I decided
to ignore the warnings, the stories and the rumors.
I kissed
him goodnight, in the middle of downtown Beirut.
Everything
I expected from a first kiss was there: the pounding heart, the butterflies, the
thrill, and the joy… But one unexpected thing happened.
When we opened our eyes, we saw a
policeman calling us. We just ignored it
and walked away, until he started screaming.
We ran. We acted like we were
guilty of something, like what we did was wrong, like we were criminals, caught
red-handed.
Luckily we
both got home safely. Stripped of all dignity, humiliated, scared, annoyed,
confused, but safe.
Today,
whenever I pass by downtown Beirut, whenever I think about him, hear his name,
whenever someone ask me about my first kiss, I do not remember touching his
lips, running my hand through his curly hairs or trying to control my pounding
heart.
No. I just remember the angry and
disgusted voice of a policeman, the awkward looks we got while running in the
crowded street and our awkward laugh while saying goodbye like what just
happened was the most normal thing in the world.
I think
about how no one should ever have to face such humiliation. But then the
Dekwaneh abuse happens, and what I thought was the worst kind of humiliation
possible, an incident I have been afraid to share for a year now, seems stupid
and ridiculous.
I open my
diary, read what I wrote that night, one year ago, and try to put myself in
their shoes, multiply this page on a diary by a hundred, by a thousand.
But I can’t.
Instead, I
just do what I would have done if I had to face a similar situation. I write.
And today, I am sharing what I wrote, to everyone who has ever been humiliated,
by a person, by a city, by a country.
