Some 48 hours I had.

I hadn’t been home for my birthday in a few years. So I decided that this year, my 25^th, is an ideal time to go. I kept hoping I’d get excited about the trip, but I didn’t. “Maybe I will when I get closer to the day,” I thought. But I still didn’t.

I’m not sure what it was. Perhaps the fact that I’m a Gerascophobic turning 25? Or maybe because I had put on a few pounds since my last visit, and no one notices weight gain like Lebanese girls? Or the fact that my sister’s future in-laws (i.e. her fiancé's parents) invited us out to a post-engagement lunch on my very birthday, and my parents didn’t decline, so I felt like my birthday was being hijacked from me? Or because I’m going through a helovesmehelovesmenot period? Or the fact that I was questioning the questions that you’re meant to question yourself at 25. You know, the who am I, what am I doing with my life, what have I done, who should I be?

Perhaps all the above? I have no idea. All I knew is that right then and there I was down. And nothing was gonna change that. Or so I thought.

I landed in Beirut, and standing in the middle of the airport, at 3:30AM, were my parents and sister carrying balloons and colored signs with “Happy 25^th Birthday” written on them.  

We got home, and awaiting my arrival were more balloons.  

Despite all the balloons and love, I was still down.

The next day, I went to grab a coffee with one of my closest friends, who got diagnosed with the unmentionable last year. For the purposes of this post, let’s call her Nour. Those of you who know Nour, would understand why the news of her illness was devastating. She’s what you would call full-of-life. Her energy is contagious. Her laugh is capable of turning anyone’s day right side up.

But those of you who know her also know that if anyone was gonna kick cancer’s ass, it would be her. And she did.

I got to the café and there she was. That familiar smile. That short hair that she rocked like no one else could. And there it was. That thing about her. Arrogance, perhaps. Towards the illness that thought it could steal her life and her laugh away from her, but couldn’t. 

We hadn’t seen each other in a long time, so she immediately started asking about me. My life. My plans. And I didn’t have the courage to ask her about hers. Then I did.

How are you? I asked.

There was her smile again. Then she said amusingly “I had cancer and now it’s gone.” And laughed hysterically. The I-did-it laugh. The who-does-cancer-think-it-is laugh.

Then she said. “It was a good experience.” I couldn’t help the “yea, okay Nour. Keep telling yourself that” look on my face. And she saw it. So she explained.

I hit rock bottom, Rita. And now I can live. None of the little things phase me anymore because I’ve been through the worst.

And there it was. She gave me the first lesson of the trip, on a silver platter, without me having to go where she went.

The next day, we had the in-laws lunch that hijacked my birthday. My sister looked so beautiful and so happy, so I was happy. We partied and danced till we dropped. But I couldn’t help but think that I’m here celebrating her engagement, again, instead of my birthday, which I came home to celebrate.

And then it happened. The second lesson.

The waiters at the restaurant where we were came carrying a massive cake, with 25 candles. Then I heard an all too familiar voice singing my favorite birthday song – my dad. Who has one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard.

I looked at my sister. She was singing and clapping and smiling. The I-gotcha smile. The you-think-no-one-can-ever-surprise-you-but-I-just-did smile. The I-love-you-so-much-I-would-turn-any-engagement-party-of-mine-into-your-birthday smile. So I teared up. At the hate I had towards this lunch that turned out being my surprise birthday party. At the selfless woman that my sister grew up to be.

That evening, I had plans to go visit a friend of mine whose father passed away a few weeks ago. She and I weren’t very close, but we talked sporadically. And when her dad fell ill, I’d check on her every once in a while and let her know that my family and I were praying for them.

My mom came along, one because I was home for a total of three days and she wanted to spend every waking minute with me, two because she knew her family well, and three, because I don’t know how to act in these situations. Do I talk about it? Do I not talk about it?

So my mom, who’s brilliant at everything, started the conversation. And it got my friend, whom we’re gonna call Nayla, talking.

