Monochrome

I watch the swift movements of the Filipina who is skillfully applying my favorite color to my fingernails, my mind hopping from one thought to another when it pauses all of a sudden upon hearing another customer utter “...dark black...”.

I always thought “light black” is gray.

But then I also thought it's either black or white...

I'm not sure if it's always been that way, but it seems to me in life it's never either black or white now because there are shades to these entities nowadays.

Light white, light black, dark white, dark black; not just plain black, or plain white anymore. As nothing is just right and nothing is just wrong; that seems to be the standards by which people live these days.

And you wonder...maybe gray is more absolute than black and white now...


Copyright © 2008 Daisy Tchiftjian

Voices

Part I

After a prolonged unconsciousness
I look around with bloodshot eyes
Still shivering on the ground where I lie
As every inch of my body comes back to life...
Where am I? Where am I?

As the scheming day bows at its end
I lay in bed weary and spent
I think to myself but it's others' voices I hear
And my small gasps when I try to discover...
Who am I? Who am I?

I still find myself where I never thought I'd be,
In my mind, in my soul and physically
As the days, months and years pass by me
I look for myslef and I look for you...
Where is home? Where is home?

Copyright © 2008 Daisy Tchiftjian

A rule of thumb of respect: it cannot be achieved without acknowledging someone for who and what they are.

Copyright © 2008 Daisy Tchiftjian

When you lie you'll become the slave of your deceit
And if you get caught I'll make you the slave of your guilt...

Copyright © 2008 Daisy Tchiftjian

Memories are the sensations of what you can no loger have and often times they are the echos of what you wish to permanently forget.

Copyright © 2008 Daisy Tchiftjian

"The Child Is The Father of Man"

1:30 AM, and I’m trying to sleep, but my eyes are open and my thoughts restless. No, it’s not the late night coffee that’s finally kicked in, but the normal reactions to my preparations for moving to U.A.E…the waiting, the stress, the rush, the anticipation, the goodbyes, the new life, the sadness, the happiness…

Happiness…

That was the last station where my mind waited for the bus to pick it up and take it for a journey to explore that certain word people live and die for…

Happiness.

That’s what I was thinking about as I lay in the bed looking around my barely visible room where everything appeared grainy to my eyes, like a grayscale picture with low resolution.

I had always thought that happiness is shallow, a wonderful euphoria that teaches nothing.

I was wondering when was the last time I felt genuinely happy – it wasn’t too long ago – and that in turn made me try to remember the first time I ever felt it. It didn’t take me long to start to think of my nephew.

Almost everyone familiar with my life’s circumstances knows that I travel to UAE every chance I get to visit my loved ones. And I spend all my free time there with my nephew ever since he was born in 2003.

It never takes much time to gain the friendship of my nephew. Well, that’s not true. It takes no time at all, at least not with me (and I’m sure with some others as well, despite the lonely childhood he’s having). The last time I went there in summer 2007, I stayed for only ten days. One of those days, he got mad at me for something I didn’t do for him. But soon I won him over again and that night – a few hours past his bedtime - he came to “my” room where I was using my laptop. He lay down beside me on the sofa-bed, and started to ask questions about this and that as usual, until he got sleepy. At last, he said:

“Hokkou (Auntie), I’m not upset with you anymore”

I smiled and kissed him on his cheek.

And he continued with his sleepy little voice, “You know, I’m really happy that you’re here…”

And my smile – and heart – broke into million little pieces.

I hugged him and let him fall asleep with his head on my lap, stroking his hair calmly; but there was nothing calm about the tears that were crawling down my face, or the curses I was directing to myself, my fate, my family and God…

What and how did a four year old know about happiness? How could he relate that word to the way he was feeling - not in a certain instant, but during a period of time?! I was a happy child myself, but I don’t remember using that word so early…or even knowing that I actually felt that way.

I see children laugh…I haven’t seen him laugh as much as others do…but he knew when he was happy…he’s able to understand and live words beyond their physical sense.

And he taught me that happiness can be as deep and profound as misery. In the end, they’re both really about what you have, and what you don’t.

Copyright © 2008 Daisy Tchiftjian

January 15

It was another grey winter afternoon, full of the rush of the second day of the week. So many tasks were waiting for me at work; once I arrived and immediately took to them I never looked up to see the time until-

BOOM

It was all in a matter of seconds that I leapt from my place and ran – along with other colleagues who were present – toward the opposite wall from where the deafening and heart-stopping sound of the explosion came and the first thing that occurred to my strangely still rational mind was: This was here…oh no… and I began to pray that the people I knew would tread that road were safe and immediately took my mobile to call them.

