Kids

If you had asked me two years ago what I thought about kids, I would have given you a disgusted look and go on and on about how I hate them!
It is not before this year that I realized what caused that unexplained hate.

I hated kids because... well, I love them.
This idea that I will never have kids of my own just pushed me towards this hate, like some sort of way to protect me from being hurt one day.
You can talk to me for days about adopting or surrogates or any alternative to have children, but for me, nothing can be compared to having a little half-you half-your-significant-other running around the house.
If this was even possible, I would have never considered not having kids. But since it is not and probably never will be, being a father is no priority for me. Even adopting is not something I am keen on.

It is not that I am not able to love a kid that is not mine.
This summer like last summer, I will be working at a summer camp for kids. However, these kids are very... special. They all come from rich families and are very spoiled.
Now this can sometimes be annoying like when you ask them to make their beds and they tell you about how their maid always do that for them back at home, or when they start unpacking their Ralph Lauren polos and Ray Bans and start showing them to their friends. (I am talking about 6-year olds here)
And it can sometimes be pretty sad. Like they say, money is the root of all problems: absent parents, divorces, etc. Last year, a kid has been picked up by his cook after he hadn't talked to his parents for a week.

But kids are kids. They have this magical way of seing the world and are adorably naive. Their energy just makes me happy and their imagination will never stop surprising me. They can have fun doing anything and never get bored.
Yes, I love kids and I don't know if going back to hating them would be more simple for me.

Yo, ho!

I had to share this. They are too adorable.

Once again I am reminded of how much I want to become a pirate when I grow up. Leave everything behind and sail away. Live with the seagulls and survive by drinking rum. How amazing is that?

LebIDAHO Posters

I finally had the chance to hang some more posters in the streets of Beirut!
(I went a little crazy with the pink posters, they are so cute)

However, we quickly ran out of glue. I'm hoping to find some time this week to go back and finish the job.

If you haven't check the LebIDAHO website out, read the stories already published and don't forget to send your own!

Uncensor yourself! Share your story.

Stop Homophobia

We all know that Lebanese people do not really respect traffic symbols, but I do hope that this one will catch their attention. 

With International Day Against Homophobia coming up on the 17th of May, we thought that this was an appropriate time to start spraying Beirut's wall. 

But little did we know what was happening in the dark streets of Ashrafieh.  

While the gays were happily running around with their spray paint, a little straight couple decided to park right in front of us and conceive a child. 

Now, unless the poor guy was gay or the girl was really really bad, I fail to see how procreating can take that long. 

LM and I had to hide during one whole hour, waiting for the silhouettes in the white car to stop moving back and forth. 

Walaw?! 

Anyway, while our last graffiti (which has been painted over) was all about spreading the love, this one is about stoping the hate. 

What's the difference? I don't know. I guess it's pretty much the same thing. 

Hope you like it :-) 

Don't forget to check LM's post! 

To the Woman who Raised Me

This is to the woman who raised me.
The woman who made me sit on her laps all day long.
The woman who never left me and gave me nothing but love since the day I was born.
This is not about my mother, no.
This is about my neighbor.

This old lady I will never forget, with her silver hair and her pearl necklace.
A lot of you would describe her as Tante el Ashrafieh.
She would wake up every morning and spend hours fixing her make-up. She would never get out of her room without perfectly red lips,
She was the typical neighbor, getting us underwear for Christmas and baking us sfoufs for our birthday.

As I sat on the couch, that empty couch she would always fill with her smile and joy, I remembered how I spent my childhood in her living room, building house of cards and watching Chef Antoine cook a chicken in a thousand different ways.
She used to call him every once in a while and share her little secrets with him.
But I realized that I only had happy memories of that place. I realized that the people around me also only shared happy memories.

I saw her daughters silently cry in a corner.
I saw the men keeping their poker face and trying to open up random subjects.
I was sitting there, trying to hold my tears, pushing my toes against the ground as hard as I could, pinching myself and avoiding eye contact.
Men don't cry.

I have been laying in bed for 10 minutes, letting the tears I have been holding for too long stream down my face.
For some reason, keeping that in my diary did not seem enough. I had to share it somehow.

What an ironic date the 20th of April is.
It is the day my grandfather has been buried, it is the day my neighbor will be buried.
It is the day I was born.

But if you think about it, during this day you get to think about nothing but the happy memories.

A smiling face on a photograph, a flower on a tombstone.
A candle on a cake.

The happy memories.

17 Candles & A Birthday Wish.

I was 15 when I started this blog. I cannot start to describe how miserable my life was back then.
Almost two years later, one single thing has changed.
I am still scared, I am still weak. But I am honest. I am honest to myself and I am honest to my friends. I am honest to anyone that will listen to me.

I am happy.

Now my birthday is not until 3 days from now, but there is no guarantee I will be able to write a post any time soon.

I have been spending my days, and most of my vacation, at school.
The best part is that, on my birthday, I will be standing at a science fair booth from 10AM to 9PM.

Work, work & work. That is all that seems to matter. One more month, and then we are free.
Free you say?
I will barely have time to catch my breath before I start my college applications.
I am running away to the first American college that will take me.

Lebanon.
This country just seems too much for me to handle.
Will things get better in the US? I don't know. I don't think so.
I just need to get out of my routine. Out of this life I am living here...

Somehow, I always forget.

We are lucky. They are not.
We are free. They are not.

Those who cannot leave this country,
those who ignore what lies beyond these borders,
those who will never get out of their routine,
those who will die doing what they have always done,
those who are haunted with questions and will never get the opportunity to answer them,
those who never get the chance to read this and live thinking they are alone,
those who cannot read at all,
are they free?


But can you blame them?
When society puts them in a position where they have to live a life that's not theirs, question their identity rather than the society's cruelty, what choice do they have?
When they have no way of finding answers to basic questions like who they are, what they are, what are these feelings they are experiencing, what choice do they have?


They are trapped between their lies and their secrets. Why? Because they cannot afford freedom.
Yes, freedom has a price. I, for one, believe it lies in education.
It is sad to see that money can be a boundary between freedom and captivity.
I owe my freedom to the internet, the movies I have watched, the inspirational people I have seen.
How can a man who has no access to all that know that he is not freak of nature? How can he learn about LGBT rights?

So, 3 days from now, while blowing the candles on the cupcake my friends smuggled into the university, I will thinking about ignorance and wish for its eradication, once and for all. 

Israel, Palestine and the things I don't get.

I know Israel is the enemy.
I know it is their bombs that woke me up in the middle of the night, their bombs that made my mother cry. 
I remember our history teacher stressing on the fact that the country south of Lebanon was "فلسطين المحتلة" (occupied Palestine). 
I watch the news, see the murders, listen to the women screaming and crying. 


Why do we hate them? Because they stole our land. Because they stole our ressources. Because they took what was ours. 


I know that some people are not going to the Red Hot Chili Pepper concert because they are performing in Tel Aviv right after coming to Lebanon 

Red Hot Chili Pepper is an American band. 

I know that Americans love their precious Israel. 

So I do not see why this show is considered outrageous. 

And even if it is, I do not see why it should stop me from enjoying the concert I have been looking forward since I was 8 years old. 

I know I do not give a rodent's behind about this. 

I realize I might not see what is obvious for some of you who are older and wiser. 

I accept the fact that this is just something that I might not understand. 

The ticket has been bought.

I am looking forward to screaming my lungs out and crying of joy every time Flea does something epic.