Nayla: It kills me every day. I’m a believer, yes. He’s in a better place, yes. But he’s not here. I lost my father, and I’ll never get to see him in this life again. I am blessed, though, you know? I have no “ifs.” I spent every minute I could with him. When he got sick, I was always either with him or taking care of his diner, the second closest place I could be to him. And now that he’s gone, the diner is my priority. This place put food on our table. My dad spent his life building it and growing it to ensure that we didn’t need anyone and I can’t leave it now. Everything else can wait.

She then told us countless stories and memories of her and him. His best days. His worst days. She didn’t shed a tear. But the sadness I saw in her eyes and the anguish I heard in her voice were more powerful that all the weeping I’ve seen in funerals.

Nayla: In the days before he left, things were lining up like a puzzle. I believed more than ever that everything happens for a reason, you know? I’m so sorry, I talked too much.

Little did she know that I wanted her to. That I believed that too. That me going there on my birthday had clearly happened for a reason. Yes, she needed to talk, but I also needed to listen. Here’s this girl who just found a purpose in the midst of the biggest loss of her life. 

Nour and Nayla had every right to be bitter. I was healthy and the former wasn’t. My dad is here and the latter’s isn’t. But they weren’t. They graciously offered me the lessons they learned by going to hell and back, without even realizing that they did.

And then I saw it. The lesson of all lessons. Perspective.

Should Women Lose the Pants?

You know life can have quite the sense of humor sometimes. This past week has been eventful. So eventful, in fact, that the title of this blog post didn’t start out the way it reads now. It initially was “Women Should Lose the Pants [period]”

The reason? Simple. At some point this week, I thought my pants are the problem and was ready to give up on them; but now, I’m no longer sure.

Chances are I’ve lost you at pants. If so, please get your head out of the gutter and think a little deeper.

Many years back, I dated a drop dead gorgeous guy. To this day, I still think he’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. So hot in fact, that I stayed with him for a whole year and a half just so I can look at him. That’s a long time when you’re 17. I was the girl who always built up his ego, reminded him how sexy he was everyday (though he didn’t need the reminder) and even complimented his brains every now and then; despite the fact that he wasn’t exactly what you would call smart. Guys need that, a woman who supports them, I thought.

Months passed and I realized that I was giving a lot more in the relationship than I ever took. That by staying with him [knowing he was having an affair], I was sacrificing my everything including my dignity.

I decided to put an end to it but blamed myself for the mishap for a very long time. I probably wasn’t enough for him, I told myself. A drop dead gorgeous guy needs a size 0, six-foot tall drop dead gorgeous girl so they can be gorgeous together and have gorgeous babies.

It took me years to finally get over him. But with getting over him, came another item.

The Pants.

Sorry it took me this long to finally get to the pants, but I needed you to be aware of the background before we got here.

I wasn’t always the woman I am today. Bitter is probably not the best word to describe it so let’s call it “pink-less,” “girl-less,” “pants-ful.”

To girls, I’m strong and independent. To guys [or some], I’m probably the Cruela who doesn’t need them or anyone else for that matter.

Whether Hotboy (HB) was the reason or not, is not the point of this post. He was definitely a trigger though. The trigger that brought out the pinkless in me.

I’ll give you a couple examples so you get the picture. I gave HB passes for everything; being hours late to dates, not putting me first, checking out other women when I was around, having no clue what he wants to do in life or even what he wants. Anything he did wrong in the eyes of everyone, I gave him excuses for. Because, I mean, he was him. The hot, handsome him. And he was with me, though he could have been with any other model-like girl. And trust me, we don’t have a shortage of those in Lebanon.

Today, I’m different. I surprise myself everyday with behavior that would be deemed too manly/extreme/harsh even for a man.

When I love, I still love with all my heart. And I’m still a giver, that hasn’t changed.

But I want things to be a certain way now. The guy I choose needs to meet me half way, put me and my needs above others’, respect me enough to show up. On time. Feel just as lucky that I chose him as I feel that he chose me. Because, I mean, (narcissistic comment alert) I think really highly of myself. I studied hard, worked tirelessly and overcame incredibly difficult experiences to build my “life Résumé” and become the me writing this today.

