Don’t let The Gays into my country!

Reblogged by my dear friend Hasan, on this link: Don’t let The Gays into my country!.

This will be my profile photo on Twitter and Facebook because:

 

I believe that all citizens should be treated equally regardless of their sexual orientation, gender, gender identity or expression.

 

I am outraged by the arbitrary arrests in Dekwaneh on Apr 21st 2013 where a transwoman and 3 men were detained, and subjected to verbal, physical and sexual abuse, their nude photos were taken by cell phones and sent to the media. The Mayor was present through all that and he then confesses to his crimes on national TV. All this is documented. No investigations or disciplinary measures were taken against the mayor by authorities.

 

I am disturbed by what our Minister of Defence has just announced: “Lebanon is against perversion (his chosen term for homosexuality), which is considered a crime according to Lebanese law. I wonder, now that France allowed same-sex marriage would we allow them to enter our country”. How could I be more knowledgeable about our laws than our Defence Minister. Article 534 of the Lebanese Penal Code penalize any sexual act “against nature” by up to one year in prison and has been historically used to criminalize homosexuality. In 2009, a Lebanese judge in Batroun ruled against the use of article 534 to prosecute homosexuals. He clearly flaunts his ignorance when he questions whether Lebanon should allow The Gays to enter our holy nation, as if the door has been closed and the recent achievements in France on the human rights front will open that door!!! I stand speechless.

 

I am encouraged to speak out because I know how many want to and how little support they have to do so.

 

This is an adaptation of the Lebanese flag. The red says “7okouk” Arabic for “Rights”. I also like how the two red bars form an Equal sign. I wish they could have added to the flag what would represent the rights of womyn, foreign workers and refugees, all of whom are also at risk to suffer similar brutality in our rotten system.

 

I will keep this photo till May 17 2013: The International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia (IDAHO)

Ashamed of my Body

All so convinced that you’re following your heart, cause your mind don’t control what it does sometimes. We all have our nights though, don’t be so ashamed, I’ve had mine, you’ve had yours, we both know, we know.

You hate being alone, you ain’t the only one. you hate the fact that you bought the dream, and they sold you one. 

Darake Ft. Rihanna – Take Care 

His body is the body of an underwear model, his teeth are bright like the guy on TV trying to convince you that buying this tooth paste or that teeth brush will get you laid, his face is structured like the statues of Greek gods. He is a perfection in every physical aspect. His tattoos are designed perfectly to showcase his physic, his heart is shrinking under the pressure of all these muscles he is building layers above layers on his chest. 

And he added me on Facebook. 

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It was puzzling for me, honestly, as I sat there trying to understand the reason why someone like him add me to Facebook: I wasn’t going to accept his friend’s request, as I never add people I don’t know to Facebook, but I was puzzled with the reason of why someone like this guy would add me to Facebook: It wasn’t the smart comments I made on a mutual friend’s post which made him add me, as his comments assured me that he has the brains of a woodpecker, so, it wasn’t for the pleasure of deep and intelligent chats that would explore the universe and its mysteries. It wasn’t for my good looks either, I’m, at most, cute, and I have been abusing my own body with fatty food and stressful smoking for years now. If it wasn’t for my eyes, which everyone claims to be pretty, and my well studied demeanor, I don’t think I’d ever get laid in the first place. 

I deleted his friend’s request, finally, after I came to a conclusion that I was satisfied with: I noticed that every single picture of him, posing in a way that always shows his humanly impossible biceps or his perfect six abs, got 100s of likes from his friends; he has 100s of friends who are all sexual charged, just like him, and he has been collecting more gay men to left his low self-esteem up high with every like they click under his topless photos. 

I tried to put this story behind me, but I was still puzzled with it for another hour or two, I wasn’t puzzled by the reasoning (if any) behind this guy’s friend’s request. I was puzzled now with the reason why I was extremely surprised for getting the friend’s request in the first place. 

