Mika: Mon Liban / My Lebanon, Vanity Fair France, August 2021

Kumazzz · July 30, 2021

:bow: I'm so sorry, can't read French... Could anyone post the transcript this article ? Thank you.

Vanity Fair

Août 2021

PDF file ( 4 pages / 798 KB ) Vanity_Fair_France_08-2021_compressed.pdf

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edit: English version by Mika on Instagram: :uk:

August 4, 2020

I am at Villa Aurelia in Rome, which hosts events organized by the American Academy. Everyone has been there, from Getty to Hemingway. In a dressing room, I am being filmed for an interview and suddenly I see my phone lighting up. Many messages, photos and videos pop up like an avalanche. At first, I can’t believe it. I think it’s a new app simulating an explosion in the port of Beirut - we are so used to images being manipulated - but it’s real. All of a sudden, while I am in a temple of glamour, childhood traumas related to war, to the impermanence of comfort and stability of everyday life, resound in me. I understand then that we are shaped by our childhood perceptions. My reaction is very intense, very mute: an incredible sadness, more than fear, crashes over me. The injustice of these images is hitting me hard: why this explosion, in this city which is already suffering, politically, economically and socially, and where the youth is being sacrificed? I instinctively know that it is not from neighboring countries or a bomb. I guess that this drama is linked to what is eating away at Lebanon: corruption.

Lebanon is where I was born. I have never lived there, but it has always been a part of my life, as it is for many in the Lebanese diaspora. A few weeks ago, there was even a knock on my door in Montreal. It was a Lebanese lawyer who came to drop off bags of food cooked by his mother!

My origins are plural. My father is American. The son of a diplomat from Savannah, Georgia, who worked for the US government, he was born in Jerusalem and grew up all over the place, including in Beirut. My maternal grandfather came from a large family in Damascus. After fighting in the Arab Revolt in the early 20th century, he arrived disgusted on Ellis Island in 1919. He started his life over in New York, first as a delivery man of fabric, then he moved up the ladder and set up factories in China. The day came when his sister decided to marry him off at all costs. He went to Lebanon where she had chosen a woman for him from a good family. During the cocktail party organized for their engagement, he saw a family swimming on the beach. He fell in love with one of the girls, canceled his wedding and asked for her hand in marriage. My grandmother was 16. He was 60. She left Beirut for the United States, speaking only Arabic and a little bit of French. On the other side of the Atlantic, she soon gave birth to my mother and four little sisters who grew up between an uprooted woman and a man who never forgot that he was Syrian. Everyone spoke Arabic and cooked Arab food.

My own childhood was shaped by the specter of war, including the one in Kuwait, where my father was held hostage and returned a different man. My mother, who recently passed away, passed on to me the warmth of communicating, the art of responding with emotional urgency. It is a temperament and a temperature! This may have surprised some journalists who have interviewed me over the years... I grew up with very strong Middle Eastern figures - the absolute icon, Oum Kalthoum; the Rahbani brothers. Fairuz, who built a bridge between the West and the Arab world... My guilty pleasure is Nancy Ajram, and I love the rock band Mashrou’Leila. I like Gibran, Mahmoud Darwich, Amin Maalouf, whom I read a lot of when I was younger. Leo Africanus. What also connects me to my native land are the 6,000-year-old olive trees that line the roads of Lebanon. These representatives of the resistance should be revered as gods and goddesses.

On August 4, 2016, I gave my last concert in Lebanon, in Baalbek. It was fantastic, the audience threw pillows everywhere! Two years before, we had had to stop playing there three times. The first time was for the prayer that was broadcast very loudly. The second time was because they had thrown so many cushions that the stage was covered in them. They were even confiscated but it was impossible to start playing again. So, I put on some music, probably some remixed Fairuz songs, and went back to my dressing room. Among my fondest memories of live performances, there is also Martyrs’ Square, in 2009, after the defeat of Hezbollah. There was a huge crowd. Young girls in veils and others in bras.