I now decide overnight to take trips to the randomest of places, by myself, because I can. I have no problem packing up tomorrow and moving to a different continent, because why not. I have no desire to tie the knot anytime soon and don’t see the issue in sitting at the movie theater watching a movie by myself.

Love issues this week called for several “meetings” with a few girl friends of mine who see life from the same angle. We decided that maybe our pink levels are too low, our pants are too high and that we need to act more like “normal” girls.

Okay, okay. Maybe there are things that we could do differently. Letting guys pay for things every now and then is a good start and not the end of the world. Getting their opinion on things before we actually do them is feasible. Not talking to them for days because they broke one of our rules is probably not the best solution. But I can’t act vulnerable and dependent. It’s simply unnatural. Un-me. Undoable for any guy regardless of how much I love him.

Do we need them? Undoubtedly. But in the same way they need us. To give us love, sex, babies and be someone we can build a life with. We (and by we I don’t mean Women, I mean the Pinklesses) don’t need a provider, a leader, a controller. We need a lover, a companion, a friend. Who respects our independence and lack of helplessness and understands that these attributes don’t diminish our love by one bit.

Is this too much to ask? I mean should we tone down the pants so we don’t emasculate the guys in our lives?

But.

I kinda like my pants.

Google Doodle Riddle -Post by Eli Sokhn, Film Director, Hollywood

Special post by @Elication on the occasion of Thoughts & About's 2-year anniversary 

A few days ago, on the Lebanese Independence Day, a friend of mine posted a screenshot of his Google homepage on his Facebook. It contained a picture of Beirut’s pigeon’s rock. A very famous landmark in Lebanon that some people and tourists visit. So I logged in to my Google account and of course living in LA this doodle has no slight chances in showing. Just another smart marketing tool from Google, a gesture to show that they care, they think, they know. or do they?

First of, the only colors that this doodle had in common with the Lebanese independence are the colors of the French flag. As you can see above, blue white and red but that might just be a coincidence.

Second of all, this rock to me and to many others represents suicide and death. It’s been used by some people as a base to jump off of to end their lives.

I know that Google knows almost everything but I didn’t know Google also foresaw the future. This rock does not represent an independent Lebanon, it does not represent a Lebanon that stood steep against all odds throughout history. Eminent, as we like to describe our towering Cedar tree on our Lebanese flag which by the way is the symbol to Lebanon’s independence and sovereignty. This Rock represents a Lebanon committing suicide. Dying. And that might be true. Again, another Google coincidence.

Living outside Lebanon, and seeing this made me question my identity, once again. Just like the hundreds of my friends who left Lebanon in the last decade whether for education, the fear of dying randomly and for no reason, or maybe just because their ambition is a little bigger than what this country has to offer. And no I am not going to ask what we can do for our country. We’ve already spilled tons and tons of blood. Brothers and friends sacrificed, families divided, homes wrecked and businesses destroyed for this little piece of land. Now I want to ask what has this country done for me? A lot of things actually. Yes, just not the things that sound like healthcare, affordable quality education, social security and simply a dignified living. More so things that sound like “live each day as if it was your last” because chances are big, it might be your last. It’s funny I am writing this in LA, and it is going to be published in Dubai. Legally identifying with Lebanon has made it much harder for me to commute everywhere around the world. I have been stopped at airports, flights delayed and visas revoked. Fortunately now things are changing and I am slightly losing grip on my Lebanese passport to hold another. Another that makes me feel I am. It makes me feel I belong. And there’s a very thin fine line between living somewhere and belonging to somewhere.

I think It’s time for me to think about this brief segment of time that I get to spend on earth. It’s time to rethink priorities, borders, nationalism and identity. And I am hopeful for tomorrow, because a couple decades ago those notions of individuality, freedom and liberty were not even possible ideas yet. It’s time to think as one before those borders put up to protect us end up imprisoning us.

And finally to solve our Google doodle riddle I sent Google a Lebanese flag hoping next year we don't get an exploding car instead of this suicide pigeon rock.

