The Street of Death and Other Stories
The place of beginnings: a suburb pushed up against Beirut airport. Our turf: a treacherous stretch of highway, separating us from the sea, the roar and shadow of planes bearing down from the sky. The road claims some of us, the sea yet others, and the planes a few more. But guns also take their share.
A return to this site invites a re-examination. How far from me is Ibn Zanouba, really? Do we ever really leave that very first place of precarious living and inflated dreams, or does its resonance ever truly leave us?