If I wrote this column in Le Monde [“Lebanon, my country, is dying, and its children are held hostage”, published in May 2021], it is because after the visual shock of the August 2020 explosion and the excitement of my charity concert [I Love Beirut, in September 2020], the following months saw the situation in Lebanon worsen without the international community really caring. Yes. The explosion was like an electrical shock. This disaster vibrated far and wide. However, in a world as immediate as ours, the attention span is quite short. We consume the image or information like a product with a very short expiry date. As artists, we are not necessarily entitled to express a political point of view, but that should not prevent us from expressing our emotions beyond the 280-character limit on Twitter. Sometimes I feel stupid for using only words, but they are still a valuable form of expression.

Without getting into political rhetoric, which is not my field as I consider myself a simple observer of my country, from afar, it is corruption that has eaten away at Lebanon. Some talk about the coexistence of religions. Except that it has always existed. Beirut has long been home to synagogues, mosques, Melchite, Maronite and Catholic churches, and together, they used to form true cultural wealth. In recent years, the eco-political crisis has set in, social tension has increased and parties have sought to exploit this vulnerability, to break the bond that unites us. It is not for nothing that Hezbollah has opened shops where, to buy products imported from Iraq and Iran at reasonable prices, one must join the party. Locally, my friends are trying to rebuild neighborhoods. Lebanese architect Hala Wardé wants to give new life to places where heritage has been destroyed. But how can reconstruction be managed and the necessary funds found when banks are no longer operating? Wages are divided by five, the price of toothpaste is soaring, as is the price of bread, coffee, milk or a taxi ride! There, a young person who has studied like crazy to graduate has to leave if he wants to do something with his knowledge. Is Lebanon doomed to the flight of its talents?

In this tiny country, a fertile valley wedged between Israel and Syria, gateway to Europe, the crucial issue of our future is at stake: how to live together. As our resources dwindle, we are increasingly divided. Nothing about our current attitude favors a collective existence. This is what Hashim Sarkis, the curator of this year’s Venice Biennale, is asking with “How will we live together?” I was overwhelmed by the Lebanese Pavilion designed by Hala Wardé on which my brother Fortuné also worked. A Roof for Silence. Sixteen Lebanese olive trees that are a thousand years old are presented, filmed by Alain Fleischer, accompanied by a musical creation by the sound artists Soundwalk Collective. Around these trees that have seen it all, there are also the poetic paintings of Etel Adnan, Paul Virilio’s “Antiforms”...

The Lebanese have certainly always shown great pride and resilience. But in the face of so much anger, frustration and waste, this pride and resilience are eroding. The key is undoubtedly with the youth, who want to reinvent their society. We need to give them tools, to invest in those minds that are thinking about the plurality of their country in thirty years. A year after the explosion, I feel a lot of frustration, a painful latency. Yes. I’m not angry, I’m frustrated with the rampant corruption. I can’t resign myself to accept the “there’s nothing we can do about it, it’s just the way it is”. One of the problems in Lebanon today is that religions have started to engage in politics. The religions no longer leave room for spirituality. Like a miniature planet, before in Lebanon, all communities used to live together in a joyful hullabaloo. Lebanon was an example of living together and of inter-religious dialogue. But now, people’s beliefs are too often misused to build walls instead of breaking them down. Believing should bring us together. Believing is aspiring to universality. All generations need spirituality, whatever it is, in order to consider life and death.

If I close my eyes, I can see myself on this tiny beach in Sour, near Tyre. We are eating small barracudas fried in olive oil with lemon and salt. They taste very good. There is a lighthouse, and some of my mother’s family have turned the house next to it into a guest house. Behind, there is a huge Roman site and, further away, the Israeli border where teenagers are encouraged to throw stones at night. In the basement of this house, which is often flooded when the sea is high, there are Phoenician ruins covered in sand. There is no peace, but there is a lot of beauty. How can the two co-exist? ”

Vanity Fair France, August 2021

French transcript: :france:

Spoiler

Mon Liban

Un an après l'explosion du port de Beyrouth, Mika a raconté à Sophie Rosemont son affection indéfectible pour son pays de naissance. Un témoignage délicat et fort, à l'image de ce chanteur singulier.

