You Probably Think This Post Is about You: Social Media and the Health of my Vanity

Maybe not, but it's a provoking title. The link between social media and my becoming more vain is not that direct, naturally. I think I might have realized more about myself because of social media -- and I'm not in any way speaking in a professional or scientific capacity. That warning holds true for the entire post. Just personal experience.

Actually, this post itself will also possibly explain why I've even returned to my very futile, very yearly attempts at blogging in the first place. I'll start from the beginning.

The first real form of social media I was acquainted with and had the pleasure, yes I admit it pleasure, of using was Facebook. Back in the days when Facebook was strictly for university students (yes, I'm that old). I remember it was a dark and stormy... well maybe not. It was my second semester at AUB, and a girl in my class mentioned Facebook to me. Something to do with networking, another to do with bringing together communities of students. Then someone else mentioned Facebook. Then my sister got a Facebook account. At first, I didn't get on the bandwagon: I really had no interest in having more contact with even more people. After all, MSN Messenger (or Windows Messenger by then?) had more than enough people for me, thank you very much. And even then I usually used the "Appear as Offline" option (what a magnificent option that was -- the good old days when you could still hide in the world of the internet).

Very unnecessarily long story short, I got a Facebook account. It was cute at first, confusing but cute. And not as obsessive as it is now. I had a few friends (oh, yes, I hear you saying "no wonder"), and life was simple. I honestly don't remember what Facebook was even  like back then, but I do recall the days the "Free Gifts" came up. Quelle scandal!

Eventually everyone else started to join (and the hipster inside me cringed). It slowly but very surely became the Facebook we all know and love. And by "know and love" I mean "are obsessed with and complain about."

But rumors of yet another, newer, cooler social media platform began to arise. Twitter. Less words, more action, same intrigue. And here there be celebrities. I didn't much get into it, though, but it plays a part in the story, so we'll keep it.

And then Tumblr. Not as popular in these parts or even among everyone out there, but I like to believe that somewhere deep down the artist in me still survives, the writer, the amateur illustrator, the visionary. And Tumblr is all about quirky people discussing quirky things with attitude and, in many cases, backed by excessive drug use (not me, but it keeps things interesting on there). To be honest, I love TV shows (using the stale argument that I love a good story but, admittedly, good TV is good TV), and Tumblr is all about people who love things (like TV shows) sharing and discussing.

And cats. But that's the entire internet, research says.

More recently, I've joined Pinterest* and Instagram. I even tried IHeartIt and random applications I found in the App Store. It wasn't until I had diagnosed my symptoms that I came to understand that this hunger for a social media outlet was just one that had grown from a natural tendency I had that I had been showering with attention and doggy treats (the doggy treat equivalent for the psyche) for years.

In the past three years, I've deactivated and reactivated my Facebook account a few times, always returning, and always feeling like I had fallen off the wagon when I did. When I deactivated, there was always an itch, a cyber and less severe form of withdrawal I suppose, that I knew I could get rid of by spending time looking at what other people were doing, and, because attention needs to be reciprocated, also by posting about my own quite mundane life, adding filters, be it anecdotes, quips, or colors, to make my life fit for cyber viewing.

And then I would wait: wait for likes and comments, for that interaction that would give me instant satisfaction. As much as I hate to say it, as much as I hate to admit the need for attention that seemed to grow with my Facebook use, it's what I did. Facebook fed the mixture of curiosity and attention that a part of me, one that was growing much like how 90s child-horror film blobs that feed on pollution or other evil would grow once fed. I was especially troubled by the need for attention that kept growing because curiosity I could control, and, in all honesty, I didn't really care for most of the gossip on my News Feed, but it was the other aspect that struck me in those moments of self-reflection and truth.

I haven't done much research on this specific issue because I felt it was a personal challenge and perhaps naming it or reassuring myself that it's not just me would perhaps justify my behavior in my mind. All I knew is that the "me" I was on Facebook, the one you could draw from viewing my posts, likes, interactions, etc., was one that disgusted me.