But the lines were dead.

My hands were shaking. Everyone was on their feet looking at each other with terror on their teary faces. Soon enough we heard the sirens of ambulances and fire trucks approaching.

The bomb had exploded on the corner of the lane that leads to a highway – just a block away from where I work.

It’s not an unusual event anymore, it’s been happening since 2005. But of course, none of us civillians would believe that we can be on site when it happens next – until it does.

A friend asked me what it was like to hear the bomb go off so near, and how I felt during the ordeal. I told him I was horrified but the feeling faded after a few minutes, and dramatically seconds after it happened, during which my mind calculated that I’m safe and alive and okay. Actually, I was much more terrified – and for a longer time – of other things in life, like during a simple and "fun" rollercoaster ride I took about four years ago. Back then I even thought that I was living my last moments and it didn’t make me feel safer that I had company, or that there were other people on the ride also.

So all that fear and shock and fuss – it’s all pointless drama, because it was over in a second. At least for those who were lucky like us.

It's the realization that I was only a few meters away, or one and a half hours away from death that is horrifying on a more profound level. It makes me stop, relive the moment, and reflect on my life. I won’t be living forever, but this wasn’t the first time my life was spared…And I am yet to find out why…

"Bourdj-Hammoudtsi"

“RIDICULE, n. Words designed to show that the person of whom they are uttered is devoid of the dignity of character distinguishing him who utters them.”

The Devil’s Dictionary, Ambrose Bierce

In order to comprehend the meaning of "Bourdj Hammoudtsi", one has to know that Bourdj Hammoud (in Armenian dialect), is a town in Beirut suburbs named Bourj Hammoud in Arabic. A swamp formerly, it was given to Armenians who arrived to Lebanon en route the desert of Der Zor in Syria via the death marches forced upon them by the Ottoman Empire. Over the years, the survivors built homes, shops, factories, schools and churches, thus Bourj Hammoud became the stronghold of the Armenian community in Lebanon, growing into a municipality in its own right.

I should mention for those who are not Armenian, especially for those who do not live in Lebanon, that despite its advancements in organizing the road ways - in a country that mostly treads unorganized roads, despite the way it becomes more and more independent when it comes to business and marketing, and the way it renovates its constructions and builds new and modern ones, Bourj Hammoud is still considered a rather poor town, and Armenian families keep moving out to fancier areas. Now Armenian families reside in other places as well.

So “Bourdj-Hammoudtsi” is an Armenian term that describes someone who is from Bourj Hammoud, such as myself. But don’t be fooled by the objective nature of the word, for it’s not pronounced with innocent intent by those who live outside of the area. If Ambrose Bierce* was another uninventive ignorant Armenian snob living outside of Bourj Hammoud, his Devil’s Dictionary would not be an ingenious constructive criticism of his people, but a childish ridicule of others where he would define the term as such:

Bourdj-Hammoudtsi: A low-class vulgar of ill manners and cheap expressions decorated with curses.

Pause.

Double take.

Disbelief.

Outrage.

Offense.

Now THOSE terms are how I feel and react everytime I witness firsthand, sometimes by my own friends, this way of relating to my hometown and its inhabitants, but then I overcome my shock when I realize how ignorant they are of their own vulgar ill-manners which are sugarcoated with what they believe to be sophistication. And to make it worse, they are oblivious of the fact that there are “Bourdj-Hammoudtsi”s everywhere. But of course… When there’s a thorn in your eye, the easiest thing to do is to shut your eye.

My name is Daisy, I am everything that I am, and I’m from Bourj Hammoud, a name people use to describe the worst things in others. And to all those people I will refrain from saying something that would rhyme with and sound like “got to yell”, not only because I don’t have it in me to say such things, but also because here I wish to make it a point not to live down to their expectations.

* Ambrose Bierce is a 19^th century American satirist known for his masterpiece “The Devil’s Dictionary”.

Two Spirits...

Two young spirits, wandering in a forest of tall trees and honey mist chance upon each other by fate. Having newly parted the physical world, they sit together for a chat, seeking encouragement and advice. They no longer speak of life’s possessions of love, money, politics and happiness, but of the Ultimate subject: Life itself.

The younger one asked, “Which concept do you believe in, Destiny or Free Will?”

After pondering for a while, the older one answered, “I think Free Will is an illusion.”

