Letter to the Nahr Ibrahim
You run red and people keep changing the name of the wound.
Dear river,
They have explained you many times.
Iron in the soil. Spring rain. Runoff from the mountain. A seasonal event, perfectly natural, nothing to see here except geology moving through water.
They are right, of course. But explanation is not the same as meaning.
For centuries, people stood beside you and said Adonis was bleeding. They were not chemists. They were not fools. They understood something about the land that a laboratory cannot replace. A mountain can bleed if a people needs the mountain to carry what they cannot carry alone.
Now the names have changed. Christ, Hussein, a leader, a son, a village, a vanished imam, a prime minister, a fighter, a child. The wound keeps receiving new language. You keep running.
If the Lebanese ever learn to see themselves clearly, perhaps it will begin beside water like you: one river, many mourners, no sectarian checkpoint at the bank.
Keep your old secret.
Karim
