5th of September 2007
"I don’t know why I have done it, but I have done it anyway. Was it sympathy? No, it can’t be. Curiosity? Maybe."
I arrived in New York to lecture about my paper, however, when I arrived at the old apartment, something was not quite right. Seemingly, some people were already living in the apartment. A young Syrian guy with his partner, a Senegalese woman. God! That guy nearly killed me when I accidentally walked in on his woman in the shower. He sure had a grip. Talk about being confronted as an invader in your own home.
After some explaining, the guy calmed down and apologised about being in the apartment. He seemed genuine. I was sitting on the couch with my glass of wine as they were leaving. Despite living there for three months, they didn’t seem to have many belongings with them. The house seemed clean and still tidy. He said that he would find someplace else to stay for the night. I doubted that. I didn’t understand their language, but the face of desperation is universal. The wine started to leave a sour taste in my mouth, and for some reason, I was restless. They left their picture behind. They looked so happy in it, nothing like the people struggling on the street. Why did I feel guilty? This is my home. I am not responsible for the consequences of their life. But, I can see now. I felt guilty. That’s why I did it.
As I am writing this journal, I have two strangers living in my house. How long has it been since I have lived with someone else? A long time.
Her death was sudden, like a hurricane it came out of nowhere and swept everything away. In the first few weeks, I used to keep forgetting it. Then, at night I just thought to myself for a second, she is staying out late again with her friends and will walk in at any moment. But repeatedly I remembered the reality, and every time it shattered me. Days after days, recalling and breaking. But it's okay now. I feel better. It is as she always said:
“We tend to forget ourselves in the wavering memories of our loved ones. But the passage of the time is a divine retribution, that slowly segregates one from another”
10th November 2007
Life is truly strange. In a day it can give to you all there is to wish for, and in another day, it will strip away with no mercy. And where the plunder of life has risen from its own chaos, what can a man do, but to kneel in his own anguish.
Tarek has been deported, and Mouna has followed him back to Syria. But before they left, they showed me that I have been living a cold and colourless life in the past few years. I had kind of forgotten what it would take for a man to smile, to live and feel. In these past few months, I had something, something that I could look forward to. What was it? Was it a son? A woman? A family? A thrill that engages men to fight for something bigger, where the heroic nature of existence imbued his life with a purpose.
- A fight which I’ve lost.
I did play the drum in the subway tonight. Tarek wished for it. But I wasn’t supposed to be by myself. He was meant to be with me. The sounds of the trains on the rails accompanied me. Da-dum-da-dum. The sound echoed, then I followed. Da-dum-da-dum. Then it came, one after another and I played over and over, until my fingers went numb, and the sounds of the drum filled my head, until the last train had left, and I couldn’t think anymore, until I was left all alone, again with the voices in my head.
- “You have failed them.”
- “No. Yes. But I have tried.”
- “But you have failed.”
- “I’m sorry.”
- “You have no idea what we have lost. Can you comprehend the situation?”
- “Yes, I can.”
- “Let me hear it.”
DA-DUM-DA-DUM-DA-DUM-DA-DUM-DA-DUM-DA-DUM-DA-DUM-D....