I am ashamed of my own body, that’s for sure. I hate the gym, I just can’t stand the gym, and I’d rather be online surfing Wikipedia for some historical event that no one else in the world cares about other than me and the guy who wrote the Wikipedia page, than to go to the gym, work out for hours, and be happy my biceps are bigger by an inch, which will disappear anyways if I did not work out tomorrow, and the day after and the day after that, and the day after that. 

I should be satisfied with my body, I mean, I’m slim in a healthy way, I have a belly, but it’s more of a pump on the road rather than a gigantic tummy that people we’d think I’m hosting an alien baby in there. I’m tall, but not too tall, and my body hair is strategically located in the right areas to make me look fabulous. 

Yet, I feel horrible whenever I get naked, alone in the shower, in bed with my boyfriend, as I’m changing my clothes to go out in the morning and walk the dog. I feel horrible when I’m walking in a gay bar here in Beirut to find that everyone has a body that, in my head, looks better than mine, that every t-shirt they wear would fit right around their biceps, and hug their six abs perfectly, while my t-shirts are loose around my body. I blame myself for not working out, not spending a lot of money on a gym that I’d force myself to go to, and I’d still have the same anxieties regardless of how many cardio classes I attend or how much weight I can carry with one arm. 

In my head, I blame the media, every single aspect of the media is imprinting expectations on the images of male and female bodies. Magazines, TV shows, advertisements, porn movies, even waiters in high class cafes, even the people who are indirectly pressuring me to conform to this image when they conform to it themselves, making me the odd one out. 

I know, logically, that I’m fine, I’m a good looking man in his late 20s who still has the world ahead of him, but in my heart, I feel bad, horrible even, every time I see a man who conformed to these expectations and managed to “get there”. Why is it too hard to accept all kinds of people, of all colors and shapes and sexual preference? 

Everyone is selling and I’m buying it regardless of how my brains are trying to force me not to: Underwear models are perfect, porn stars are perfect, guys in the street are perfect, I don’t look at them anymore to enjoy a glance of the male body beauty, but rather to feel bad about my own body. I am ashamed of my body, and I want to change it, but I don’t want to spend my money on a gym I’ll feel forced to attended, I want to look like that guy on Facebook, but I don’t want to be him. I don’t know what to do, I honestly don’t. 

Reinventing

I’m gonna break the cycle; I’m gonna shake up the system. I’m gonna destroy my ego. I’m gonna close my body now. I think I’ll find another way: There’s so much more to know. I guess I’ll die another day: It’s not my time to go.

Madonna – Die Another Day

 As our bodies shatter, we reassemble ourselves in all sorts of acts to recreate the glory that once was our souls. These souls, now hiding in the shadows, are waiting for the right person to put our body parts together. We recreate, we rekindle, we remove parts, we reinstall others, we redesign our faces, our feet, or big bellies, our fat thighs, our body image, and we reinvent ourselves, over, and over, and over, and over.

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I’m sitting inside the bus, getting myself together for a trip that would last around 40 hours, not knowing that the seat I got is broken, and it can never incline, which meant that I’ll be sitting like a rock statue for the next 40 hours, resulting in a back pain that I would ignore while I enjoy my first hours in Egypt, a country I visit for the first time. I was 21 at the time, I was naive and heartbroken.

I pick up the phone, and I call Hussam, a short and tearful goodbye with promises to meet merely months after this departure, a meeting that never took place ever since. As I head to Egypt, I start to think to myself, maybe it is a new beginning, maybe I will be accepted, maybe I would stand against the stream and open my arms wide, and maybe, for the first time in my life, I won’t drawn.

For a year or two, as I go through life in Egypt, I struggle, as you do, in finding my place among people, and I struggle some more with finding myself among all the places Cairo can provide you: What am I? Am I the young romantic writer destined to become a columnist one day in one of the Egyptian newspapers? Am I the new hot dude in the gay community in Cairo? Am I a journalist with a thirst to the unknown? Or am I the Syrian who is missing his country and family and wants to go back? I needed around 5 years to find out the answer to that question: That was about the time that I left Cairo.