Any time I returned to Facebook, and when I turned to Twitter and Tumblr (at the beginning only) and eventually Instagram, I would begin meekly, shyly even. But day by day I would post more: pictures, opinions, anything, and it felt like something I needed to do, like something nagging me, worrying me, until completed. You might know this feeling: the urge enhanced (if not created, though I doubt it) by social media to share things with people, mundane or significant, just for the sake of sharing. I'm not talking about sharing important, life-changing information, but sharing for completely selfish and self-centered reasons. Sharing to feed the ego.

Instagram, I think, plays more severely on the same urge. Share pictures, get likes. That's it. I think that's why I didn't last long. I thought that, after having left Facebook for a year, I should try to maintain some communication with the people in my community. But Instagram was faster, more effective, and definitely worse. Anything that happened was framed in the potential of being posted on Instagram. Take a picture, not for memory, but for Instagram. Why? To share with people, of course. It was too much, and, all too fast, I became that person again.

So now I've left Facebook (and Instagram), completely detoxed, using the "it's not you, it's me" strategy because, really, that's what it is. A personality... glitch, let's call it. Well, a characteristic. Call it weakness, call it a flaw in the system: I've realized something about myself and found the only cure to be avoidance. Complete avoidance of that which adds fuel to the fire. I know that I will crave attention if I use Facebook or Instagram, to some degree Twitter, and, knowing full well I cannot control it when this outlet pushes me to share and ask for attention in such an easy way and at any point in my day, I've chosen to completely detach. The drawback here is that Facebook really is an excellent platform forcommunication, and I've now almost all but lost contact with a lot of people. But for the health of my humility and the belittlement of my ego, it's, as a superhero I suppose would say, a sacrifice I must make.

* Just a note on why I don't discuss Pinterest in this context: I mostly like or repost recipes, DIY projects, quotes. I never use it to share anything reflecting my "self" with others, never to impress. It's more like research. Lighter, fluffier research, but research all the same.

"Abdel Qader"

An excerpt from something I've been working on (very on-and-off).

واستسلم الحكام بعجلة وكأنهم كانوا ينتظرون فرجهم... كأنهم لم يريدوا البقاء والدفاع عن شعبنا من البداية.

Beirut, Lebanon. 21st C.

Crossing the street becomes laborious, nerve-wrecking. People are just sick of each other, of being at each other’s throats all the time, and they just ignore what happens beyond their day-to-day. Fighting over a parking spot is cathartic, an outlet for so much more anger and anxiety, and it makes things seem normal, if slightly uncivilized. But uncivilized makes reality immediate, present, allowing for a focus other than the city crumbling to bits around them. And on their heads most of the time. Engineers seemed to see that the end would be in rubble as the large claws of “progress” and “urbanization” ripped at the defiant and still recusant 19^th century structure, its green shutters gaping at the disinterested passers-by, as though trying to stare them down, surprised they walked by silently.

Aminah was not surprised, and the artifact, this relic of a mythologized grandeur and beauty, should know better. It was among the very few remaining after an onslaught of demolition in the past few years, stronger even than before, had set its teeth on what remained of the history of their direct ancestors. Roman and Greek structures remained, unlivable but tourist worthy, while the more recently historical face of the city, what was now the basis of what Beirut is, was being torn down to be replaced by a faceless, cultureless, and grey metropolis.

A strand of defiance flickered inside her, borrowed from the faltering rigidity of the structure before her, before it was brushed away by the lethargy that ate at everyone around her, and she hung her head, avoided the blank green stare of the building, and turned to walk away.

A Message to my People: The People of Syria

*NB: My Arabic is quite terrible, but in an attempt to improve my writing, and because it came naturally for once, here we go. I apologize for any horrendous errors and any very weak or childish images.

