Author: Nour Abdul Reda

BA in Journalism, MA in Communication Sciences. Writer, dreamer, peacemaker.
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Beirut, God, Beirut.

It’s been six month. My God, it’s been six months and not one single step closer to justice.

Have you seen the photos of the mothers? The mothers carrying the photos of their sons and daughters, who have been killed ruthlessly by the behemoth hands of beasts?

How can they sleep at night? Knowing these mothers cannot breathe? How can they go on with their lives when a mother desperately gives in to the fact that her child has died for no reason, and still no one wants to explain to her why. 

Could you go on, explain to her? Explain to her why the sun does not shine anymore and why she now throws away the remaining of her pot of stew. Forgive her; she is still not used to making lesser portions; she still makes some extra for her son, who they murdered.

She makes his bed every morning even though it remains untouched at night. Forgive her; she refuses to believe that no one sleeps on this bed anymore. She refuses to believe that her child is no longer her child but is a child of the Earth, his ashes still buried under the rubbles on a hot August day.

What do you tell her when she walks towards the silos for the first time in six months and searches for her son? She knows, she’s not crazy, she knows he is not there, she knows he is long dead, and he cannot even hear her wails, but what do you tell her when she impulsively walks searching for her son, to tug him back to sleep at night?

I read on the Legal Agenda that a little boy is planning on making a ladder so tall that it reaches the sky, so he can visit his father up in heaven whenever he wants. What do you tell this boy? How can you tell him that that wherever his dad is, he will not be able to reach him?

You’d think it gets easier with time. If It’s not easier on us, the privileged ones who got away with only seeing their beloved city on the grounds, how will it ever get easier on the victims’ families?

And the murderers still sleep in gold-plated king-sized beds and breathe the same air we breathe. How can they sleep? How can they breathe the same air as the families of victims and still sleep?

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Alone I am with the mirk, my sorrows, and my confusion

A dusky night, an everlasting rain, a seraphic touch, and your voice humming to the red Betelgeuse in the Orion.

It was only the night and I, and the tears in my eyes, all my loved ones slept, why didn’t you sleep too? Everybody slept, and you were still awake. I looked at the sky, and the Betelgeuse was still awake; I asked it what’s wrong? Why are you still awake? I heard it said: “The rhythm of the humming enchants me; I am in love.”

I am lost, my friends. I hope my voice reaches you; I hope it tells you how much I feel, maybe that’ll lead your way back. I hope it tells you you changed me, you confused me.

Was it just the hum that swept me off my feet? It was breathtaking. It’s been a while, and I’m still humming it and closing my eyes to see it, to see your deep voice with the light shudder and the cold breath.

We talked for hours, and I put my hand on my chin and listened without any interruption for hours. Remember?

Forgive me, but I can’t remember anything you said, I wasn’t listening. I was too distracted by the way you were talking, the way you smirk with every sordid detail, and how your nose twitches when you’re talking about something morbid, and your eyes, God, your eyes. I can’t remember what color they are; I remember they were my favorite color in the world.

I wish I can save your hum in a frame and carve at the bottom: here lies the humming of my darling abyss; so melancholy yet so divine. I could draw it if you let me, I could draw the way your voice fades, and then chirp a little like a nightingale.

Was it twilight? Or was it night? I can’t remember, you were sitting in front of me with crossed legs and talking, how can I notice anything else? And then, at one point, as we sipped our hot coffee and then looked at the skyline, you started humming the ever-most stunning hum, so beguiling that it could be mistaken for a hymn.

And I’m still stuck there at that one moment past 9 pm on a gelid night, looking at the skyline, but the only thing I saw was your warmth beside me. I closed my eyes because it was so beautiful, your warmth, it was so beautiful that I didn’t want any view to distract me from it.

I’m stuck at a hum.

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Coffee deprivation effects

My head hurts. I am trying to lower my caffeine consumption, especially with coffee, so I didn’t have any today, and I feel so sleepy, and my head hurts, waiting for the painkillers to do their job.