I’m sitting inside the airplane, getting myself together for a trip I did not expect, less than 24 hours ago I was standing in the middle of Tahrir square, reporting about what is happening there, and  now I’m on a plane I did not plan to evacuate Egypt to Jordan, I thought, from my whole heart, that I will be back in Egypt in couple of weeks, which never actually happened. I call Jimmy, and we have one more goodbye, we were dating for a couple of months by then, we were getting ready to move to the next phase of our relationship, when I went out the door and I never returned.

As I sit there, in my father’s living room, with my grandmother crying and asking me to stay in Syria and never leave again, I think to myself, maybe I will be able to find my place here once more, maybe I can have friends and family and become who I really want to become, maybe I will plan my life around Syria again, and maybe this time it would work.

For six months, I went through life in Syria, I struggled to find a good home and a good life and a good job; as I’m settling into this new life, getting to know real people, and having the best relationships I had in my life, I was offered to come to Beirut for work. Was it needed? Did I really need the change in my life? Did I have to? I cannot tell, what I know is that I couldn’t say no to this job offer. I packed my back, and in less than a month, I was out of the door.

I’m sitting inside the car getting ready for the three hours trip to Beirut, worrying that the police at the borders might not like me that much and I might end up in some unknown prison, I make a final phone call to my boyfriend, who will follow me in couple of months; I couldn’t handle anymore reinventing, I couldn’t handle reimagining my life, I wanted him and  no one else, and I did not say goodbye, I did not reinvented the world around me, I decided to put my life back together.

Now, as I plan to go to Canada, I know that I’m facing the struggles of settling in yet another new country, Beirut is expensive, heartless, yet beautiful and welcoming. I’m facing the struggles I’m going to face once more when I move to Canada, but at least, for once, I’m facing it with someone I love.

Aside

Shattered Bones

Angela: I’m afraid that I won’t… (cries) have the chance that I had with Kirk ever again.

 Brennan: You will.

– How can you be so sure?

– Because nothing in this universe happens just once, Angela. Nothing. Infinity goes in both directions.  There is no unique event, no singular moment.

– I don’t know what that means.

– It means you will get another chance.

– You promise? From your heart?

– Better. From my head.

Bones – Season 1 Episode 17 – The Skull in the Desert 

Face down on the wet ground, I scream in pain, I turn my head around looking at my foot, stuck in the metal of my bike and cracked in front of my eyes; and pulses of agony are travelling from my toes up my spin all the way to my brain. I froze in time trying to calculate the losses. I remember taking a turn on my bike on the wet ground in a cloudy morning after a heavy rainy night. I remember my fall, which took a split of a second, and my face as it goes, in the speed of gravity directly towards the concrete; my palms as they hit the ground and my body as it smashes on the road; then comes the pain; solid, colorless and constant; I am at loss of words; as I scream primitive sounds aimed at no one, I think of the worse: I just cracked my bones falling off my bike.

From nowhere comes my boyfriend, my lover, my knight in shining armor, my sweet man, my partner, my bed-mate, my one and only, my Mr. Right, my reason to smile in the morning and to sleep at night. He stands helplessly studying the matter; he doesn’t want to pull my foot from its location, stuck between the metal of the bike, fearing that he might add salt to the wound; also, he doesn’t want to leave me on the ground; he slowly pulls the bike away from my broken foot; he helps me to try and stand; but I couldn’t put any weight on my foot. “It’s not broken,” I repeat in agony, but I knew I was just telling myself lies to ease the pain.

Sitting on the side of the road, waiting for him to deliver the bikes back to where we rented them from, I look up as the sky begins to rain again; softly at first, then getting harsher and darker. I try my best not to, but with the frustration boiling inside, and the pain reaching a limit I can’t even describe; I cry.

Under the rain, I walked the same city, eight years ago, Beirut was welcoming and warm; the sounds of people partying the night away is being heard from the bars on top of buildings despite the rain. I was young and mending a shattered heart; I had a nightmare that I will die when I reach 24 of age; that’s in four years, I think to myself and welcome the thought. It was a dark period of my life.