الشام بلدي والشام موطني والشام ارض اهلي وارضي. لبنانية - ولكن عيوني رأت, وطفولتي عاشت, وقلبي تعلق بأحياء داكنة. بيروتية - ولكني وجدت بيروت في بيوت قديمة, بيوتٍ لم تتحملها سرعة القرون في مدينتي, فوجدتها في مدينة جعلتها لنفسي. احتضنتني واهلها واطعمتني اكل امي بالسمن واللحم واللبن. سمعت لغتي وفهمت تقاليد شعبي في مكان لم يخاف ان يتركه الدهر اذا تعلق بجمال ومروءة الماضي. فانا عربية وشامية ودمشقية. اهلي مروا في شوارعها واشربوا من انهارها التي اخذتهم الى لبنان. فشامي هو الذي ينزف وبلدي الذي يحرق واهلي الذين يناضلون. وانا صامتة. و شعبي و شعبهم يلهو. اخي يذبح وابنتي تقطع. وما زلت صامتة وها هو بيتي يحرق وانا بداخله, وجسدي يعذب وانا غافلة فيه. ويحرق ويعذب. ويحرق ويعذب. وانستني الحياة واغفلني غروري بأن هذا جسدي وأنه منزلي وأنهم أهلي وأنها مدينتي وأنهم شعبي وأنه وطني. فرأيتها ورأيتهم والدم الذي يجري في عروقي يسيل من أجسادهم.

فلا تعذروني يا أهلي: انني رسمت خطاً من حبر الاستعمار والاضطهاد. رسمت خطاً لا اراه ولا افهمه. ولكنه يحجبكم عني سمعاً وبصراً. وقلبي فيكم ينبض بقوتكم وعزتكم وشجاعة تخليت عنها عندما تركت قلبي في أحياء شامي. وأغفل لانني تناسيت نفسي. فانتم نفسي. لا. لا تعذروني.

Al-Quds: A poem by Nizar Qabbani

القدس
بكيت.. حتى انتهت الدموع
صليت.. حتى ذابت الشموع
ركعت.. حتى مّلني الركوع
سألت عن محمد، صلى الله عليه وسلم فيكِ وعن يسوع عليه السلام
يا ُقدسُ، يا مدينة تفوح أنبياء
يا أقصر الدروبِ بين الأرضِ والسماء
يا قدسُ، يا منارَة الشرائع
يا طفلًة جميلًة محروقَة الأصابع
حزينةٌ عيناكِ، يا مدينَة البتول
يا واحًة ظليلًة مرَّ بها الرسول
حزينةٌ حجارُة الشوارع
حزينةٌ مآذن الجوامع
يا ُقدس، يا جميلًة تلتفُّ بالسواد



من يحمل الألعابَ للأولاد؟
في ليلةِ
يا قدسُ، يا مدينَة الأحزان
يا دمعًة كبيرًة تجول في الأجفان
من يوقفُ العدوان؟
عليكِ، يا لؤلؤَة الأديان
من يغسل الدماءَ عن حجارةِ الجدران؟
من ينقذ الإنسان؟
يا قدسُ.. يا مدينتي
يا قدسُ.. يا حبيبتي
غدًا.. غدًا.. سيزهر الليمون
وتفرحُ السناب ُ ل الخضراءُ والزيتون
وتضحكُ العيون..
وترجعُ الحمائمُ المهاجرة..
إلى السقوفِ الطاهره
ويرجعُ الأطفال يلعبون
ويلتقي الآباءُ والبنون
على رباك الزاهرة..
يا بلدي..
يا بلد السلام والزيتون

The face of a veil

Boredom drove me to create this as (not very well...) as a continuation of my rant for Muslim (and veiled) women in contexts of prejudice and subjugation from different groups.

[Text: Islam frees me/ Muslims oppress me/ Islam honors me/ People ridicule me/ Islam submits me to Allah/ Culture submits me to men/ Islam values me through spirituality/ Modernity values me through materialism./ I am not your slave, your object, your relic, your symbol, or your pet./ My veil is my own./ I do not answer to you, your systems, or your worldviews./ I answer to Allah.]

I am Lebanese - no, not that kind, the other one.

It took me a while to realize that the trajectory my education, cultural choices, and life choices had taken had made it somewhat difficult to really pinpoint a place or culture I belong to. It started off as a high-nosed policy when I transferred from an American school (which influenced my reading, education, and language choices then and later on in life) to a Lebanese English-speaking school. The reason, I think I now understand, why there is any power felt in speaking English, which drove my superior attitude is the influence that several kinds of imperialism have had in this region, fueling, in their path, the conviction of the superiority of the foreign (the French and the English/American) and the inferiority of the Arab. This might not be present in all levels of society, but it carries weight and underlies many of the elements of the so-called Lebanese culture. Why then do so many of us speak in English or French to our children, refuse to accept that Lebanese people have an "accent" and, if they do, try to squash it out before anyone else can hear? Clinging to our Arab heritage (whatever that is) and the language is a conscious and even difficult endeavor.