Le 4 aout 2020. Je suis à la villa Aurelia, à Rome, qui accueille des événements organisés par l'American Academy. Tout le monde est passé par là, de Getty à Hemingway. Dans une loge, je suis filme pour une interview et, soudain, je vois mon teléphone s'éclairer devant moi. Beaucoup de messages: des photos, des vidéos comme une avalanche. Au début, je n'y crois pas, je pense que c'est une nouvelle application simulant une explosion sur le port de Beyrouth - nous sommes tellement habitués à la manipulation des images. Mais c'est réel. D'un seul coup, alors que je suis dans un temple du glamour, des traumatismes d'enfance, liés à la guerre, à l'impermanence du confort et de la stabilité de la vie quotidienne résonnent en moi. Je comprends alors qu'on est façonné par nos ressentis enfantins. Ma réaction est très intense, très silencieuse: une immense tristesse, plus que de la peur, s'abat sur moi. L'injustice de ces images me frappe de plein fouet: pourquoi cette explosion, dans cette ville qui souffre deja, politiquement, économiquement, socialement et où la jeunesse est sacrifiée? D'instinct. je sais que ce n'est pas le fait des pays voisins ou d'une bombe. Je devine que ce drame est lie a ce qui ronge le Liban: la corruption. Le Liban, c'est la où je suis né. Je n'y ai jamais vécu, mais il a toujours fait partie de ma vie, comme pour beaucoup de Libanais de la diaspora. Il y a encore quelques semaines, on a frappé a ma porte, a Montréal. C'était un avocat libanais qui venait me déposer des sacs remplis de plats cuisines par sa mère!

Mes origines sont plurielles. Mon pere est américain. Fils d'un diplomate de Savannah en Georgie, qui travaillait pour le gouvernement américain, il est ne a Jérusalem et a grandi un peu partout, notamment à Beyrouth. Mon grand-pere maternel, lui, est issu d'une famille nombreuse de Damas. Après s'être battu lors de la révolte arabe au début du xxe siecle, il arrive dégouté à Ellis Island en 1919. Il reconstruit sa vie à New York, d'abord comme livreur de tissus, puis gravit les échelons et monte des usines en Chine. Arrive le jour où sa soeur veut a tout prix le marier. Il se rend au Liban où elle lui a choisi une femme d'une bonne famille. Pendant le cocktail de ses fiancailles, il voit une famille qui se baigne sur la plage. Il tombe amoureux d'une des filles, annule son mariage et demande sa main. Ma grand-mère a 16 ans, lui 60. Elle quitte Beyrouth pour les États-Unis, ne parlant qu'arabe et un peu français. De l'autre côté de l'Atlantique, elle donne très vite naissance à ma mère et quatre petites soeurs qui grandiront entre une femme déracinée et un homme qui n'a jamais oublié qu'il était syrien. Tout le monde parle et cuisine arabe.

Ma propre enfance a été marquée par le spectre de la guerre, y compris par celle au Koweit, où mon père a été otage avant de revenir different. Récemment disparue, ma mère m'a transmis la chaleur de l'échange, le fait de répondre avec une urgence émotionnelle. C'est un tempérament et une température! Cela a pu surprendre des journalistes pendant mes interviews...

J'ai grandi avec des figures orientales trés fortes - l'icone absolue, Oum Kalthoum; les frères Rahbani, Fairuz, qui ont jeté un pont entre l'occident et le monde arabe... Mon plaisir coupable, c'est Nancy Ajram, et j'adore le groupe de rock Mashrou'Leila. J'aime Gibran, Mahmoud Darwich, Amin Maalouf dont j'ai beancoup lu, plus jeune, Léon l'Africain. Ce qui me lie aussi à ma terre natale, ce sont ces oliviers agés de 6000 ans qui bordent les routes libunaises. Ces représentants de la résistance doivent etre révérés comme des dieux et des déesses.

Le 4 aout 2016, je donnais mon dernier concert au Liban, à Baalbek. C'était fantastique, ils ont jeté des coussins partout! Deux ans auparavant, ici meme, nous avions du nous interrompre trois fois. D'abord, parce qu'il y avait la prière, diffusée très fort. Ensuite, parce qu'ils avaient jeté tellement de coussins que la scène en etait recouverte. On les a meme confisqués mais impossible de jouer a nouveau. Alors j'ai lancé de la musique, sans doute du Fairuz remixé, et je suis rentré dans ma loge. Parmi mes plus beaux souvenirs de live, il y a aussi la place des Martyrs, en 2009, après la defaite du Hezbollah. Il y avait un monde fou, des jeunes filles voilées ou en brassière.