Ekherta ra7 to2ta3... (Eventually it shall pass); Post by Guest Blogger Najib from BlogBaladi

Special post by @LeNajib on the occasion of Thoughts & About's 2-year anniversary

When The Jyllands-Posten Muhammad cartoons were published back in 2005, angry and violent protests were sparked around the world, and several western Embassies were attacked and damaged. Even though the cartoons were meant to “contribute to the debate about criticism of Islam and self-censorship”, The Muslim World took offense in them and reacted aggressively. One of the Danish Islamists who helped fuel the uproar over the caricatures and led the demonstrations against the drawings in Denmark is a Lebanese-born called Ahmad Akkari. He was so infuriated by these cartoons that he took the hassle of traveling to several countries and fuel Muslim crowds against the Danish government.

The reason I mention this story is because the same Ahmad Akkari who organized demonstrations that resulted in the death of over 200 people, and had a big part in turning the issue into an international crisis, has come out a month ago to declare that he regrets taking part in these protests and apologized to the Danish Cartoonist Kurt Westergaard and to the entire nation of Denmark. He even went as far as saying that he didn’t mind publishing the cartoons anymore, which were reposted in the papers throughout Europe almost every year after 2005, knowing that he’s still a practicing Muslim.

Now some may argue that the Danish cartoons were indeed offensive to Islam and the Prophet (I personally thought they were), and should not have been published, but as long as they didn’t violate any laws in Denmark, nothing justifies the violent reactions that we witnessed back then. In fact, the outcome of those riots was more harmful to Islam than the cartoons themselves.

Going back to Lebanon, The General Security Censorship Bureau decided last month to ban a play about censorship written/directed by Lucien Bourjeily and produced by MARCH from public performance. Moreover, the head of the censorship bureau was highly offended by this play and based on what MARCH reported, “was shouting and saying the play was not unacceptable as we were making fun of the censorship bureau, and, according to him portraying a wrong image of them and that he will not allow it.”

Even though the first topic mentioned was of religious nature while the other was a play directed towards a governmental bureau, the common point is that both were artistic works aimed at promoting freedom of speech and self-censorship, and in both cases the reaction was impulsive and violent causing more harm than the work presented.

Having said that, I ask the head of the Censorship bureau to look at the bigger image, follow the Ahmad Akkari example, by reevaluating the bureau’s censorship standards and understanding the sacred values of our society and the importance of freedom of speech and accepting criticism. In fact, if there’s anything that history has taught us, is that the censorship of works of art never prevails and harms the censoring party rather than the artist himself.

That said, let the Lebanese decide what is rubbish or not, what to watch or not, and don’t deprive them of their most basic right, the freedom of choice. Let the bureau be an example to follow by other institutions and its head a role model for the upcoming generations. Let the Lucien Bourjeily play pass and be the first one to attend it.

The greatest statesmen in history were the ones who accepted criticism and took it well. Winston Churchill himself stated that “Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.”

The ideas and arguments shared in this post are Najib Mitri's, not mine, and are in no way or shape associated with Edelman.

Vertigo -Film Review by Anis Tabet

 Special post by Anis Tabet on the occasion of Thoughts & About's 2-year anniversary

One of the most interesting things about Vertigo is the fact that it was a flop at the time of its release.

Hitchcock instantly blamed his lead actor James Stewart, saying he was “too old to attract audiences anymore”. The two never worked together again, even though Stewart was the original choice for the role of Roger Thornhill in the master’s next movie “North By Northwest”. Cary Grant was cast instead, who incidentally was four years older than Stewart! 50 years later, “Vertigo” is now considered as one of the best movies ever made and is often labeled as “Hitchcock’s Masterpiece”. The story, which has been endlessly imitated and reworked, is about a San Franciso cop who quits the force after his fear of heights prevented him from saving the life of a colleague. Working as a private eye, he is hired by an old friend to tail his wife Madeleine (Kim Novak) who is apparently obsessed with a look-alike ancestress who drowned in the 19th century. Stewart becomes dangerously obsessed with her, and spends most of the first half of the film tracking her every move. The second half takes a much more serious tone, but to reveal more about the story would be unthinkable!