“I’m so relieved you think so, because I think so too” said the first, oblivious of the realization that every dying and every dead will think so in the end. “If everything is preplanned, then no matter how much you willed to do something, and no matter what you chose to do, it already was written that you will do it.”

“I agree. But what if it’s both of these concepts together? Perhaps it was already decided how you will die, or when, but up until that point, you were free to do what you want, and one way or another you were eventually going to die the same way or time,” said the second.

“Still, if we consider this example where I will to hit you, and I hit you,” refuted the young one, “isn’t that Free Will?”

“Yes, that would be your Free Will, but also my Destiny, because I didn’t choose to be hit!” answered the other.

“Alright, what about suicide?” said the first soul. “If it was fated that you commit suicide, and you commit suicide out of your own choice, how can you still think it was your own free will? It’s either Destiny or Free Will.”

“Let’s consider chess,” replied the older spirit. “Let’s suppose Destiny to be the chessboard, and the chess pieces to be our lives. You’re moving the pieces out of free will, but you are still in the domain of the board, the destiny.”

“Yes, but if I’m the King and fall on purpose because I’m sick of the game, isn’t that Free Will?”

“Yes, but you still belong to the chessboard…”

Copyright © 2007 Daisy Tchiftjian

In the Name of Patriotism v2.0

In referrance to "In The Name of 'Justice and Patriotism'"(http://femmeterrible.blogspot.com)

It’s been more than two weeks since the development of violence in Tripoli, north of Lebanon. And as if its escalation wasn’t enough for a country barely emerged from a devastating war last summer, more violence has expanded throughout the south as well.

For the moment, I don’t wish to go through the details of how, why and when, and who is to blame. Still, my heart goes out to every single falling soldier in the fields…

…And to their loved ones.
…To the ones who cry their hearts and souls out.
…To the woman who lost consciousness during the funeral.
…To the wives and children who have to carry on with the pain, being at loss themselves…
…And I watch, in the news, as a colonel or a commander-in-chief presents a medal of honor to the family of the slain, and I think to myself: That medal won’t bring him back; perhaps that was his dream - to die in the battlefield in the name of patriotism, but looking at that medal, to the heroism it represents, I wonder what’s more dear to his mother: her son’s life itself or the heroic memory he left behind?

Copyright © 2007 Daisy Tchiftjian

Fact

When browsing through articles of a magazine a few days ago, I came upon a caption that read:

"Did you know that there are 206 bones in the adult human body and there are 300 in children (as they grow, some of the bones fuse together)."

I wonder if we could have known that if children didn't die so young...

A Moment of Truth

"Here comes the moment of truth" we often hear people say...and not surprisingly, the sentence usually springs from the diplomatic mouths of politicians.
What a hypocritical thing to say, and upon hearing it people get carried away with the suspense it creates, instead of seeing the mockery and disrespect of intelligence it veils.
"Here comes the moment of truth". As if Truth should have a rendezvous in the first place.
It seems to me it's not the moment of truth that comes, but WE go to it when we occasionally take vacation from lies...only when it's in our best interest in ourselves and our selfishness to do so.

Copyright 2007 © Daisy Chiftjian

Love is...

"Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking together in the same direction."
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

...That's Harmony, not love. Love is gazing each other if not for, then despite the differences.

Copyright © 2007 Daisy Chiftjian

Unrequieted....

I wonder if it’s ever possible that one day the only issues in the world would center around health only …and not power. Not politics. Not finance. Not wealth nor poverty. Not racism. Not religion. Not wars and genocides. Not inequality. Perhaps even not any other kind of crimes….

I wonder if there can exist a world where the word “oppression”, its synonyms, and every related word to it will cease to exist in the minds of the living generations, become incomprehensible, unnecessary and ancient.

Perhaps one day cultural diversities and social differences would be celebrated and not perceived as a threat to one’s own.

Perhaps one day the big fish will leave the small fish alone. Perhaps it will help them become as big themselves, or simply make itself as humble instead of becoming more gluttonous.

I wonder if it’s possible that humans will ever be altruistic … and not selfish.

I wonder if life can exist without the need to struggle for Survival…but with the gusto to Live.

Then I wonder if it’s really altruistic – and not selfish - to harbor these illusions in my mind.

Copyright © 2007 Daisy Tchiftjian

Perhaps life would be better if we treated people for what they want to be, rather than what they are.

Copyright © 2007 Daisy Tchiftjian