Hello, how are you? Has it really been 17 days since the full lockdown started? How are you coping? I can’t imagine it being easy, especially if you’re really committed to the lockdown and not leaving the house.

I can’t say I am very much affected by the lockdown so far; the first week of lockdown (and me testing negative), I spent the whole week in the mountains, and during last week I was spending the afternoons with my friend at her house every day or two, so this is keeping me a bit sane. I’ve had my share of 21 days in a single room, I want to breathe.

I don’t know how people are coping, really. People from my community, who live off a daily income, how do you expect them to choose starvation over the virus? It’s almost impossible. You take the loaf of bread out of the hands of a poor man and then wonder why he cries.

I pity my community, so poor and fragile as if it’s walking on eggshells. How do they survive? I ask myself. How do they eat when it’s been 17 days of complete lockdown and little to no aid from the government or non-governmental organizations? My God, How do they eat?

I think it’s unfair to exploit people’s weakest moments for the sake of promotion, but the WFP TVC during Ramadan was a stab in the gut. In case you didn’t see it, it was a mother telling her little boy a bedtime story about a rabbit and that it is okay to sleep on an empty stomach because she could not afford food, and she didn’t want to tell him.

Even remembering this brings tears to my eyes; how were they even able to shoot this? Can you even imagine thousands of mothers having to hug their children to sleep with an empty stomach?

And here I am, coffee deprived with a headache and very tired, tired of what? Of luxuries? Why is life so cruel? Why does any child ever have to be hungry? Why does any child have to be deprived of food and toys, and life?

Sometimes all this is just too unfair.

I’m going to make myself a cup of coffee.

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Let us stop romanticizing working/studying past hours

I’m doing it again. I’m working for 15 hours a day with merely any exhaustion.

It’s just; I seriously get high on work. I can procrastinate for so long, lay lazily in one posture for hours, feel bothered if anyone asked me to move from my place. Yet, at the same time, I can work nonstop for days without sleep if my body lets me.

Society often romanticizes overworking yourself, working beyond hours, overnights, and it’s so, so, wrong. Overworking yourself might achieve prosperity earlier than expected but at your own expense. Trust me; I learned this the hard way.

I know it can be almost impossible not to overwork ourselves given the work we have; a lot of times, there is just so much to do and so little time. I think what I am trying to say here is that it is okay to slack on some duties and studies if it means you’ll protect yourself from a potential collapse.

We need to fight the urge to work past our own ability; we need to urge more healthy sleeping and fewer overnights, more healthy eating, less caffeine consumption, more structured schedules, and fewer tasks. It’s vital to prioritize your mental health over your work or education; you wouldn’t want to burnout, because that mess is pretty frightening.

I’m writing this, and I know I’m a hypocrite; I would do all that, even during weekends. I would only drink caffeine drinks without eating all day, work for hours without any break, welcome new tasks over my jammed schedule with open arms, eliminate any chance of social or romantic life, and only log off when I finish everything on my to-do list, even if it’s 2 am and the first time I logged in was 8 am the day before.

I don’t do that anymore, or at least, I am trying to improve. In 2020, I burned myself out, and that is when major depression, anxiety, and panic attacks took over my life, blazing all my attempts of ever becoming a decent person. I literally had to rebuild my life, personality, identity, mental health, and points of view from the very start. It felt as if I am a newborn child with a 22 years old body, exploring everything in a world everybody knows what they’re doing, except me.

It wasn’t pretty; it really wasn’t. I’m still trying to fix what was destroyed, and all of that is because I chose to overwork myself. It’s not that we can work for days nonstop; we literally, physically, and mentally cannot. Our brain shuts down at one point, leaving us to deal with consequences.

I could go into the simple scientific reasons behind burnout, in my own basic words. Still, I think it’s better to read about it from professionals (do add to the signs and symptoms: MAJOR fear, anxiety, and panic). Also, here they explain the 5 stages of burnout, which I think is very useful to know.

