She asks me apprehensively how far Achrafieh is from Hamra. She doesn’t wait for an answer and assures herself that there’s no traffic in Beirut. She says that she noticed the buses going between Hamra and Achrafieh and studied her transportation options.
Her face lights up, for a minute or two only, then she remembers why she chose this apartment in the first place. “Achrafieh, next to Sassine Street, close to his work. Prasanna can take bus to Dora, poor man, he not know how to get around, but I am used to it. Achrafieh is not long, right?”
“No, geographically speaking, it’s not far.”
She’s paying one hundred and thirty dollars for the room she’s currently renting in a communal apartment where she shares a living room and a kitchen with her roommates. “The kitchen is for everyone, I don’t like! I cook on balcony instead.” (She raises her voice.) “Yeah, yeah! I hung a curtain and now balcony is kitchen. But I do dishes with the other girls. I clean plate and pan in kitchen, but I cook on balcony. Bangladeshis are dirty!”
She describes how dirty Bangladeshis are and dwells on her description of how low they are, so I stop listening.
This closed circle is closed. I can’t find a way out. I don’t know whom I hate or whom I should judge. These people hate those people, and they hate me, and I hate you, and you hate them, and all this hatred is based on race, and that’s called racism. Racist comments are easy to make.
Racism is the pastime of humankind.
I leave her to clean my apartment. I leave disheartened.
I look up and down the street then start walking. When I reach nearby Ras Beirut, I find it quiet on this cloudy Saturday morning.
Cars will crowd the street on their way to Hamra tonight, and it will grow loud with people’s voices.
I keep walking. I’ll walk on in sadness until the joy comes.
I feel like I’m teetering on the edge of despair. Maybe it’s my age. Maybe, at thirty, people’s ambitions filter and they begin to recognize their limitations.
I feel like I have to leave this country. No, that’s not what I have to do, but I do need a change. No, no, a change is only superficial. It’s not a new place or a new thing that I need. It’s something inside that’s suffocating me.
I think death and life are warring inside every person. That war is an inescapable reality. They keep busy with other things until the time comes, and then they strike. Life and death must fight inside every person. Where else would all the dark thoughts come from? And how could they be so powerful? And how else could happiness advance unless sadness had withdrawn, and vice versa?
And why do people (this means me, too, since I’m a person) get so angry sometimes, like on their way to a wedding or a party?
Life and death must be fighting inside me.
Whether they’re friends or foes, I don’t know, but they’re certainly related in some way.
I have to learn how to deal with them. I have to get used to having them inside me.
I keep walking. The day is still quiet. It’s like everyone is asleep.
It’s like my dream is coming true. It’s really coming true.
I keep walking and, in spite of my sadness, a smile floats up to my lips. But it sinks back down seconds later for no reason.
I feel like I’m stretching across the street, the city, the country, the planet. Nothing’s stopping me.
I feel my quiet existence.
I feel joy.
I’m thankful for this feeling; life must have really sensed my desire and taken the place of death inside me, like an ambulance rushing in after a 911 call.
I float. I smile. It’s like I’m made of clouds.
I look for other people, but I find floaters, like me, smiling. No angry people, no violence, no “who’s talkin’ to you, punk?”
Silence. Such a great feeling.
I take out my iPod and plant the headphones in my ears.
What song should I play? Leonard Cohen.
His voice makes me happy even though his songs aren’t. I feel security in his voice, because it’s calm and gentle when it speaks of sadness and despair.
I live in the dream of the gentle and in the nightmare of reality.
I play the song “Everybody Knows.”
Everybody knows that the war is over / Everybody knows the good guys lost / Everybody knows the fight was fixed / The poor stay poor, the rich get rich . . .
I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I pause the music, take out my phone and read the text message. I put it back into my pocket. I hesitate then continue walking. The length of the road begins to bother me, as if the phone took away my serenity.
I notice the sounds of life beginning to build in Ras Beirut and inside my head.
I make a decision: I stop a jitney and ask the driver to take me to a café in Hamra.
It’s my day off and I’ve already let go of all my sadness. It’s time to see some friendly faces.
Uff, I could’ve at least finished the song!
I’ll listen to it in the car, like I used to when I was a teenager.
I reach for the headphones and notice my hands shaking. What’s wrong now? Why am I so agitated? It’s like my nerves are longing to explode but are scared of the consequences and repercussions,