Si j'ai écrit cette tribune dans Le Monde („Le Liban, mon pays, se meurt, et ses enfants sont pris en otage“, publiee en mai 2021) c'est parce qu'après le choc visuel de l'explosion d'août 2020 et l'engouement suscité par mon concert caritatif (I Love Beirut, en septembre 2020), les mois qui ont suivi ont vu la situation s'aggraver au Liban sans que la communauté internationale ne s'en émeuve reellement. Oui, l'explosion a été comme un electrochoc. Cette catastrophe a vibré très loin. Cependant, dans un monde aussi immédiat que le notre, le temps d'attention est assez réduit. On consomme l'image ou l'information comme un produit ayant une date de péremption très courte. En tant qu'artistes, nous ne sommes pas forcément légitimes à exprimer un point de vue politique, mais cela ne doit pas nous empecher d'extérioriser nos émotions au-delà des 280 caractères sur Twitter. Parfois, je me sens stupide de n'utiliser que des mots, mais ils n'en demeurent pas moins une expression précieuse.

Sans verser dans la rhétorique politique, qui n'est pas mon domaine car je me considere comme un simple observateur de mon pays, et de loin, c'est la corruption qui a rongé le Liban. Certains évoquent la coexistence des religions. Sauf qu'elle a toujours existé! Beyrouth accueile depuis longtemps des synagogues, des mosquées, des églises melchites, maronites, catholiques, et l'ensemble composait une véritable richesse culturelle. Ces dernières années, la crise éco-politique s'est installée, la tension sociale s'est accrue et des partis ont cherché à exploiter cette vulnérabilité, a rompre le lien qui nous unissait. Ce n'est pas pour rien que le Hezbollah a ouvert des magasins où, si l'on veut acheter a des prix raisonnables des produits importés d'Irak et d'Iran, il faut adhérer au parti. Sur place, mes amis essayent de reconstruire des quartiers. L'architecte libanaise Hala Wardé veut redonner naissance à des lieux où le patrimoine a été détruit. Mais comment gérer la reconstruction et les fonds nécessaires alors que les banques ne fonctionnent plus? Les salaires sont divisés par cinq, le prix du dentifrice s'envole, comme celui du pain, d'un cafe, du lait ou d'une course en taxi! Là-bas, un jeune qui a étudié comme un fou pour étre diplomé doit partir s'il veut faire quelque chose de ses connaissances. Le Liban est-il condamné à la fuite des talents?

Dans ce tout petit pays, vallée fertile coincée entre Israel et la Syrie, porte de l'Europe, se joue le sujet crucial de notre avenir: le vivre ensemble. Alors que nos ressources s'amenuisent, nous sommes de plus en plus divisés. Rien de notre attitude actuelle ne favorise une existence commune. C'est d'ailleurs ce qu'interroge Hashim Sarkis, le commissaire général de la biennale de Venise cette année avec „How will we live together?“ J'ai été bouleversé par le pavillon libanais imaginė par Hala Wardé et sur lequel a aussi travaillé mon frère Fortuné, A Roof for Silence. Y sont présentés seize oliviers libanais millénaires, filmés par Alain Fleischer, accompagnés d'une création musicale des artistes sonores Soundwalk Collective. Autour de ces arbres qui ont tout vu, il y a aussi les peintures poetiques d'Etel Adnan, les „Antiformes“ de Paul Virilio...