“Vertigo” features every single Hitchcockian elements: voyeurism, suspense, obsession, a sexy blonde, and an every day man who gets mixed up in some dirty business. After starring in the director’s remake of his own movie “The Man Who Knew Too Much”, “Rope” and “Rear Window”, this was James Stewart’s fourth collaboration with Hitchcock and eventually his last. Filmed entirely on location in San Francisco, Hitchcock used camera angles and techniques very innovative for its time. Eventually these techniques were copied over and over again by future filmmakers, notably director Brian De Palma who ripped off Hitchcock like no one else.

In all, “Vertigo” is a wonderful, disturbing, and romantic film, with an unforgettable score by Bernard Hermann. It’s easy to see that it was very risky for its time (after all it wasn’t a success back then), but it’s a movie that has aged perfectly well, and because of that, it’s considered by many as one of the master’s greatest work. It’s also one of my all time favorite movies.

This film review was written by Anis Tabet, guest blogger on Thoughts & Abouts on the occasion of the blogs 2nd anniversary.

Comfortaphobia

Yes yes, I know. That’s not a word, but I just made it one. I think it captures the essence of this phobia that I’m going to discuss with you.

Picture a couple. A newly-wed couple. A young couple. They’re in their early twenties, so in love, their whole lives are ahead of them. They’re living happily, doing whatever they want, whenever and wherever they want it. The years pass and they realize that they got too comfortable in this (no longer) new setting. They got the hang of things and they’re now ready for the new addition. The baby. 

This is not too different from what I’m going through. Okay, I’m definitely not ready for a baby. But I’m also a comfortaphobic. I’m not talking about not liking to sit comfortably (I love my comfy couch) nor about being comfortable financially (certainly not afraid of having more money so I can tour the world, twice). I’m talking about being comfortable with myself, my life, my status. In fears of letting that feeling last, I do something to change it. Everytime. 

Chances are you think I’m an absolute maniac by now. We can’t let that happen, so let me explain. 

When I graduated from university 3 years ago, I didn’t see myself ever going back. Not anytime soon at least. I was thinking of where I was, where I wanted to be, who I was, who I wanted to be, and all the others doubleyous that you can think of. It took me 3 years and a couple months to get to the comfortable place I’m in now. This is not to say I know who I am. God forbid. It’s too soon for that. 

But I’m in a good place in my life. Things fell somewhat into place. I know what I like and don’t like, I have a job that lets me do what I love most every day (talking), a family that I appreciate more than ever, an amazing bunch of friends and a best friend. So basically, everything a girl needs and more. 

You’d think I’d just be happy and let myself be.

But no. Never have, never will. 

The voice in my head always gets in the way asking me if I was satisfied. Really.  Then the anxious feeling in my stomach complements it and sticks around until I do something about the situation. 

So I go on this quest to disrupt my short-lived comfort. Anything is fair game. The more comfortable I am, the more obstacles I put in the way. 

This time around, I have signed up for three econ online classes (coz why not), studying for the LSATs (though I have no idea whether or not I’m going to Law School, but university is back on the options list), made a bet with myself that I’d travel to 10 new countries by the time I’m 25 (traveled to 3 in less than a year and planning another 5 for the remainder of the year) and getting myself a new hobby; tennis! 

All of these things are exciting, I agree. But none of them would have surfaced had I not been trying to shake the comfort.

I don’t know how many of you actually know what I’m talking about, but there are a few. Of that I’m sure. And the thing is Comfortaphobia, unlike other phobias, is good for you. It’s what drives you forward, it’s what drives me forward. 

So until you hear from me again, stay scared.

 

"Women in my family have been shrinking for decades while men grow rounder"

Amazing video* depicting the inequality between men and women even in simple behavior that we see today and don't recognize as such. Please watch and share and read this blog post while you're at it, which has some thoughts mentioned in the video.  

 

*I do not own the rights to this video. The link was obtained from www.upworthy.com