At university, I thought I began to understand why I, personally, felt confused. I couldn't identify with he culture my parents projected or with the culture that many of my friends carried. I had ideas that were frowned on, and hobbies and interests that people just shook their head at. We read DuBois in an American Studies class, and something clicked. This sense of being separated, split, cut into two made sense. I was influenced by two cultures. And as I had also learned the importance of language and reading in transmitting culture, it suddenly all made sense. My identity was that of the post-modern, the globalized, the person in whom more than one culture lived, and sometimes clashed. And as we read more, I realized I had gone past DuBois into a world where having split identity did not necessarily mean that I had lived in more than one place. The power of culture spread through modern imperialism was overwhelming as it was silent and pervasive. I had resolved the problem, and I could live my life knowing I was colorful, creative.

This theory is not necessarily true, and as I grew older and realized that the deep sense of superiority was a large part of this belief, and as the Arabic language and culture became more interesting, as did the Lebanese, out of a conscious effort to understand them, the problem became a more serious one. A large part of this new-found confusion stemmed from my having become more interested in Islam, and eventually transforming from a person who had inherited Islam to a person who believed in this faith. A lot of the things that I had believed could be adapted to my beliefs, and fell under them, like feminism (which became more focused as I understood my roles, etc.) and philanthropy....

But the problem that this caused is that I now had something else to grapple with. Part of a culture is people's socialization, attitudes toward life, and their general lifestyle. As I became more religious, as it were, I found that some things I had grown up with or within did not necessarily fit my new perspective on life. And these things were from both the Western and Lebanese cultures I had grown up in. Where did I fit now? I had long ago decided that I was not "Western" and had reconciled myself to the conviction that I was just as multi-cultural and complicated as every other Lebanese person, and, like the rest, in my own way.

So if we try to define Lebanese culture, the Lebanese people, and Lebanon, what do we get? In light of the ever-growing conflict in the region and in Lebanon, loyalties and localism has become an issue of debate, to me at least. A woman on TV stated in a rage that "We are more Lebanese than they are," stemming from the grounds that being Lebanese is something specific to what she believed. Certainly, this shows loyalty but does this statement reflect Lebanese-ness? People seem to identify with each other and the nation in Lebanon in several ways. Ask any person what they are, and they will declare with a sense of pride and defiance that they are Lebanese. This form of loyalty is inspiring, but if we look into it, it seems bare. Why are you Lebanese? Because I was born in Lebanon. Lebanon was part of something much larger not too long ago and then lines were drawn by the French and English to delineate its borders. Unless they had some divine knowledge of where a certain culture ended, then these borders are just confusing.

It seems, from the general structure of government we have been struggling with, that being Lebanese means close to nothing. People do not identify with the nation, because identifying with a nation means believing in a singular national narrative that unites people, even if it has to be made up. Look at the United States. Nothing joined the separate colonies together, but they forged  national narrative and defined themselves by what they were not: French or English. Regardless of whether this was good or bad, it was effective. And the point behind it is that people living in a certain nation have loyalty to that nation and to each other as a group. We do have a narrative that circulates, that being Lebanese mean diversity, but when it comes down to it, people define themselves against each other, the other types of Lebanese rather than identifying as one large group. Like, we the (Muslim/Christian/Druze) of this sect and this area are better at being Lebanese than they are.

Where do people's loyalties lie? They are obviously sectarian and not a single drop more. No one is interested in the well being of the nation, no matter what speeches they make. People don't vote for officials because they will help develop the nation. They vote for them because they are "one of us." And democracy is built, if nothing else, on diversity. But this isn't diversity. This is a blind and tribal devotion.