Certes, les Libanais ont toujours fait preuve d'une grande fierté et d'une grande résilience. Mais face à autant de colère, de frustration, de gâchis, elles s'érodent. La clé se trouve sans doute dans la jeunesse, qui veut réinventer sa société. Il faut lui donner des outils, investir dans ces esprits qui anticipent la pluralité de leur pays dans trente ans. Un an après l'explosion, je ressens beaucoup de frustration, une douloureuse latence. Oui, je ne suis pas en colère, je suis frustré face à la corruption endemique. Je ne me résous pas au „on n'y peut rien, c'est comme ça“. Un des soucis du Liban actuel, c'est que les religions se sont mises a faire de la politique. Elles ne laissent plus place à la spiritualite. Comme une planète en miniature, avant au Liban, toutes les communautés cohabitaient dans un joyeux charivari, un exemple du vivre-ensemble et du dialogue interreligieux. Mais aujourd'hui les croyances des gens sont trop souvent détournées pour élever des murs au lieu de les abattre. Croire devrait nous rassembler, croire c'est aspirer à l'universalité. Toutes les générations ont besoin de spiritualité, quelle qu'elle soit, afin d'envisager la vie et la mort.

Si je ferme les yeux, je m'imagine sur cette toute petite plage à Sour, proche de Tyr. On mange des petits barracudas frits dans l'huile d'olive avec du citron et du sel. C'est très bon. Il y a un phare, et une partie de la famille de ma mère a transformé la maison qui y est accolée en chambre d'hôtes. Derrière, se trouve un immense site romain et, plus loin, la frontière israélienne où les ados sont encouragés à lancer des pierres le soir. Dans le sous-sol de cette maison, souvent envahie par l'eau quand la mer est haute, il y a des ruines phéniciennes couvertes de sable. Il n'ya pas de paix, mais beaucoup de beauté. Comment les deux peuvent-elles coexister?

holdingyourdrink · July 30, 2021

I have a rough translation here:

Spoiler

August 4, 2020. I am at Villa Aurelia, Rome, which hosts events organized by the American Academy. All of Hemingway. In a dressing room, I am filmed for an interview and suddenly I see my phone light up in front of me. Lots of messages; photos, videos like an avalanche. At first I didn't have an application simulating an explosion on the Port of Beirut- we are so used to manipulating images. But it is real. Suddenly, while I am in a temple of glamor, childhood traumas, linked to war, to the impermanence of the comfort and stability of everyday life resonate in me. I understand then that we are shaped by the world has been there, from Getty to think so, I think it's a news our childish feelings. My reaction is very intense, very silent: immense sadness, more than fear, descends on me. The injustice of these images strikes me head-on: why this explosion, in this city which is already suffering, politically, economically, socially and where young people are being sacrificed? Instinctively, I know it's not the act of neighboring countries or a bomb. I guess this drama is linked to what is gnawing at Lebanon: corruption. Lebanon is where I was born. I have never lived there, but it has always been part of my life, like many Lebanese in the diaspora. A few weeks ago, someone knocked on my door in Montreal. It was a Lebanese lawyer who came to drop me bags full of dishes cooked by his mother! My origins are plural. My father is American. The son of a diplomat from Savannah, Georgia, who worked for the US government, he was born in Jerusalem and raised all over the place, including Beirut. My maternal grandfather comes from a large family in Damascus.

