Description
Beirut is etched in my mind, only during the war. Then it takes on a form, a shape. I can grasp it. In times of peace, life was a garage I couldn’t even reach with my fingernails. Beirut now seems to me like a vast pit, riddled with furrows and tiny cavities, barren except for the small, green weeds clinging to its edges. My letters began with me saying I was kidnapped, and now I’m trying to see these small weeds; they’re all my land produces. This is my life, and every country has its own. (You know, you’ve become addicted to war.)
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