This week has been an exception in my road to recovery, and today specifically has been brutal. I started working at 9 am, and here I am, at 12:38 am, just finished everything I had to do, and I have the urge to start with tomorrow’s tasks. It’s addictive, for all the wrong reasons, but workaholism is a thing.

I think one of the things I like about my current job is that it is comfortable. I am normally not one to choose jobs according to comfort, I would welcome jobs with 10+ hours a day if they make me happy- and dear God, I did. Even though a 10+ hours job gives so much satisfaction (before the burnout), it dismisses all other enjoyments and necessities in life, like weekends, family time, or friends.

Ever since I started this job, I am taking care of myself. I have more time for myself and the people I love, and I am going to therapy, and I am spending more time with my family, and I even created a blog!

I even have time to read and watch old movies on my movie list. I sleep early and wake up early. I have more time to listen to my friends’ problems and be there for them. I have time to do extracurricular activities for FoodBlessed, voluntarily, and I actually have time to reply to people’s texts.

I think all this is great; being happy is to be healthy and lead a content life. I still overwork myself now and then, but not as critical as before. Say I have FoodBlessed meetings, I would compile them all in one or two days, which are the days I go to the office, so I would have everything to do in one day and then have the rest of the days working from the comfort of my bed. On the extra hours day, I would make sure to walk and drink coffee from a cafe I like, which may not be the healthiest thing to do, but I do that out of self-care, which I guess counts as half a bonus point.

Let us fight the trend of going on days without rest. There is nothing glamorous about bad mental health behaviors, it will kill you alive, and I would hate to see you die.

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I would leave me too, to be honest

I’m sorry that I take you for granted whenever you are around and then miss you so much when you’re not near me. It’s just my mind is a big bubble of noise, and I’m so distracted and loud most of the time that I need to shut everything out and focus on one thing, and often this leads to me neglecting you because maybe you are not loud enough, but I still love you the most.

Right now, as we are talking and I am not sure if you are serious or if you’re talking like always and I’m just over-emotional, or if you actually were upset and I didn’t feel it, and now you don’t want to be here anymore and, oh God, please don’t leave me.

You are the safest amongst everyone, and maybe this is why I don’t give you attention as much as I want to because I take you for granted. I know that you are here, which makes me neglect you because your safety keeps me going, and losing you would be like losing the light in me. You leaving would be the most exhausting thing to me; you’d take away my light.

If you can picture a major caffeine addict sitting under a blanket with a cup of coffee and shaking hands, head, body, trembling so hard that coffee is spilling from the cup. Eyes so crazy you would think they are searching for something, but they’re actually only looking for safety. That’s me; that is how I actually am inside my head, all the time. I would be sitting so still and sane, but the insanity of the coffee addict inside of me is squealing in my ears, and because of that, I might neglect you.

But please stay here, give me the benefit of the doubt; I know you’re good at this. You are an angel, you’re the gift of God to me, and I love your existence so much that a mundane word you just said has made me write all of this. But I wouldn’t tell you because I don’t even know if there’s anything behind all this, and I wouldn’t even know what to say.

I know one thing, it would really hurt me if you leave, and if it’s true that you really care about me, you wouldn’t want that.

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A little randomness

It’s been quite around here.

We’re 24 days into 2021, and I haven’t even begun to write any 2021 resolutions, or check any of the simple tasks I had in mind, or even begin to think of how my days post lockdown will look like. Is it going to the same? Is it everchanging?

I feel like, for now, I am floating, and not necessarily in a good way, but not necessarily in a bad way either. It’s as if I am walking on a light cloud, and the only thing that is keeping me from falling is pure luck, or maybe the big guy has more important things to deal with that he’s letting me wobble around for a while.

I’ve had a serene week, away from the hustle of the city and the people and the empty streets, and close to the people dearest to my heart. This is now considered a usual, an addictive getaway that, if lost, will hurt so much. I watched the first snow of the year, and I felt the warmth radiating from my people as we snuggled next to the chimney, laughing at everything and nothing in particular.

