorrow.
I wanted to accept reality as it is and look for those who do the same so I can build myself a tomorrow less painful than nostalgia. And the people who accept reality like I do share my desire to take part in making our tomorrow.
Dreams are something close to my heart, and daydreaming is a love of mine. But living with a ghost means you’re never living in the present, and your life might become empty.
Yes, I’m aware that no one is actually expecting my leader to suddenly manifest into existence like the anticipated Mahdi or the Christ returning home to Palestine (one hundred ninety-four—right of return). And me, I’m not completely sure that I’ve rid myself of nostalgia either. But what I’m sure of is that I’m in a place in my life where I dread nostalgia and distrust it.
I’m in a place where I prefer sorrow to nostalgia and regard despair as a gate to reality.
Grouchy, I know. But how can I not be?
And so, I became leaderless.
Allo? Graziella? Are you there? Graziellaaaaaa! Don’t leave me! Beeeep. Well, goodbye Graziella! Goodbye . . .
I wash my face and rush to my computer. I haven’t been able to check my email since last night because of a storm over the Mediterranean. And of course it affected us since we’re basically in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Zumurrud’s computer got fried because of a similar storm that hit last winter. It got struck by lightning. I think the government should take some responsibility for this since our electric system is so outdated and our plugs are missing the third hole that, as I understand, is supposed to protect electric appliances from lightning.
So since her computer died last year, I didn’t want to risk using my computer and having it die in last night’s storm too. But anyway, either way, the Internet doesn’t work when it’s stormy.
I’m expecting an email from Hayat.
She sent me a text message late last night saying: “I sent you an email so you wouldn’t be upset with me. I love you. Bye.”
I access my email account.
Password: my leader’s name.
. . .
Me: “Bonjour Zumurrud . . . sorry, I . . .”
Zumurrud: “Sorry my ass! I have nothing to say to you. Why would you think it’s okay for you to shut your phone off for three days like that without a word or a heads up? Say goodbye to our friendship.”
“Goodbye friendship?”
“That’s right, bye bye.”
“But, haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“She died.”
“Who died?”
“She died, four days ago, in Paris. Her body’s supposed to arrive in Beirut tomorrow.”
“Who?”
“Hayat, my neighbor growing up. You remember her.”
“. . .”
“Still there?”
“Hayat is dead?”
“Yeah, she’s dead.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“How?”
“Accident de voyageur.”
“Did she fall on the tracks or jump?”
“They’re saying she fell, but I know she jumped.”
“How do you know?”
“She sent me an email before she left home.”
“God!”
“Yeah. And she texted me right before she jumped on the tracks and got run over. She was drunk, by the way. She had told me that she always wanted to die drunk.”
“And you, how are you taking it?”
“I was devastated. I’m better now.”
“How?”
“Thanks to her email. I reread it a hundred times in the past three days.”
“What did she tell you?”
“In short, she didn’t like life.”
“. . .”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to come to you?”
“No, I need a change in scenery. This sadness is overwhelming. After all, death didn’t happen to her, she needed it. From where she was standing, she saw death as a solution. And what do I know about this to judge? Missing her is what remains for me. Before she died, I used to miss her emails, but now I’m going to miss her, too. I don’t know, my head might be blurry, but that’s the conclusion I came up with after days of solitude.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to forget.”
“Good. Forgetting is good. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Get ready.”
“Thanks.”
“Should I tell everyone?”
“I’d be grateful.”
“Okay. Bye, habibti. See you in an hour.”
“Merci, Zumurrud. Bye.”
“Hang on. Print out the email. I want to read it if that’s okay.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Bye.”
This is my last email. I’m going to leave my house now and look for a place to die. When I locate it, I will jump to my death. I’m going to drink lots of red wine on the way. And I will walk the streets of Paris freely in my pajamas and messy hair.
I didn’t wash my face or brush my teeth today. I’m not wearing deodorant, and I won’t sweat. I’m not going to carry anything with me when I die. I will get rid of my possessions one after the other along the way after I’m done using them. And at the end of the road, I will need nothing. Not even my soul.
Death is my choice. It’s a decision I’ve
