"My brother is a martyr", he stated proudly, his eyes awaiting my poker face to unveil a feeling of sympathy, surprise or at best respect. what he failed to suspect was that i knew his brother, and knew him well. A drunk junkie, who failed to meet the basics of civilized behavior. Over the months he spent on the front, he grew a habit of forcing himself on married women and young teens. it was his lust that caused his "martyrdom" and his failed heroics on the mountain chain. the children of a raped widow, took his life while he was in his house one fine day. Aye, a martyr...
However, any person who lived abroad would fail to understand Lebanese "martyrdom". A few years ago, in the southern suburbs of Beirut, one of my acquaintances, shot a man over a dispute regarding stealing electricity. The deceased was continuing a Lebanese Twelvist tradition of stealing electricity from other people's lines. He was declared a martyr, given a national and party funeral and the street was eventually named after his name. Aye, a martyr...
All these memories and many more flashed in my head as the man in front of me uttered those words: "my brother is a martyr, he fought so you can live freely in this land". I did not tell him i knew his brother, that we fought together, that he was a rapist and a disgusting failure of a human, and that the only fighting he was involved in resolved in subduing helpless women. i simply nodded and refused his demand to ship some suspicious containers of s within my cargo.
as he left, i remembered lyrics in a song i used to like by Marcel khalifeh: "we are all martyrs..."
No comments:
Post a Comment