I think this has been said already here and outside of here, but what would I do to live in a moment. I wouldn’t want to repeat the whole day, just one moment out of it all, one moment when it was too idyllic to think of horrid or the bleak little somebody living in me. Is that how heaven is? Letting us relive our happiest moment over and over and over, with the same mindset and bliss?

But… I’ve been overthinking; I’ve been overthinking a lot. I can’t say this week was similar to the others, I can’t say I was similar to the person I was, and it weirded me out, to be honest. There was something off about how I anticipated my surroundings and the way I felt about everything. Could it be that, as always, the closeness suffocated me? Or could it be that we weren’t close enough?

I’m not sure.

I do know that I need to sort some things out, put some new rules and regulations to myself so I stop repeating all my previous experiences because honestly, this is getting ridiculous. I can’t continue living the same events every time.

Hope you’re having a good Sunday.

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NEO Gourmet is where you’ll find me

Let me tell you about the last pastry shop I visited. On my first day back to work, I promised myself that I would wake up an hour earlier and walk to the pastry shop to try almost everything they have, then walk back to the office.

It’s a tiny bakery/pastry shop located in a quiet neighborhood in Beirut. The pastry shop is called NEO Gourmet, attributing it to “Nelson, Edward, and Oliver,” Nada’s (the owner) sons. On the day of the explosion, Nada was in the shop with Freddie, her husband, when everything fell on their heads. She thought that Freddie was dead as the blood on the floor was enough for her to think the worst.

Five months later, NEO Gourmet reopened with the same warmth but less enthusiasm as the destruction and trauma remain, even if not visible. Nonetheless, the aroma of the fresh bread and choco-flakes are stronger than the smell of pain. Actually, it’s more of ‘pain’ au lait. (this is the worst pun ever, I’m so sorry)

Can you imagine more pastry shops like this in Lebanon? It’s not your normal cute coffee shops, because believe me, I know. It’s similar to the ones you see in Christmas movies and movies shot in small and unrealistic towns.

I feel intrigued about making this my new scavenger hunt for 2021, hunting down small and unknown pastry shops, to my thighs’ despair. I’m still thinking, still contemplating what’s more important to me, insanely lukewarm pastry shops or a nice light number on the scale.

I love these little pastries so much, and I plan on visiting one coffee shop and one pastry shop in every country I travel to in the future, especially the European ones. There is a certain culture in these brown little shops with their bitter coffee and cheap croissants; there is certain heaven in foreign creme patisserie and glorious frames decorating the walls.

For today, I will settle for having NEO Gourmet as my new to-go spot, the one I seek for safety. For tomorrow, let it be a little coffee shop in Europe, Eastern Europe, where time stopped a few decades ago in the poverty of communism and little match girls.

I’m feeling quite warm, do you?

If you know any pastry shop similar to the one I described (and is in the cover photo), do tell me about it, maybe we can go together? I’m not sure I have a comment section here, but you can always reach out to me anywhere; I’m easy to reach and 65% responsive.

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Thank you for the rain

I’ve never felt like I’m multitasking more than right now, and I thought I’d share this with you. Right now I’m in an online communications meeting with work, and I’m listening to an online class (social philosophy) on my phone, and I’m translating texts, and I’m planning next week’s getaway in my head, and I’m also preparing Instagram stories for FoodBlessed.

Ah, and I am also blogging.

What else? Well it’s raining, and it’s cold again. Thank you for the rain, I highly appreciate it.

One of the many things that affected my mood the past two weeks-other than the obvious, of course, is that we are in January, and I was wearing sleeveless PJs because it is not cold enough.

How bad is that? It just started raining, and we’re in the middle of January! This is a catastrophe. This should not be accepted nor repeated. January exists for heating and coldness and chestnuts, not light blankets and PJs. This is a crime.

I’m glad it’s cold again, and if my plans for next worked out, I will be sitting near a chimney with my favorite people in the world drinking hot chocolate and singing loudly on the tunes of an oud or a guitar.

I woke up today with a newly acquired optimism, even though I think I have developed a new fear that I hope doesn’t get worse.