Fine, let's say that this is not what defines a nation. What else? Language? We gave up on that a while ago. How about culture? Okay. According to the glorious Wikipedia, "The Lebanese people (Arabic: الشعب اللبناني‎ / ALA-LC: al-sha‘ab al-lubnānī, Lebanese Arabic pronunciation: [eʃˈʃaʕb ellɪbˈneːne]) are a nationand ethnic group of Levantine people originating in what is today the country of Lebanon, including those who had inhabited Mount Lebanon prior to the creation of the modern Lebanese state."

Wait, what? Let's give them another chance... "The cultural and linguistic heritage of the Lebanese people is a rich blend of both indigenous elements and the foreign cultures that have come to rule the land and its people over the course of thousands of years." A rich blend? Meaning what? What is it? Do they all speak a rich blend of languages? No. Are they all influenced by the same foreign cultures? Probably. How is culture manifested then? By habits, tradition, etc.? Do we really have the same culture, though? If we ever did, a lot of it has been diluted by modern pervasion of culture and language. We listen to foreign music, watch foreign films, eat a lot of foreign food. It's not wrong, it just shows that the traditions we base our culture on are either no longer acted upon and they never really were united. From personal experience, my habits and culture don't really seem to match those around me. And neither do a lot of people's.

I watched a Karakella show recently, and towards the end, they sang about Lebanon. People went crazy with excitement, but I listened to the words and felt nothing. A year ago, I might have cried and cheered with the rest. But now I realized that nothing but the emotional wanting that I had to belong here made me feel Lebanese. My problem is that I began to realize that my identity as a Lebanese was not really much more than the fact that I was born here. And I'm not saying this to criticize but because I'm just worried. And I was raised by a mother who is the most patriotic thing to walk the planet. She bleeds red, white, and cedars. So it is not from a lack of being raised as Lebanese that I'm confused. But because I've been raised to feel proud of my heritage, culture, and nation that I'm confused. What is it exactly that I'm proud of? What is my heritage, culture, and nation?

We tend to get angry when faced with the question of our heritage, and a lot I think owes to the fact that we are still trying to build that heritage and the sense of belonging. We have built it so much on a sense of belonging to the land, that we forget that it also means a sense of belonging with other people. Not just the people of the same religion or the same sect. And that is a crucial aspect of what makes this nation so fragile and its people so bent on turning on each other. There is a sense of belonging but also a sense of "only those like me belong." But the question remains: What is that joins us? A Fayrouz song about the beauty of Lebanon and its resilient people paints an idealistic image, one we have of Lebanon but one that doesn't really exist. It's purely emotional.

Reading Diary: Love in a Headscarf

I haven't actually started reading, but this is the first time I read something of the kind, so it deserves a pre-reading post. To explain, at least, why. The genre of books under "World Literature" that discuss Muslim women, and specifically in novel form, have a generic stigma. They fall under the label of Muslim woman freeing herself from oppression or expressing her oppression, and they are represented (to me) by books like "Girls of Riyadh." They manage to combine the outdated and reviewed representation of the exotic, mysterious, and overly sexualized Arab woman, with the more contemporary image of the Arab Muslim woman as the meek subjugated creature, trodden on by Islam and Muslims. Not all books in this category do that, but the more popular and the ones that represent the category seem to.

The second reason my choice is an odd one is that I have gone by the unspoken rule of: I live here, so I don't want to read about it. It comes more from upbringing, education, and then life choices that I don't really read much "World Literature." Mostly because this external world this literature comes from is the one I live in and because I'm just used to reading American and British literature, mostly 19 century. Also, adding to my disillusioned view of the "Muslim Woman" category of writing, is my view of the Arab world category, especially when written by Arabs. If it's negative, I agree with the implementation of certain things as being inaccurate, but not the rest, and if it is positive, it is too nostalgic, exotic, and perfect that makes me revise what I see. I walk on the streets of Beirut, and I don't really smell the za'atar, greet the old man in traditional clothing with a huge smile, etc. (Maybe I should write about that topic at some point... because I'm digressing).

In both cases, reality and opinion struggle with what the novels represent. I'm giving this book a chance, however, not because it's pink, but because it seems to have more of a grip on reality but understands its conflict with idealistic imagery. If that makes sense. We'll see how it goes. And I'll update once I've read more than the first paragraph (which is good!).