After having fought during the Arab revolt at the beginning of the twentieth century, he arrived disgusted at Ellis Island in 1919. He rebuilt his life, then rose through the ranks and set up factories in China. The day arrives when his sister wants to marry him at all costs. He goes to Lebanon where she has chosen a woman from a good family for him. During his engagement cocktail, he sees a family bathing on the beach. He falls in love with one of the girls, cancels her marriage and asks for her hand. My grandmother is 16, he is 60. She leaves Beirut for the United States, speaking only Arabic and a little French. On the other side of the Atlantic, she very quickly gives birth to my mother and four little sisters who will grow up between an uprooted woman and a man who has never forgotten that he was New York, first as Syrian cloth delivery man. Everyone speaks and cooks Arabic. specter of war, including that in Kuwait, where my father was hostage before My own childhood was marked by come back different. Recently passed away, my mother transmitted to me the warmth of the exchange, the fact of responding with emotional urgency. It is a temperament and a temperature! This may have surprised journalists during my interviews ... I grew up with very strong oriental figures the absolute icon, Oum Kalthoum; the Rahbani brothers, Fairuz, who built a bridge between the West and the Arab world. My guilty pleasure is Nancy Ajram, and I love rock band Mashrou'Leila. I like Gibran, Mahmoud Darwich, Amin Maalouf whom I read a lot, younger, Leon the African. What also binds me to my native land are these 6000-year-old olive trees that line Lebanese roads. These representatives of the resistance are to be revered as gods and goddesses. On August 4, 2016, I gave my last concert in Lebanon, in Baalbek. It was fantastic, they threw pillows everywhere! Two years ago, right here, we had to cut ourselves off three times. First, because there was prayer, broadcast very loudly. Then, because they had thrown so many cushions that the stage was covered with them. We even confiscated them but impossible to play again. So I started some music, probably remixed Fairuz, and I went back to my dressing room. Among my fondest memories of live, there is also the Place des Martyrs, in 2009, after the defeat of Hezbollah. There were a crazy crowd, young girls in veils or in brassieres. If I wrote this column in Le Monde, children are being taken hostage ", published in May 2021], it is because after the shock [" Lebanon, my country, is dying, and its visual of the explosion of August 2020 and the enthusiasm aroused by my charity concert [I Love Beirut, in September 2020], the months that followed saw the situation worsen in Lebanon without the international community. national is not really moved by it. Yes, the explosion was like an electric shock. This catastrophe vibrated very far. However, in a world as immediate as ours, attention time is quite short. The image or information is consumed as a product with a very short expiration date. As artists, we are not necessarily legitimate to express a political point of view, but that should not prevent us from externalizing our emotions beyond the 280 characters on Twitter. Sometimes I feel stupid for using only words, but they are still a precious expression nonetheless. Without falling into political rhetoric, which is not my domain because I consider myself a simple observer of my country, and from afar, it is corruption that has eaten away at Lebanon. Some speak of the coexistence of religions. Except that it has always existed! Beirut has long welcomed synagogues, mosques, Melchite, Maronite and Catholic churches, and all together made up a true cultural wealth. In recent years, the eco-political crisis has set in, social tension has increased and parties have sought to exploit this vulnerability, to sever the link that united us. It is not for nothing that Hezbollah has opened stores where, if you want to buy products imported from Iraq and Iran from sellers, you have to join the party. On the spot, my friends are trying to rebuild neighborhoods. The Lebanese architect Hala Wardé wants to give birth to places where the heritage has been destroyed, But how to manage the reconstruction and the necessary funds when the banks are no longer functioning? Salaries are divided by five, the price of toothpaste soars, like that of bread, coffee, milk or a taxi ride! There, a young man who studied like a madman to graduate has to leave if he wants to do anything with his knowledge. Is Lebanon doomed to the talent drain? In this tiny country, a fertile valley wedged between Israel and Syria, the gateway to Europe, the crucial subject of our future is being played out: living together. As our resources dwindle, we are more and more divided. Nothing of our present attitude favors a common existence. This is what Hashim Sarkis questions, the general commissioner of the Venice Biennale this year with "How will we live Lebanese lon imagined by Hala Wardé and on which also worked my brother Fortuné, A Fleischer, accompanied by a creation together?" I was overwhelmed by the pavilion- Roof for Silence. Sixteen thousand-year-old Lebanese olive trees are presented, filmed by Alain Musical from the sound artists Soundwalk Collective. Around these trees which have seen everything, there are also the poetic paintings of Etel Adnan, the “Antiformes” by Paul Virilio.

Of course, the Lebanese have always shown great pride and great resilience. But in the face of so much anger, frustration, waste, they erode. The key is undoubtedly in the youth, who want to reinvent their society. We must give it tools, invest in these minds who anticipate the plurality of their country in thirty years. A year after the explosion, I feel a lot of frustration, a painful latency. Yes, I am not angry, I am frustrated with the endemic corruption. I do not resolve myself to “there is nothing we can do about it, that's how it is”. One of the concerns of Lebanon today is that religions have started to play politics. They don't leave more room for spirituality. Like a planet in miniature, before in Lebanon, all the communities coexisted in a joyous hullabaloo, an example of living together and interreligious dialogue. But today people's beliefs are too often misused to build walls instead of breaking them down. To believe should bring us together, to believe is to aspire to universality. All generations need spirituality, whatever it may be, in order to contemplate life and death.

