The Martyr and the Remote Grave
Ghassan Charbel Al-Hayat - 28/07/08//
I have no regrets about what I did. If the scene repeats itself, I would still make the same decision, without hesitation, second thoughts, or any qualms. I am fully aware of the personal losses; they are big and costly. I deprived that girl I loved from her opportunity to have a wedding, and I missed the chance to have children whose loud screams fill my heart. I know that my mother's days were consumed by tears. I could sense her palms feeling my picture hanging in the guestroom. I could smell my father's pains. He was both proud and bitter.
I have no regrets about what I did. I could not stand the scene of occupation troops proudly roaming the streets of Beirut. I took my decision and chose my path. Later, I carried my gun, shot at the occupation troops and left. They showered me with bullets, soaking me in blood. They confiscated my corpse and took me away. They robbed me of my life and my right to reside in my homeland. They invented an alternative home for me, "the graveyard of numbers." My residence there was intolerable. I was stung by my estrangement, as one season followed the next while I stayed a citizen in "the graveyard of numbers."
I was very mad for too long, but I never surrendered or gave in. I told myself that the time will come when my bones would return home to sleep where they should have lived. I told myself that my homeland would never forget me, and that the resistance would never forget me in "the graveyard of numbers." I was right. When the hour came, I almost forgot that they had killed me. I almost mustered my strength to walk as if the scent of the motherland had reunited my parts, as if my angst for the homeland had returned the blood that was spilled on that day.
There is no need for me to reveal my name. My name resembles many other names. I joined one of the political parties at an early age. I dreamt of a fair, democratic and secular Lebanon. However, the priority at that time was to defeat the occupation. I volunteered, trained, and then was what was.
Never did I have a moment of doubt during my imprisonment under the enemy's soil. I was absolutely certain that my homeland would not waste my blood and that my remains would one day return to a free, sovereign and fortified nation with a real state, a real army, a real judiciary, a real government, and a real parliament.
Our nation did not hesitate to grant us a proper occasion. The reception was warm. It was a wedding. I saw them shaking hands, smiling and hugging at the airport. I felt that I belonged to a country that deserved the martyrdom of its children. I felt that our nation was united, that its government was preoccupied with building schools, developing universities and creating job opportunities. I spent my first night feeling proud and assured.
I told myself that I could follow the daily news of my nation from under the ground. I saw armed men exchange bullets. It was the Bab el-Tebbeneh- Baal Muhsin front according to the announcer. I quickly realized that it was a sectarian war and that previous rounds had taken place in Beirut and the Bekaa. I heard that the army was dispatched but not dispatched, that politicians were gathering to remove the cover off the gunmen, and that officials were communicating to ensure the cover for the army. I heard that the army could not prevent a Lebanese from burning down his neighbor's house or sniping his son down without the appropriate political cover. All this is incredible and horrible. Removing cover and providing cover while sectarian fires sneak into the hearts and neighborhoods.
I also saw a committee convening and reconvening on TV. It went to one meeting after the other. The announcer said it was the committed assigned to prepare the ministerial statement, the document that will offer cover to the government when it stands in front of the revered parliament to work in a legitimate and constitutional manner. In all honesty, the scene of the committee revealed earnestness and responsibility. My attention was then caught by the scene of new young men who will have the opportunity to be trained through the committee on removing and offering covers.
I followed the talk shows. I heard talk about the resistance arms, the share of the Shiites; I heard talk about targeting the Sunnis, marginalizing the Christians, and about the position of the Druze. I saw my nation disintegrate into islands exposed without cover in the face of the winds. I saw corrupt men lecture on integrity; militia men praise the state of institutions; and gluttonous men ready to pounce on the remaining ministries, administrations, and the remains of a cow that has sucked dry by pirates.
I have no regrets about what I did, but can we feel secure about our victory over the enemy in such a lawless nation without cover? Will the day come when we envy the corpse of the Israeli enemy soldier because it returned to a land governed by the state and its laws? I do not want to conceal my fear and anxiety. I feel scared for the blood and the martyrs because of the absence of the state and national accountability. This is a land without a cover. I fear that one day I will have to stand in front of an embassy, ask for an immigration visa so that I can sleep in a remote grave dug in remote soils. The martyr has no right to give up on his nation, but no nation has the right to assassinate its martyrs.
|
