Another car bomb has rocked the city. This time it is in the east, along a road that I took only last Sunday. An American embassy car was targeted, but since they drive armored cars, everyone else but the Americans got hurt. 4 dead so far. Harry’s got more information, as it was his neighborhood this time.
I didn’t know about it – as usual (some journalist I am, you may wonder, but I can assure you, I am not that kind of journalist, I do mainly background. Besides, the wire always beats you to it anyway) – until an old aunt passed by with the news.
‘Sma’et el-akhbar? Ken fie Infisjar,” she says. (Did you hear the news? There was an explosion.”)
My son is in his room studying for a particular challenging social studies test tomorrow, but at the mentioning of ‘Infisjar’ appears faster than the speed of light.
“Infisjar?” he inquirers, with a smile that splits his face in two. “So no school tomorrow?”
“What do you mean, no school tomorrow?”, says the aunt. “It’s on the other side of town.”
That is not quite true. It is actually only 3 kilometers from our house, but the aunt, who is old school, still abides by the ‘this part of town’ and ‘the other side’ philosophy. This way of thinking dates from the civil war, when East and West-Beirut were often physically separated from each other for long periods of time, just like the Berlin Wall. I sometimes still use the old separation in conversations. Like in ‘No, he lives on the other side of town’ when the person does not actually live on the other side of town, but rather on the other side of the old demarcation line.
“Besides, no one died,” she adds. “So why would they close the schools?”
“I thought 4 people died,” says hubbie.
“Yes, four people,” she says, ‘but nobody important.”
She means, not anyone that is of any political importance, i.e. a politician or an American. Not anyone that would make the government decide we need a day of mourning.
“Dang,” replies son, and he returns to his studies.
Later, when I see the images on the news, and see the white sheets (I think they used paper this time) covering the bits and pieces of the victims, I think about her words again.
I didn’t know about it – as usual (some journalist I am, you may wonder, but I can assure you, I am not that kind of journalist, I do mainly background. Besides, the wire always beats you to it anyway) – until an old aunt passed by with the news.
‘Sma’et el-akhbar? Ken fie Infisjar,” she says. (Did you hear the news? There was an explosion.”)
My son is in his room studying for a particular challenging social studies test tomorrow, but at the mentioning of ‘Infisjar’ appears faster than the speed of light.
“Infisjar?” he inquirers, with a smile that splits his face in two. “So no school tomorrow?”
“What do you mean, no school tomorrow?”, says the aunt. “It’s on the other side of town.”
That is not quite true. It is actually only 3 kilometers from our house, but the aunt, who is old school, still abides by the ‘this part of town’ and ‘the other side’ philosophy. This way of thinking dates from the civil war, when East and West-Beirut were often physically separated from each other for long periods of time, just like the Berlin Wall. I sometimes still use the old separation in conversations. Like in ‘No, he lives on the other side of town’ when the person does not actually live on the other side of town, but rather on the other side of the old demarcation line.
“Besides, no one died,” she adds. “So why would they close the schools?”
“I thought 4 people died,” says hubbie.
“Yes, four people,” she says, ‘but nobody important.”
She means, not anyone that is of any political importance, i.e. a politician or an American. Not anyone that would make the government decide we need a day of mourning.
“Dang,” replies son, and he returns to his studies.
Later, when I see the images on the news, and see the white sheets (I think they used paper this time) covering the bits and pieces of the victims, I think about her words again.
‘Nobody important.’
These were people on their way home from work. (It happened during the evening rush hour, and this particular road is a road used by commuters that return to Beirut).
I work with a girl that uses that road twice a day. And this was around the time that she is supposed to be passing by.
‘Nobody important.’
I pull up my list of bombings I have in my reference files, and wonder; ‘How do I add this one to the list?’ Nobody important died. There have been plenty of other bombings since 2004, and people were killed, and I did not add those either. After all, nobody important died. Yet this one is a significant attack. Americans were targeted.
And I realize that somehow ‘an American’ makes it more significant than ‘a Lebanese’.
It is not the way it sounds. It is not a matter of importance but rather the effect it will have on our situation. I look at my list of ‘important people’,
Politician Hamade (survived) 2004
Politician Hariri, 2005
Journalist Kassir, 2005
Politician Hawi, 2005
Politician Murr, (survived) 2005
Journalist Chidiac, (survived) 2005
Journalist Tueni, 2005
Politician gemayel, 2006
Politician Eido, 2007
Politician Ghanem, 2007
General Hajj, 2007
and I wonder, Is anyone keeping track of the ‘not important’ people that have died since 2004?
2 comments:
What a mess again. Is your collegue alright?
Yes, there is a list like that about the summerwar casualties 2006 (hrw.org/reports/2007/lebanon0907/). Most of them are common people, at the wrong place in the wrong time.
It's better to keep nicer memories, like the one you wrote at Januari 13.
Keep up and be carefull.
Dimphy
When I read 4 people might have died, I wondered the same thing. A father maybe? A wife? A daughter? A friend?
Does anyone even care about these people?
You did not hear the boom?
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