I sat there, on a side street, under the rain, and I imagined myself in that burned, twisted car that I know all too well. I imagined myself opening its door; the passenger door that I usually open and where I usually sit while Eyad is driving. I imagined myself cleaning the passenger seat from the shattered glass, and sit there. I imagined myself putting my hand on the wheel, which is the last thing that Eyad ever touched; and feel his last moment; the panic he must have felt as he lost control of the car. The painful second as he was hit by the incoming cars on the other isle. The moment when his precious soul parted ways with his beloved body forever.

I direct my anger at myself; I started punishing myself for not talking him out of that trip; for not hiding his camera and forcing him to stay the night. I start hitting my own face with my open palm, once after the other after the other. Destructively, I walk the high road without looking; hoping that a car would sweep me and end this on-going pain that is haunting me (and will continue to do so for years to come).

Sitting on the side of the road, the frustration is building up in me; and emotional pain reaches a level I can’t handle; I cry.

“Healing takes time, you know.” My beloved boyfriend tells me, as he smiles at me while I’m in bed with a grim look on my face; looking with half a heart to the cast on my left leg, “you’ll take your time, and the bones will heal, and you’ll walk first, then you’d be able to run; and before you know it; you’ll be back on the bike again.” My dog is sleeping next to me, she rests her head on my cast. The next day, she’ll guard my leg with her own life when the cleaning lady who comes to the house tries to help me stand; she doesn’t allow anyone to touch my cast.

A month, it will take me a month to heal completely from the fall off my bike. Eight years! It took me eight years to feel for the first time that I healed completely from the loss of my love for Eyad.

But, as I woke up yesterday, Sunday, warmly tucked in the arms of my boyfriend, my man, my one and only, and as we exchange soft kisses as we open our eyes; and as I smile at his jokes and he helps me get out of bed; I think to myself: Lightening can strike twice in the same point; Because nothing in this universe happens just once, Angela. Nothing. Infinity goes in both directions.

I smile.

My little dirty dark secret

Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it’s not for days and the people I meet always go their separate ways. Sometimes you tell the day by the bottle that you drink and times when you’re alone all you do is think. I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride: I’m wanted dead or alive

Bon Jovi – Wanted

In a deep and dark corner of my mind I see myself back then. Return back six or seven years ago. Lonely, tired, emotionally-numb and stupid. I was roaming the cities I live in like a ghost with no name and no memory. I haunt places I don’t have relations to; and pretend that life will go on. The frighting idea is that life, indeed, goes on.

I slept with a big number of people in my life. I am ashamed to admit it; and I was stupid to do it. however, it wasn’t all for the sake of a one night stand. It was a revenge I took upon myself and upon my own history. I was talking to Pete, a friend of mine and of this blog, when, somehow the conversation drifted and my mind opened up in front of my eyes like a rose with thorns. It was hurtful to remember, but more painful to forget. Honestly, much of the people I slept with I did so in a short period of time that won’t extend 18 months; then I slowed down a bit. I was drunk most of the time, trying to fix a heartache one night stand at the time.

I hated myself back then, and I still hate that person that used to be me. I was a bad person, a bitch, if you might say. I was good looking with a nicely formed body, and I would seduce people, promising them love and comfort; then I’d ditch them for the next in the same day. I’d go on dates pretending to be this nice fella, and leave them in the morning and not pick up the phone when they call.

I remember that after my boyfriend, Eyad, died in a car crash, I refused to date anyone for over a year, and that got me so depressed. I would go to the gym and work out for six hours, then go home and just stare aimlessly at the TV until I pass out. no friends, no nothing. Then, a year later, I met this guy. I can’t even remember his first name: I remember he was good looking, nice, he would come to the gym when I work out and try to pick me up with these funny comments or his obvious teenage-like flirting. I found him irritating to the point that I wanted to punch him repeatedly on the face. His cute pick up lines, his sweet smile, his good looks, the way he knew I was broken and wanted to “fix” me. I just found him seriously irritating, so instead, I went on a date with him.