Tie of my mother's family transformed the adjoining house into a Roman site and, further on, the Israeli border. If I close my eyes, I imagine myself on this tiny beach in Sour, near Tire. We eat small barracudas fried in olive oil with lemon and salt. It is very good. There is a lighthouse, and a guesthouse. Behind, is a huge tree line where teens are encouraged to throw stones at night. In the basement of this house, often flooded with water when the sea is high, there are Phoenician ruins covered with sand. There is no peace, but a lot of beauty. How can the two coexist? „

Kumazzz · July 30, 2021

Thanks a million @holdingyourdrink :flowers2:

Paoletta · July 30, 2021

thanks @holdingyourdrink

BineHH · July 31, 2021

Thank you for the translation🤩

mellody · August 1, 2021

On 7/30/2021 at 2:27 PM, holdingyourdrink said:

I have a rough translation here:

Thanks, and thanks for sending me the French transcript. A few lines got messed up, so here's a corrected version: :uk:

Spoiler

My Lebanon
A year after the explosion in the port of Beirut, Mika told Sophie Rosemont about his unwavering affection for his country of birth. A delicate and strong testimony, like this singular singer.

August 4, 2020. I am at Villa Aurelia in Rome, which hosts events organized by the American Academy. Everyone's been there, from Getty to Hemingway. In a dressing room, I'm filmed for an interview and, suddenly, I see my phone light up in front of me. Lots of messages: photos, videos like an avalanche. At first I don't believe it, I think it's a new app simulating an explosion in the Port of Beirut - we're so used to manipulated images. But it is real. Suddenly, while in a temple of glamor, childhood traumas, linked to war, to the impermanence of the comfort and stability of everyday life resonate in me. I understand then that we are shaped by our childish feelings. My reaction is very intense, very silent: immense sadness, more than fear, descends on me. The injustice of these images strikes me with full force: why this explosion, in this city which is already suffering, politically, economically, socially and where young people are being sacrificed? Instinctively, I know it's not the fault of neighboring countries or of a bomb. I guess this drama is linked to what is gnawing at Lebanon: corruption. Lebanon is where I was born. I have never lived there, but it has always been part of my life, like many Lebanese in the diaspora. A few weeks ago, someone knocked on my door in Montreal. It was a Lebanese lawyer who came to drop me bags filled with dishes cooked by his mother!

My origins are plural. My father is American. Son of a diplomat from Savannah, Georgia, who worked for the US government, he was born in Jerusalem and grew up everywhere, including Beirut. My maternal grandfather comes from a large family in Damascus. After fighting in the Arab revolt at the start of the 20th century, he arrived in Ellis Island in 1919, disgusted. He rebuilt his life in New York, first as a fabric delivery man, then rose through the ranks and set up factories in China. The day arrives when his sister wants him to marry at all costs. He goes to Lebanon where she has chosen a woman from a good family for him. During his engagement cocktail, he sees a family bathing on the beach. He falls in love with one of the girls, cancels his marriage and asks for her hand. My grandmother is 16, he is 60. She leaves Beirut for the United States, speaking only Arabic and a little French. On the other side of the Atlantic, she very quickly gives birth to my mother and four little sisters who will grow up between an uprooted woman and a man who has never forgotten that he was Syrian. Everyone speaks and cooks Arabic.

My own childhood was marked by the specter of war, including that in Kuwait, where my father was hostage before coming back different. Recently passed away, my mother passed on the warmth of the exchange to me, responding with emotional urgency. It is a temperament and a temperature! This may have surprised journalists during my interviews ...
I grew up with very strong oriental figures - the absolute icon, Oum Kalthoum; the Rahbani brothers, Fairuz, who built a bridge between the West and the Arab world ... My guilty pleasure is Nancy Ajram, and I love the rock band Mashrou'Leila. I like Gibran, Mahmoud Darwich, Amin Maalouf whom I read a lot, younger, Léon l'African. What also binds me to my native land are the 6,000-year-old olive trees that line the roads in Libya. These representatives of the resistance are to be revered as gods and goddesses.

On August 4, 2016, I gave my last concert in Lebanon, in Baalbek. It was fantastic, they threw pillows everywhere! Two years ago, here, we had to interrupt us three times. First, because there was prayer, which was broadcast very loudly. Then, because they had thrown so many cushions that the stage was covered with them. We even confiscated them but impossible to play again. So I started some music, probably remixed Fairuz, and I went back to my dressing room. Among my fondest memories of live, there is also the Place des Martyrs, in 2009, after the defeat of Hezbollah. There were a crazy crowd, young girls in veils or in brassieres.

