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i grew up with extended blackouts, dark streets, hand-washed clothes, the ever possibility of spoiled food, a candle outside the door of our apartment. i recently came home after the generator cut & baba had put out a candle just like he used to. a flickering beacon. i broke down
something about that candle, those particular shadows coming into view on a dark staircase, that gesture, the shrinking of time, memories as portals, the present an hourly, daily loop, the unthinkabality of futures. I am part of the war/post war generation in #Lebanon & we used
to think we had it bad, to look at newer generations with awe & some envy. Recently, friends and I have been saying the opposite. Is it possible that we, who went to high school & college in the 90s & 2000s, were the lucky ones? We had that moment of possibility, we lived it full
throttle. we saw & felt things being rebuilt in Beirut (not everywhere in the country, and often through dispossession). It was confusing, but that feeling of possibility, and the will to squeeze everything we could out of it, was there. These shadows of thoughts occupied me as
i fumbled for my keys in candlelight, hoping my baba was already asleep so he wouldn't wake up to the heat he says doesn't bother him but I know he is lying, like he lied throughout my childhood "its ok, ma fi shi. that was far away."
I brought the candle in and blew it out.
I brought the candle in and blew it out.
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