I smiled back in the date, I dressed up, and pull all the charms in the books; flexed my biceps when I should, leave a funny remark when time calls for it; and flashing my smile at him for no reason. He had that look in his eye, by the end of the night, that told me he was falling for me. He has hope in a future of birthday cakes, fun parties, going swimming in the middle of the night, morning glory before seasonal breakfast. So, I took him home, and slept with him.

Peter asked me, when I told him about that if it was “too much” and I told him that it was “just perfect”.

I wanted to kill that hope in him; I wanted to destroy it until there is nothing left, I felt like he deserved his hopes to be crashed down and broken to pieces then burned to ashes; just like my hope in a future with my own dead boyfriend. He deserved it because I deserved it. We both, me and this nameless man, were victims of how clueless and open to the world we were, and now it’s time to teach him a lesson; to teach him that life is not that beautiful, it’s ugly and misleading and twisted and dirty.

I slept with him, smiled at his satisfied face as it was over, touched his hair softly, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead; then as he was leaving my door, I promised him to call tomorrow. The next morning, I didn’t call, the day after I did not pick up his phone calls. I did not reply to his apologetic text message sent as if he was the one who did  something wrong, nor to his last one calling me an names and saying that he was crying. As I received these messages, I felt numb, I felt nothing for the first time in a year. I felt like I was emptied of the guilt and pain and sorrow to lose hope; as if I just corrected a wrong in the world. I felt released.

But it did not last for long …

Couple of days later, I felt the pain coming back, crawling on all four and twisting towards my exposed nerves system, it was a ghost haunting me and the trick I did only pushed it away for days until I let my guards down. So, I did the whole experience again. Meet them, play them, sleep with them, dumb them.

I did this routine for over 18 months, almost daily. It gave me “peace”, a fake, twisted, evil malicious dirty peace that I’d feel less and less as time goes by. I was evil. Peter told me that I am “very convincing that I was.” and I reply with “thankfully, I’m not anymore.”

Then I add, with a frightened feeling growing inside of me that “or I hope I’m not.”

A man of losses

These zombies in the park they’re looking for my heart. A dark world aches for a splash of the sun.
If I could find a way to see this straight, I’d run away to some fortune that I should have found by now. 
I’m waiting for this cough syrup to come down.

Young The Giant – Cough Syrup 

I am a man of loses, and for that, I can’t trust fate anymore with happiness. Everything that I ever loved something so much, that my heart would burst with flashes of joy that will cover the world around me; I tend to know that I’m at loss. That time may come when I’m losing this very thing that is making my existence matter. For that, I try my best to avoid loving completely: I had two long relationships and two short ones without really loving the person I’m with to the extend of happiness. That fearful feeling that I’m going to give my all to someone has been long lost in my mind; years passed and I did not really completely loved someone to the extend they might have loved me.

Mistake me not, I did love both my Egyptian boyfriend of two years and my Italian boyfriend of three years; however, the more comfortable I was in the relationship; especially with the Italian, the more fearful I feel about loving him; the more I feel that I might lose him in a sad twist of fate that God has planned so perfectly to break the remains of my already shattered heart. I remember sitting there, in a hotel room in the middle of the Egyptian revolution; and while people are demanding freedom from a dictator, my Italian boyfriend was demanding freedom from the ghost of our relationship; here comes the day, a month or two before that, when he arrived on an early afternoon from Yemen, or Libya, or Jordan, or wherever the hell he keeps travelling to for work; to find me sitting there on the bed; fully dressed and with my stuff gone from our bedroom. He wanted, that night in the hotel room, answers to why! Why did I leave him? Why did I have to cut short a seemingly perfect relationship between two men from different worlds that came together as one; then suddenly were shredded apart.