Today is the first day of a full 24 hours lockdown, as in I need to order my grocery home, and I need to fill an online form to obtain a permit and go out. I’m looking at the usually bustling street, and it’s empty. A car or two passes now and then, but that’s that. Everyone’s home, warm and unsafe, and some are less privileged to have a home and are hiding from the rain, cold and unsafe.

And I am scared. I’m not sure if I developed this feeling after my days of forced isolation, or it’s a behavior I developed throughout the terrific 2020, but I think I am scared of loneliness; I’m scared of being alone.

And I’m not saying sitting by myself alone. Whether I am walking, in a bookstore, getting my coffee, or in a mall, I love being by myself, I enjoy doing all of this alone. I think I am scared of being alone in general, as in living with no one by my side, having no one to talk to or see when I want to.

The fear of emptiness is something I know I had a long time ago. I am scared of having nothing, of the blankness, of a bleak, I am scared of being in one place my whole life and have no yesterday or tomorrow. This is why I find commitment much harder than it should because commitment is bounding to a certain one thing, and I am not sure I can do this. I always make sure I tell myself that with everything going on in my life, I have the option to walk out.

Well, one thing I know for sure is that I’m looking forward to my therapy session on Monday.

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Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

I was never a Charles Bukowski fan. Maybe because I thought he is overrated, a name used on Tumblr photos and social media posts, people using a famous name to reflect a vague virtual knowledge, or maybe because his poems don’t rhyme, and I love my poems to be always rhyming. Still, I never gave much attention to him.

Lately, he has been recommended by more than one friend, and I’ve been reading some of his best poems, and I must say, he can be good. It’s different when you read something that is a friend’s “favorite,” it has a different feeling, and there is a higher possibility you’ll like it only because it is a dear friend’s favorite.

Today, I stumbled upon another poem of his: Bluebird. It hit differently, much stronger darkness than I anticipated. I’m not sure if it’s because I heard it before I read it that it has a louder voice, or if it’s because the words are loud enough on their own, but the poem is screaming at me.

As I read it, it hurt me. It’s so personal. To me, it was so obvious that the bluebird is anxiety and depression; the bluebird symbolizes the darkness that Bukowski feels and the many attempts (whiskey, cigarettes, whores, and bartenders) he tries to keep it inside him. Because he knows that people won’t accept him if it’s out, his book sales in Europe will be affected, and if he let himself feel, it will mess him up.

But as I read through the video comments, the commenters had different opinions; they did not relate the bluebird with anxiety and depression. Some said it is innocence, true self, freedom, soul, and even vulnerability.

It struck me that each individual affiliated the bluebird with what they fear most, the thing they fear to show. To some, it’s the liberation of sorrow, and to others, it’s the liberation of life. When I first heard it, I thought it’s beautiful, but when I read people’s analysis, I fell in love.

I love feeling things I read, and bluebird is one of them.

For the video narration of the poem: Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

For the full poem:

There’s a bluebird in my heart
That wants to get out but I’m too tough
I say: “Stay in there
I’m not going to let anybody see”
There’s a bluebird in my heart
That wants to get out but I pour whiskey
I take a cigarette so the whores
The bartenders, the grocery clerks
Never know that he is in there
There’s a bluebird in my heart
That wants to get out but I’m too tough
I say: “Stay down
Do you wanna mess me up?
Do you wanna screw up all of my works?”
There’s a bluebird in my heart
That wants to get out but I’m too clever
I only let him out at night sometimes
When everybody sleeps
I say: “I know that you’re there
Don’t be so sad, ” that’s what I said
Then I put him back but he’s always singing
I don’t let him die and we sleep together
Like that with our secret pact
It’s nice enough to make a little man weep
But I don’t weep, do you?
It’s nice enough to make a little man weep
But I don’t weep, do you?
There is a bluebird messing with my heart
What should I do with this little bird?
There is a bluebird messing with my heart
What could I do with this little bird?
I’m turning into a bird, I’m turning into a bird
So I will fly with this melancholy

Charles Bukowski