I left Lebanon in 2006. For the past 10 years I have lived in seven countries, 10 cities, and 21 homes. I have slept in 21 beds, cooked in 21 kitchens, cleaned 21 bathrooms, written on 21 desks, and locked 21 doors behind me. I packed all of my life into two suitcases and a backpack. The rest stayed behind. Somebody somewhere uses my bed, somebody somewhere has my shoes, somebody somewhere maybe remembers me in those fragmented traces of mine.
I was there. But now I am here. In Qatar. In a fake Venice with colorful houses.
Houses have memories too. They hide them under their windowsills, tuck them in layers of paint and sometimes whisper them to birds passing by. I wonder whose memories these houses will keep. I live here but I am unable to leave a trace. I try to attach myself to the walls, dirty them, mark them… but I fail. They are constantly cleaned, watched, and protected. I caress them instead. And I film them, lest I forget.
Home is where the heart is, they say. I disagree. My heart is everywhere. It left with the music. Like a turtle, I am always home.