In our breakup day, I think I told him the usual cliches of “It’s not you, it’s me,” and “let’s try to be friends.” I might even have held him near, as his surprised face break a bit by bit into tears, and asked him that we might, after couple of years, decide to go back together. However, deep inside I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

In that hotel room, I told him stories of my mother; how I had to abandon her to her sickness under pressure by her family; how I had to let go of every memory I had with her; how the feeling of loss made me incapable of loving someone completely. I never told him that the most horrible thing he ever screamed at me, in the middle of a fight, is what lead to our doom. A chain of events started when he screamed at my face that his friends are asking him how come he, in his mighty glory, can put up with someone like me. “Why are you dating him, they ask me,” he told me, months before our upcoming breakup, and while I was hurt to an extend I did not know how to react; the question did make sense to me later on; as I was laying in my bed at night; in the days when he was travelling; and asking myself; why indeed? Why would someone like Ray date someone like me? incapable of loving, a snub, yet over attentive, a person with so many sad backstories that he is broken beyond repair?

I discovered; the day before he returned from his travel to God-knows-where, that I wasn’t giving that relationship the best of me; simply because I didn’t have it. I did not have the best of me simply because it was taken away from me; over the span of years and years.

I remember asking Eyad not to leave that morning, I told him, so softly, that it’s raining outside, that I’m not feeling good about his trip; I told him to stay with me in bed; and promised him to order chocolate cakes and watch hours of Friends. He left, never to come back, and whenever I pass by that road that he had that car accident on over 9 years ago; I feel the rush of pain going through my veins; the pain that my boyfriend, my lover, my partner in crime, my mother’s best friend, my everything, was dead; sitting there on a table among friends in collage, 9 years ago, the news shocked me; I thought that everyone around me was joking; I thought that they are being nasty; and I threaten never to talk to any of my friends; gathered around the table silently, if they are prancing me with some lame ass joke.

I remember how my mother placed me on that plane and told me to go; to leave and never look back; her brother, standing next to her, was squeezing her shoulder as I was looking back at her; freshly shaved after months of staying home crying over a dead boyfriend and hugging every shirt I find of him for hours. Destroying painting her painted of us in bed; crashing frames with pictures of us that I shall never find again. For three years, I won’t see my mother again, I won’t even talk to her on the phone, mad at her for burning all the memories I had with Eyad, forced to stay away by her family who refused to allow me as part of them; being the homosexual son of a Muslim man.

The day she died; I was in Damascus and she was in Beirut; her sister called me to the office and told me about her death; noting that I shouldn’t go; that I should stay in Damascus. “We as a family feel that it won’t be appropriate if you were there in the funeral,” she says, and I’m not listening, “Let me know if you need anything.” she says, “I need my mother back, is that too much to ask?” I reply.

That night I sleep in my bed after hours of crying; I relax my body and mourn the losses I had; my shattered heart and my loneliness that I feel. Back in the hotel room, with Ray, he asks me why, and all I want to answer is with “I don’t know how to fix me. I just don’t know.” I still echoed that same statement the night my mother died.

Now, as I’m opening up to a new relationship, lasting seven months so far and carrying the hope of real fixation to my problems; I stand there in the middle of my living room; waiting for my boyfriend to rent from his job; wondering at every turn of the clock if he’ll make it safe and sound; and when he returns, and while he is falling asleep in my arms while watching the latest episode of “How I Met Your Mother”, I ask myself, will he still love me tomorrow? I believe that the love I have for my boyfriend now is unconditional and evergreen; but will fate leave him be to me? Would I be able to grow older with him? Would he stay in my arms every night? I’ll download him all the silly sitcoms he likes; and wash the dishes after every meal; I’ll tell him I love him a million time a day and I’ll protect him with my own life. Just, fate, please, keep me fixed; don’t break me again.

 

 

 

The Sad and Ugly Truth about MTV

For those who don’t know. MTV has been under public lashing for the last couple of days because Joe Malouf, a TV persona with a TV show ironically called Enta Hurr, reported on a porn cinema in Lebanon; which lead to the arrest of 36 MSM (men who have sex with men) in the cinema. I’m not saying the word gay, because simply I can’t assume that all these people identify themselves as gay men. But this is beside the point.

The men were subjected to a series of tests, among them is the infamous anal test; where a doctor, or so they call this human being, would insert a chicken egg up the anus of the man to figure out if that person has been sexually active in a homosexual practice or not.  Afterwards, some of the men were released, while others were kept in custody because the anal test proved that they are indeed a receiving party in a homosexual act.