If I wrote this column in Le Monde ("Lebanon, my country, is dying, and its children are taken hostage", published in May 2021) it is because after the visual shock of the explosion of August 2020 and the enthusiasm generated by my charity concert (I Love Beirut, in September 2020), the following months saw the situation worsen in Lebanon without the international community really being moved by it. Yes, the explosion was like an electric shock. This catastrophe vibrated very far. However, in a world as immediate as ours, attention time is quite short. The image or information is consumed as a product with a very short expiration date. As artists, we are not necessarily legitimate to express a political point of view, but that should not prevent us from externalizing our emotions beyond the 280 characters on Twitter. Sometimes I feel stupid for just using words, but they are still a precious expression nonetheless.

Without going into political rhetoric, which is not my domain because I consider myself a simple observer of my country, and from afar, it is corruption that has eaten away at Lebanon. Some bring up the coexistence of religions. Except that it has always existed! Beirut has long welcomed synagogues, mosques, Melchite, Maronite and Catholic churches, and the whole constituted a real cultural wealth. In recent years, the eco-political crisis has set in, social tension has increased and parties have sought to exploit this vulnerability, to break the link that united us. It is not for nothing that Hezbollah has opened stores where, if you want to buy goods imported from Iraq and Iran at reasonable prices, you have to join the party. There, my friends are trying to rebuild neighborhoods. Lebanese architect Hala Wardé wants to give birth to places where heritage has been destroyed. But how can the reconstruction and the necessary funds be managed when the banks are no longer functioning? Salaries are divided by five, the price of toothpaste soars, like that of bread, coffee, milk or a taxi ride! There, a young man who studied like a madman to graduate has to leave if he wants to do anything with his knowledge. Is Lebanon doomed to the talent drain?

In this tiny country, a fertile valley wedged between Israel and Syria, the gateway to Europe, the crucial subject of our future is being played out: Living together. As our resources dwindle, we are increasingly divided. Nothing in our present attitude favors a common existence. This is also what Hashim Sarkis, the general commissioner of the Venice Biennale this year, questions with “How will we live together?” I was overwhelmed by the Lebanese pavilion contrived by Hala Wardé and on which also my brother Fortuné worked, A Roof for Silence. Sixteen thousand-year-old Lebanese olive trees are presented, filmed by Alain Fleischer, accompanied by a musical creation by sound artists Soundwalk Collective. Around these trees that have seen everything, there are also the poetic paintings of Etel Adnan, the “Antiformes” by Paul Virilio ...

Of course, the Lebanese have always shown great pride and great resilience. But in the face of so much anger, frustration, waste, they erode. The key is undoubtedly in the youth, who want to reinvent their society. We must give it tools, invest in these minds who anticipate the plurality of their country in thirty years. A year after the explosion, I feel a lot of frustration, a painful latency. Yes, I am not angry, I am frustrated with the endemic corruption. I do not resolve myself to “there is nothing we can do about it, that's how it is”. One of the concerns of Lebanon today is that religions have become involved in politics. They no longer leave room for spirituality. Like a planet in miniature, before in Lebanon, all the communities coexisted in a joyful hullabaloo, an example of living together and interreligious dialogue. But today people's beliefs are too often misused to build walls instead of breaking them down. To believe should bring us together, to believe is to aspire to universality. All generations need spirituality, whatever it is, in order to contemplate life and death.

If I close my eyes, I imagine myself on this tiny beach in Sour, near Tire. We eat small barracudas fried in olive oil with lemon and salt. It is very good. There is a lighthouse, and part of my mother's family has turned the adjoining house into a guest room. Behind is a huge Roman site and, further on, the Israeli border where teens are encouraged to throw stones at night. In the basement of this house, often flooded with water when the sea is high, there are Phoenician ruins covered with sand. There is no peace, but a lot of beauty. How can the two coexist?

edit: added the rest of the translation now. And here's the French transcript directly from the article: :france: