Post by Alexia on May 27, 2003 21:05:55 GMT -5
From the wars of Lebanon, with it’s mafia laden streets and famous night life, to the city streets of Montreal, 31 years of existence, filled with sex, slander, drugs and wrong doing is to be presented to you in this book. That and the desire to find out what it is that one truly needs to become a free, content individual. Maybe, together, we can discover this as we all open our minds and look deep within ourselves to understand why people see us only for what we have accomplished rather that who we have become along our journey of life.
I sit here now looking into the faces of the people as they exit the subway station and walk past my café. I study their faces and wonder if they study mine as they pass me by. These people that used to fill my restaurants and coffee shops to full capacity. The same people I used to treat with respect and kindness. The ones who used to treat me as a friend until September 11th, 2001.
That day was another turning point in my life. Being Lebanese and Arabic suddenly became a curse in this so called democratic society I now lived in. My coffee shops emptied, business declined to where I was forced to invest more of my own capital in order to stay afloat. However, I was determined that I would not let anything deter me.
Now, these people no longer considered me a friend. I was the enemy, not that I had changed or even that I had done anything. But I was both Lebanese, Arabic and my name was Oussama. There was no more reasoning, only the reality of what people wanted to believe. The injustices and prejustices that people inflict upon one another when they are not certain as to what to do.
Because of these circumstances and the fact that I didn’t want to loose what I had struggled so hard to achieve, I was faced with a major decision. My identity as an individual was now being threatened. The name I had taken so much pride in in the past was now being looked upon as evil. Eight years prior I had changed my name from Oussama to Sam. Now, I wanted my identity back. I chose to begin using my true name, although I knew doing so could be disastrous given the situation Oussama Bin Laden had just created with the bombing of the Twin Towers in New York City. I would be scorned by most and feared by others, yet in my heart I just wanted to prove to them that I was an individual, living in a so called democratic society where I was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.
My decision was to make the world see I would achieve my goals, despite my name and origin. I would prove them all wrong. No longer would I attempt to satisfy them by changing who I was.
The same people I had coffee with the day before now walked passed me without giving me a second glance. Once again, the person I was, was being threatened because of a name. How strange this world was. How impossible to understand.
They judged me for someone else’s doings. I was no longer that nice young man in the coffee shop, but instead was labelled a terrorist. Strange how these people new nothing of me, although they sat and talked with me for over 8 years.
Did they even care of the wars that I’d seen, the pictures of mutilated bodies that flash before my eyes still today? Did they realize the struggle I had to endure to overcome a cocaine addiction? Did they know of the loves and loses I’d taken in my life? Do they even care who it is I truly am?
Yet I am the one who had to change my name so that they could feel more comfortable in my presence. A persons name is such an important part of their identity, yet I was forced to give it up. How senseless it all seems yet I knew that it is just another step for survival.
Now I was taking that back. My phone was immediately programmed to register my real name , I instantly got new business cards made changing it back from Sam to Oussama. My name would remain Oussama and I would never change it again.
And the woman. How difficult to find one who took the time to look past the exterior shell to find the true man that lives within it. The one that searches for nothing more than sincerity, honesty, respect and love. Yes, they all love him. Oh and how they cry. But is it for Sam they cry, or for Oussama. They cry for what they see, not for who I am.
I find myself often wondering, do these people know what it is I had to do to attain this wealth that they see, this lifestyle they seem to want from me so desperately. Do they even care of my hardships, do they see the tears that I carry inside just waiting to be shed? I doubt they would even consider that there is a soul inside this shell of a body that I walk in.
This saddens me even more, it makes me into the hardened person they choose to see me as, yet that I am not. I do admit, that when necessary, I have been maybe unrealistically hard and some would consider me even to be aggressive, yet never have I been so without reason. My anger may have come out at times through the frustrations I am faced with everyday.
Should they take the time to look they would see what I have seen, what I have lived, the whole of it, not just the finished product. Maybe then they would understand. Maybe then they would appreciate me for who I truly am rather that the picture I portray. Maybe then I could find happiness if there is such a thing.
This is my story, the story of a poor little rich boy growing up in Lebanon and learning that survival sometimes has a very high price to pay.
Alexia
Ok girlie you asked for more......here's a bit more......I sure hope this isn't offending anyone , because it wasn't written to do that.....It's just a story....nothing more.
I sit here now looking into the faces of the people as they exit the subway station and walk past my café. I study their faces and wonder if they study mine as they pass me by. These people that used to fill my restaurants and coffee shops to full capacity. The same people I used to treat with respect and kindness. The ones who used to treat me as a friend until September 11th, 2001.
That day was another turning point in my life. Being Lebanese and Arabic suddenly became a curse in this so called democratic society I now lived in. My coffee shops emptied, business declined to where I was forced to invest more of my own capital in order to stay afloat. However, I was determined that I would not let anything deter me.
Now, these people no longer considered me a friend. I was the enemy, not that I had changed or even that I had done anything. But I was both Lebanese, Arabic and my name was Oussama. There was no more reasoning, only the reality of what people wanted to believe. The injustices and prejustices that people inflict upon one another when they are not certain as to what to do.
Because of these circumstances and the fact that I didn’t want to loose what I had struggled so hard to achieve, I was faced with a major decision. My identity as an individual was now being threatened. The name I had taken so much pride in in the past was now being looked upon as evil. Eight years prior I had changed my name from Oussama to Sam. Now, I wanted my identity back. I chose to begin using my true name, although I knew doing so could be disastrous given the situation Oussama Bin Laden had just created with the bombing of the Twin Towers in New York City. I would be scorned by most and feared by others, yet in my heart I just wanted to prove to them that I was an individual, living in a so called democratic society where I was supposed to be innocent until proven guilty.
My decision was to make the world see I would achieve my goals, despite my name and origin. I would prove them all wrong. No longer would I attempt to satisfy them by changing who I was.
The same people I had coffee with the day before now walked passed me without giving me a second glance. Once again, the person I was, was being threatened because of a name. How strange this world was. How impossible to understand.
They judged me for someone else’s doings. I was no longer that nice young man in the coffee shop, but instead was labelled a terrorist. Strange how these people new nothing of me, although they sat and talked with me for over 8 years.
Did they even care of the wars that I’d seen, the pictures of mutilated bodies that flash before my eyes still today? Did they realize the struggle I had to endure to overcome a cocaine addiction? Did they know of the loves and loses I’d taken in my life? Do they even care who it is I truly am?
Yet I am the one who had to change my name so that they could feel more comfortable in my presence. A persons name is such an important part of their identity, yet I was forced to give it up. How senseless it all seems yet I knew that it is just another step for survival.
Now I was taking that back. My phone was immediately programmed to register my real name , I instantly got new business cards made changing it back from Sam to Oussama. My name would remain Oussama and I would never change it again.
And the woman. How difficult to find one who took the time to look past the exterior shell to find the true man that lives within it. The one that searches for nothing more than sincerity, honesty, respect and love. Yes, they all love him. Oh and how they cry. But is it for Sam they cry, or for Oussama. They cry for what they see, not for who I am.
I find myself often wondering, do these people know what it is I had to do to attain this wealth that they see, this lifestyle they seem to want from me so desperately. Do they even care of my hardships, do they see the tears that I carry inside just waiting to be shed? I doubt they would even consider that there is a soul inside this shell of a body that I walk in.
This saddens me even more, it makes me into the hardened person they choose to see me as, yet that I am not. I do admit, that when necessary, I have been maybe unrealistically hard and some would consider me even to be aggressive, yet never have I been so without reason. My anger may have come out at times through the frustrations I am faced with everyday.
Should they take the time to look they would see what I have seen, what I have lived, the whole of it, not just the finished product. Maybe then they would understand. Maybe then they would appreciate me for who I truly am rather that the picture I portray. Maybe then I could find happiness if there is such a thing.
This is my story, the story of a poor little rich boy growing up in Lebanon and learning that survival sometimes has a very high price to pay.
Alexia
Ok girlie you asked for more......here's a bit more......I sure hope this isn't offending anyone , because it wasn't written to do that.....It's just a story....nothing more.