Naturally, these details are disturbing on more than one level. Should we talk about the arrest that took place based on moral law rather than actual one? Or the inhuman tests these men were subjected to? Or the fact that they actually had to pay 88USD to the doctor to take the test that was inflected on them? or the fact that they were discriminated against not only in a sexual preference manner, but also on which side of the sexual act they identify with?

The event caused a serious damage to the image of MTV and the show Enta Hurr, where multiple newspapers and TV channels condemned the whole ordeal. Many individuals, both LGBT, or supporters, posted comments on their Facebook pages and on Twitter to condemn the channel.

Let’s study MTV Lebanon reactions to the campaign attacking in the last 24 hours, please.

Firstly, the admin of the page of Enta Hurr, releases a statement on Facebook saying  the following:

Because the TV Show “Enta Hurr” was still and will remain a platform for your free views, we would not, as the admin of the site and Facebook page of Enta Hurr, remove any of your ugly comments because we want to read what was expressed unjustly by your tongues. You attack a program that only intended to put its finger on the injured citizens and make room for each one of you to raises their voices against the injustice in this country.
As yet, the subject of your unjustified attack on the program “Enta Hurr” and Joe Maloof, we want to clarify the following points:
1 – We remind everyone that the program “Enta Hurr”  raised the Cinema Hamra in Tripoli story and the Cinema Salwa in Beirut because of what was going on inside its walls of screening of pornographic films and forbidden issues and to practice immoral acts such as prostitution and drug use on the seats, in the hallways and in bathrooms.
2 – We did not open any cinema’s file other than mentioned above.
3 – because “Enta Hurr” declared a war on prostitution and its locations deployed in Lebanon, it managed to reveal a center that is supposed to be reserved for massage and found out that it’s a place for prostitution, which, although it’s the oldest profession in the history has become the dirtiest profession in Lebanon because it transmits diseases transmitted through this practice. The government does not regulate this matter, and do not support procedures for medical examinations to ensure the safety of all who work in this industry.
4 – The program “Enta Hurr” condemns the decision of the police who subjected 36 people for the tests to prove gay anal sex because it is a clear violation of freedom of the individual.
5 – and quoting Joe Maloof, regarding the cinema files, “He is proud of it and will not apologize for it, because the breach of public morality is one thing, and sexual freedom is something else.”

To which I replied commenting on Facebook and saying:

wow. umm, just wow.
Thank you for keeping our ugly comments. That’s so nice of you. Yes, because giving us the right of free speech is something you, as a program, decide to and grace upon us, rather than it is a human right.
Secondly, the word “Shozoz” and “Lawat” was mentioned in the program; do you care to explain where does that fall in the “Da3ara” and “drug-use” you’re talking about.
Thirdly, how great of you not to open any other cinema’s files. Because, by god, we should be thankful for that. You’re saving us, oh, enta hurr lords. Thank you.
fourthly, What does sex workers has to do with gay people getting arrested? I’m not sure. Also, thank you for being so nice and say that you’re against the anal testing; but obviously not so much against the arrests.
Finally, I’m not going to be bothering with responding to the Joe Malouf comment. Let me just add : Shame on you, again and again.

However, my comment has been lost among tons of other comments suddenly appearing, and supporting the cause of Joe Malouf, the loved one of all ones; and the most amazing man on the planet. I thought that only dictatorships have trolls to post positive comments about them online; but it seems Joe Malouf is learning from the best.

My friend John Smith, reports about a video MTV released about the incident HERE . You should take a look at that too.

 

Finally, what I’d like to say is: this is not about Joe Malouf anymore, it’s about a TV channel that has no respect for human rights whatsoever. You’ll be judged on your ignorant, racist, homophobic and sexist work, MTV.

To know more about MTV and its abuse of human rights, please check this BLOG, which posts videos of the kind of videos MTV play to entertain; where women get beaten happily by men, maids die and their bosses laugh at them, homosexuals trying to get to prison so they can be rapped inside and other interesting videos.

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