I tried to compose a post on the war on Lebanon. I tried to write a poem. I made a promise to myself that I would not write another post unless I had first written one about this inane, heart-lacerating issue. I would not be like the rest of the world: cold, indifferent, draping the sheets of barbed politics over the scenes of horror and devastation. And yet I wasn't just going to post some drabble; no, I told myself, it would provide yet another excuse to disregard or belittle what was really going on. I wouldn't rant because there was no place for that - to sprawl my emotions over the screen would be to undermine the very essence of what I was writing about.
I could have, for example, posted pictures of dead children. But I did not want to disturb the more kindhearted readers. I could have posted video of devastated buildings, airports, bridges. But that would simply be showing the obvious. I could have linked to articles on the current humanitarian crisis, detailing how these attacks have only managed to damage civilian infrastructure that will take years to rebuild, blanketing parts of the region in darkness, whilst stripping part of the people of shelter. I could have rattled statistics on how many civilians had been killed, how many billions of dollars it would take to restore countless towns, how many people were displaced, how many were left homeless, how many evacuated and how many were too poor to do so, too unfortunate to not be citizens of Europe or North America, and have the military pluck them out to safety.
But at this point, frankly, there would be no point. Find out for yourself. If you can't grasp the severity, the cruelty, the magnitude of what's going on, I'm too sick of it to tell you. I've lost faith in a large chunk of humanity. What kills me most is the cold, cold indifference. It's become apparent that people don't care enough for certain lives. "Over 300 Dead Lebanese Civilians" maybe isn't as glamorous a heading. Watching a favourite team lose in the World Cup can wring tears from the most stoic of hearts, but thinking of a bomb ripping the limbs of an Arab mother isn't as moving.
Maybe, I've realised, I've done a lot in this post that I hadn't set out to do. Maybe I've seen things that have curdled my blood. Maybe it makes you uncomfortable. It should. Your silence supports it.
We live in a world where being humane is taxing. Being supportive of your government, no matter how much it errs, no matter how much suffering it inflicts on others either directly or passively by ignoring what is right and delicately masking what is wrong, is considered tantamount to civility. But don't do the dismissive thing and brand me as "political." I'm not a vigilante. I'm a daydreaming student who won't kill an ant crawling on her keyboard even though she's allergic to ants. And no, I'm not a "terrorist." Funny word, that. How some people can put on veils and be called terrorists. And some other highly equipped people, with very large bombs, can crash them into villages and be "spreading freedom." Or "defending themselves."
It appears that I've poured out a great deal of words. I suppose it's been cathartic. Perhaps it was necessary. Perhaps it's better the dam bursts in this calm and sensible way. It's odd, I set out with this post explaining how I couldn't write. And I couldn't write, I couldn't watch; so I drew. Without much thought, my hand moved across the notepad and I looked at what I had done, puzzled. It was almost as though it was telling me, "You're sad, but it's ok." And right there and then, I redrew the sketch quickly, scanned it, and told myself, "This is what I will post." I knew it was hopelessly drab and not worth sharing (it did nothing justice), but it was what I could do at the moment, it was a testament to the confusion of my current state, and it would save me from wrenching words out of my system. I ended up writing after all, but I wouldn't have typed a single letter, had it not been for this paltry sketch, the one I took one look at and thought: This is what it is. In the fire, crouching cold.
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