Now I Remember

I used to be a Writer.

Then I Forgot.

Something must have happened.

I no longer remember what.

I had my own world. I never needed anyone. I was a writer. I created people. I invented worlds.

I was 22 when I first entered the newspaper. I severely tied my hair in a ponytail and did not own a handbag. I put my stuff in a plastic bag. I carried that bag everywhere I went.

I entered the old building that had created legends in the historical Hamra Street, with fear mixed with steely determination to become famous.

I did not know how to write in Arabic having lived nearly all my life abroad.

Yet my father insisted that I was to become a journalist.

He knew that what I really wanted was to be on stage.

Somewhere in New York.

He also knew I did not have the courage to make my dream come true.

I entered that building on a hot July morning 22 years ago.

I was determined to become famous. I did not know how to write in Arabic.

And yet I was a writer. Experience and days revealed to me that I was born to write. That this world I lived in and which no one else could see was made of stories I was meant to write.

I had a boss who believed in me and who dedicated his days to teach me the Arabic language.

I was tireless.

His faith in me never "limped".

I did not know what I was doing. Yet I didn't stop.

I was driven. Ferociously. Aggressively.

I didn't stop.

My boss Aadoul became my mentor and my second father.

Together we faced all the ups and downs of my early years.

I did not notice anything around me.

I was busy writing.

It is a hot summer. It is passing quickly.

My whole life seems to have passed rather quickly.

In my twenties I was a writer.

How I miss those early days.

I was immortal.

And I was a writer.

This morning I Visited Hamra Street. Where it all began.

I parked the car and I slowly started walking.

I felt a strange feeling of Nostalgia even though I have never stopped visiting that Street even when the newspaper moved down town Beirut.

Where have all the years gone?

Hamra's noises took me back a million years.

As days passed I never really had the time to look back. And I never really knew how precious those years were. I took them for granted even though I worked as hard as my twenties allowed me.

Hamra's daily scenes made me recollect all that I have forgotten.

All that I took for granted.

I not only worked midst legends.

They actually made me.

They helped me participate in years forever engraved in my soul.

This morning I suddenly saw Hamra Street again.

For years I simply used it as a pathway to my life. My daily activities. It had lost its charm. I forgot my twenties. And I overlooked the fact that I used to be a writer.

I walked for a long time. I searched for glimpses of those early days. Then I stood in front of the old building I first entered on a hot July 22 years ago. I could see us all busy writing. We believed in causes back then. We lived through writing.

I must have discovered life.

That's it.

That's what must have happened.

I am 22 years old.

My hair is severely tied in a stiff ponytail.

I have my stuff in a plastic bag.

My clothes are so out of date.

I don't know how to "command" the Arabic language.

Yet I am a writer.

For years I remained one. I never faltered.

Then I forgot.

I kept walking in that Street for what seemed like an eternity.

I was searching for something. Someone.

Someone I used to be.

Before I forgot.

I chose an old café.

I ordered an espresso.

I took out my small notebook and my pen.

And I determinedly set out to reconnect with the writer in me I had lost throughout the years.

I was oblivious to Hamra's morning guests this morning.

I was busy searching. Making my way through the thousands of Images I have participated in all those years.

You see, I used to be a writer.

Before I forgot.

Before I allowed life to interfere.

Before I drifted midst its whims.

This morning, I wrote for all the years I had lost.

I was determined to find the writer in me I had stamped on.

It was the same steely determination that haunted my being that July morning when I first entered the newspaper building 22 years ago.

You see, I used to be a writer.

And then for many, many years I forgot.

Now, I remember.