You have no right to be ashamed of your country. He who does this is accused of cowardice, denial, disloyalty, and betrayal. You have no right to be perturbed when you show your passport and are asked about your native country, the Lebanese miracle, the unique experience, the caretaker [government], and the caretaking of the remains of the Republic. I leave Beirut then come back. I see aliens take turns on TV and with the citizens; smiling politicians in a grieving country; brilliant analysts in a dissolving country; citizens growing old under the wing of a caretaker government. They claimed a country is a place where you can hold your head high; that it is deeply rooted in history; that time is growing old and is jealous of its green cedars and its people's vigor; that the moon prefers to overlook its mountains; that the autumn likes to strip bare in its nooks and corners. They said it is a mine of creativity and radiance. It is the country of Gebran, Mikhail Nouaimeh, the Yazigis, the Boustanis, Alayli, Khalil Moutran, Elias Abou Chabke and Saeed Akl. It is the country of those who guarded language against assassination then cleansed its words and spirit in order to keep it from growing old. They said it is the country of minorities who escaped there from many persecutions. These minorities were afraid for their safety and identity, so they adopted it in order to save their freedom. Those who escaped fought one another, killed, and were killed. Then they learned their lesson, and that this country is a beautiful unique experience; a necessity for the region and the world; a laboratory where ingredients and balances cannot withstand manipulation. They said that its lovely seasons change like a girl toying with her clothes and with desires; that its kibbeh is unparalleled and its taboule is excellent; that its folk songs are inimitable; that is was a lie which turned into a song loved by people and became a country. They said Jbeil was the source of the alphabet; that Tyre is the teacher of resistance; that Beirut is the queen of openness. It welcomed the escaped dissenters and tested their dreams. It is the queen of doubts, questions, freedom, and the acceptance of the other. It is an expert in the dreams for change and an expert in disappointments. If the above is true, why do I feel ashamed? I feel embarrassingly and terrifyingly ashamed, every time a plane lands in the Beirut airport; every time I listen to the news, to the regional and international factors, to the analysts saying that the formation of the government is linked to the peace process in the region, the Iranian nuclear issue, the situation in Afghanistan and Pakistan, the future of the Iraqi situation, and the future of the Houthis. I feel terribly ashamed when I read that the government is being slowly simmered and that it will only come out of the oven with the blessing of the regional and international cooks – after they approve the portfolios, names, and spices. I feel ashamed when I read that this party has the right of veto, inspection, or obstruction, and that its non-approval turns the government formation into a dish of pebbles. I feel terribly ashamed when I hear that a Lebanese killed his Lebanese neighbor and they say it is a misunderstanding and an isolated incident; that the solution is to send wreaths and dry up the tears of the bereaved mother; that the arrest of the murderer could cause embarrassment. Indeed, the security forces are consensual and do not like to hurt anyone's feelings. I feel ashamed when I see a naked country. Months pass, and it welcomes autumn without a government. It is stung by cold, disgraceful conditions and demands, and dictations. I feel ashamed when I see an entire republic arrested in order to secure this or that boy's future – the future of boys in a country without a future. I feel ashamed when politicians speak of flexibility and positive atmosphere; when their smiles fill TV screens; when they refrain from speaking in order to preserve consensus. I feel terribly ashamed each time I see a martyr's mother dust off his picture; each time there is a new picture on the wall; each time the parties commemorate their martyrs; each time a young orphan dreams of avenging his martyr father. Each time I sit on the balcony facing a Beirut that is naked without a government, I hear the crying of the martyrs. They spilled their blood for a nation and a state and reaped nothing but ruins and sectarian islands. I have followed the misfortunes of ailing countries. Rarely have I encountered such bottomless collapse. This downfall is terrible. We have nothing left to feel except shame if we see our flag and listen to our national anthem; if we hear “Oh Lebanese” and the chants of consensus and national unity. I feel I want to apologize to anyone who has loved Lebanon.
