Post Election Depression

I am no tarot reader and astrology is like Chinese to me. But I do predict a wave of post election depression spreading across the Lebanese population, after June 7Th. People are so hyped up with these elections, that, in some way, they have transcended all their day-to-day worries into these elections. They have built high hopes if their party wins. They have forgotten about the responsibility they have for their own happiness. Citizens have channeled their energy into political discussions and have filled their lives with political talk shows, in overwhelming ways. People beware, Election Blues is on the way.

Partir c’est mourir un peu

Quitter une relation, c’est tuer une part de soi même. Quand tu as existé pendant des années dans la vie de quelqu’un, quand tu as habité ses pensées, quand tu as ponctué ses journées, tu as existé a travers lui. Tu as existé parce que il pensait a toi, parce que il te parlait, parce que tu faisais partie de son imaginaire. Et puis un jour vient ou tu réalises qu’il ne demande plus de tes nouvelles, qu’il ne vient plus jeter un coup d’œil a ton quotidien « webien », qu’il a effacé ton nom de son registre, que tu es au plus une mémoire lointaine, qui jaillit occasionnellement, ou pas. Que tu es devenue pour lui une image floue, aux traits de moins en moins précis. Que ta voix, ton parfum, il ne se les rappelle plus. Que tu es morte pour lui. Que tu n’existes plus. Et avec ca, c’est une partie de toi qui est morte. C’est une ère ou tu as été toi, avec tes gouts, tes humeurs, c’est cette ère la qui est morte aussi. Oui, tu n’existes qu’à travers le regard d’un autre, et ce soir, c’est de noir, que tu vas t’habiller.

RoBERT - Nickel

Tutus et Froufrous

Certains endroits sont magiques. Comme cet escalier qui mène vers une salle de danse. La petite fille mettait son tutu bien rose et attendait sur l'escalier que sa classe commence. En attendant, elle observait les plus grandes - en tutu bleu, elles - suivre les pas du professeur. Plié, tendu, plié, jeté. Elle admirait celles qui étaient en première ligne surtout. Leurs copines suivaient leurs pas. Immanquablement, elles étaient les plus blondes avec des noms comme Stéphanie, Nicole ou Justine. Elles se déplaçaient avec grâce et légèreté. La petite fille se disait qu'un jour elle serait belle comme elles, elle danserait bien comme elles. Elle ferait le saut de chat sans faute, son cambre serait parfait, son cou du pied serait en dehors, et puis surtout, elle danserait sur ses pointes. Tout était possible dans sa tête. Tiens, elle serait aussi professeur de danse et elle recevrait des cartes de vœux plein d'amour de ses étudiants. Oh, et puis elle ferait des spectacles. L'affiche aurait sa photo faisant un merveilleux grand jeté.

Ce que la petite fille ignorait c'est que Stéphanie, Nicole et Justine rêvaient, elles, de froufrous blancs. D'un jardin décoré de fleurs roses, de pétales sur le sol et d'une belle traine en organza qui balaie les pétales sur son passage. Elles rêvaient du prince en smoking noir les attendant à l'autel. Et d'un diadème en diamants sur leurs cheveux.

Stéphanie, Nicole et Justine ont réalisé leurs rêves. La petite fille, elle, attend toujours de pouvoir porter le tutu bleu.

Dead woman walking

Prosecutor: Your honor, the facts of the case seem to be as follows. Six years ago, the accused met the victim on some stairs. They fell in love. A year ago, the accused met with the victim on other stairs. Then, without a notice, she grabbed his heart, squeezed it till the last drop of blood. Taken by surprise, the victim did not defend himself. The accused then threw the heart on the floor, stepped on it and started jumping. Still no defense from the victim. The victim still had his dreams and his faith; he believed these could get his heart pumping again. The accused, insisting, reached out for his dreams. She took a bucket of black paint and poured it on the dreams. The dreams got disfigured by the black paint. The victim still had his faith; he struggled, using his faith to resuscitate his dreams. The accused, ruthless, used all of her machiavelic strength to find the victim's faith. When she did, she grabbed it with her two hands, ran with it to the nearest gaz station. Poured gazoil on it, lit it with fire. The victim, helpless, saw his faith go on fire, reduced to ashes.

An autopsy of the victim revealed a soul with no dreams and no faith in humans, relationships, or love. The heart is still pumping but aches terribly.

In previous cases seen by this court of law, when an accused took a victim's life, the accused was condemned to the death penalty. We see many similarities between this case and a murder case. What is the difference, your honor, between taking another person's life and taking away his dreams, his faith, and his heart? What is a person's life without these anyways? As such, we consider that the death penalty is well justified for the horrible crime that the accused had perpetuated on the victim.

Judge: the jury unanimously found the accused eligible for death penalty. The accused is now nothing but a dead woman walking towards her salvation.

Blogging Egypt

I have recently come across very interesting blogs by Egyptian citizens. Each blog tackles a different subject, yet, all of them radiate the same impressions: boredom and rebelliousness. Boredom from the socio-economic situation in Egypt, boredom from the tantalizing state, boredom from the lack of freedom. And a rebelliousness against the omnipresent state security service.

I have lived in Cairo for almost a year and learnt to secretly hate and despise Moubarak's regime. A regime that lets its citizens fall into an overwhelming poverty, a regime that controls the media, a regime that despises inclusion. A regime that lives in outrageous luxury while citizens are starving. Citizens are so busy gaining their livelihood that any other consideration, such as freedom, critical thinking, principles, etc, is considered a luxury, a non-essential feature of human life. I have thus frequently wondered about the state of comfortable numbness of the Egyptian people.

This is why I was pleased to discover a set of interesting Egyptian blogs, having the ambition to bypass state control of the media and self-censorship. Many are pro-reform, others coordinate demonstrations and other forms of civil action. Many have become important sources of alternative information for domestic and foreign journalists.

I so wish that the power of the blogosphere could lead to political reform, that some mechanisms will emerge whereby online discontent is translated into real political change. But, realising the influence of these blogs, the regime is increasingly controlling the cyberspace. Last summer Internet café owners were told to start collecting the identity cards of all users. In March this year the government began prosecuting bloggers for the content of their blogs.

I do believe though that blogs and Internet journalism have the potential to galvanize, inspire and organize. I hope this potential will be seized before its too late.

I *heart* Susan Boyle

Because she's got an angel's voice
Because her voice takes me back to childhood
Because she's got a dream
Because she pursued her dream
Because she triggered a debate on the importance of appearance
Because she reminded us that inner beauty is not an obsolete concept

Check her out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY