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 The Associated Press reports that a bomb has exploded "in a Christian suburb east of the Lebanese capital Wednesday, killing anti-Syrian lawmaker Antoine Ghanem (pictured) and six other people." Ghanem becomes the eighth prominent anti-Syrian figure assassinated since 2005.
Our Manuela Paraipan is on the scene in Beirut. She writes:
I find it very difficult to believe although I saw the place. I still cannot believe it is true. I was at a meeting in Verdun when the bomb exploded and I heard the news over the radio and headed towards Sin El Fil. It is the first time ever that I saw a place after a bomb exploded and I have yet to get accustomed to the thought. There were lots of people, army and police. Just when I arrived some said that a body was still caught in the remains of a car but I did not see anything. Kataeb (Phalange Christian party) MP Antoine Ghanim lost his life and at least 4 or 5 other persons. There are many speculations on the ground and some were saying that maybe it was Syria. It is yet too soon to know for a fact. After Pierre Gemayel was killed in November in the very same neighborhood now it was Antoine Ghanim turn. Regardless of who did it and why, it is a fact that Christians are a target. Even now after few hours people are still there... it is unbelievable. I am speechless. A friend called to say that he heard of at least 25 persons being injured and taken to the hospitals. I cannot but ask: Who has the major interest to destabilize Lebanon? Who has weakened Lebanon for decades and who is still using it as a card in its regional game? Definitely Syria. Iran is there next to Damascus but even though these two share some common objectives the approach is different. Syria acts in Lebanon through its proxies and the list is long. Weapons enter from Syria to various parties, movements, cells etc. It is not only HizbAllah that gets the weapons. That is known for a fact. If the outside world want to change things in Lebanon cut Syria off.
Click the jump to view Manuela's photographs from the scene of the carnage. Manuela retains the copyright on all these original images, they may not be republished without her express written permission.
Watch video from the scene here. Gateway Pundit has additional details and photos.
ALL PHOTOGRAPHS ARE SUBJECT COPYRIGHT AND MAY NOT BE REPUBLISHED WITHOUT THE WRITTEN CONSENT OF THE OWNER.
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Comments
Elie says:
Thanks John for your word. It is true that Assaad and the Syrian regime is tremendously culpable but let us keep in mind that the Syrian Regime was culpable also between 1982 until 1990 in ways most atrocious. In 1977 and 1978, the Syrian Army massacred towns and towns in Lebanon and no voice of complaint was heard from the international monarchy of governance; as a matter of fact, the Bush administration had teamed with the Syrian Regime in 1989 after the first quest in Iraq and a concession was made which leased Lebanon as issue to be played by Syria's upperhand. But note, this is a critical time and facts, no matter what the cumul, may not serve well at the end of the day in order to wake us to a phrase of illumination. Facts are utilized in order to web the necessary elements of a scenario authored by Desolator. To have resort to facts and from the facts push toward a resolution is verily taking part in serving the plan of Devastation, even when unaware of its script. Our responsibility is not to lay aside definitely but our responsibility is to appoint the arrow and to proper index.
I share your temperament, my life also is spent in howls and screamings, I protest and I protest and I fall into the trap of becoming whimsically radical. See my friend, there is a difference between being whimsically radical and Emperially Imperative, I do not deny my megalomaniac outbursts, my darkest secret; yet, you mentioned Mr. Reagan and I cannot but remember a gripping word I heard by accident as I was sporting through the channels on illegal cable. In the Reagan Diaries, there was a time when the President was visiting West Germany and in the protocol of the event proposed, he was asked by the West Germany Consulate to visit the graveyards of Nazi youths who were killed during WWII. He said yes even though he was bullied to refuse but his answer was simple, these people were caught in a scheme larger than they, and we have to offer our prayers on account of their loss to alleviate their perdition. His thought was a thought of awe and then in his diary he wrote that after returning from West Germany, he went and walked with Mrs Reagan, fair & beautiful Nancy, among the tombstones of the American soldiers who fought World War II, in the same breathing silence that wrapped him with a cloud of dew. I went and wrote:
Lugalbanda of the Mountain Cave
(or the saddest song; unaccompanied suite number 2)
When Ronald Reagan walked among the tombs of the American Soldiers who fought World War II, it was right after he visited West Germany and prayed for the remission of the sins of dead Nazi youths who fought alongside Hitler. He said may the old bastard yell and yell, let him he himself go to hell with all his neruvian history books.
When Gustav Mahler wrote songs on the death of children, it was not as brisk as the deafening gush of Symphony number 8 and maybe today he and Smetana walk alongside the Vltava river and kiss the forehead of Kubelik who swam with them until hoar hair.
And who knows where Kurt Cobain spent his peerlessness. Between faith in the heart of a whore and between the water of his tears that purged the cords of music. There the harlots now who take to his baggage of woe and say our prince is dead, we have a true good inheritance to wag our tongues with to any cunt who may come to prince with us.
Ah, is it vapour, ah is it myrrh, ah is it the poison gas of the nostrils of the dogs of vipers, dynamic wiggling of their tails and repose with their tongues diligent upon their own testicles. The Abraxas that Hollywood blessed and the HaShem Yahwah that smites their brain and their necks. Look I am 4 and look I am 7, look I am a circle of a hidden bended 8 bended to cross virtue with Satan, almost like a snake and not even, we are forever, we are the Christians. Talmudic curses from the youngest Benyamin, high as the Arch over the shoulders of the eldest Israel, he, taller than the ladder of Jacob, flashing the scoff and scourge of proper measure. Noble is our King, HaShem with the golden difference.
Bach and Garcia Lorca. No, I say Federico and Johannes Sebastian. No one could choose yet between the two for failure in spurning a set of 11. Mathematics said the one is a language not an ordinance and language is the one said the 11 who are one and even, never paired in two to become any the other, even on a bookshelf where grammar yawns GrammaTon against the Hoffman keys of the sneaker’s intelligence who said magic jewel to his anal pleasure.
Hanky Tom and Tom Cruisy, the Madonna ever craves for a Suzy to lure an ape with the mouth of a frog. Let us raise a toad in the honour of the many faces mustered off any the recognition of the tiniest index to identity and thoroughly Hopkins with the Anthony Sirring his purring and have the Sean in Connery mature and drop the accent with the oldest Dewar from my doer. And if we raise our own De Vinci Code and give De Vinci a body sound and saint and alive and spare him the mazes of autopsy because now only the others crave to swing low. It is no more a scientific choosing, a zeal of discipline or quest for discovery, it is only their only choice. Tabitha Tabitha, she teaches us esoteric, Spielberg my ass from Gibson to Munich and Enoch made a rope and the very ancient Levitcals are preparing the hosts for our first devise of slaughter sworn from the first under alpha of history. Better unborn the enemies of Our Lord.
Where is Eliiah, I have been asking my own mother. She said he is in a cave where no one can find him and what do you want with him that you leave your life all sombered beneath the lines and the lies of all these ages’ corruption in devastating repetition, go find a work that pays, go bring you wife and bring me grandchildren, since your infancy I bundled you off as a hopeless case and you’re still drawn upon the hopeless waters of a space now way too clear between us. I said okay, ha, okay, but tell me, where is Eliiah? The town priest is still horning his horns against the Mountain of Israel and his dogs and pigs are Ahabbing with Jezebel streets saying what and what to our own children. Jehu, Jehu, may Yahweh grant me one drop of cold sweat from your solemn peerless dinner. Jezreel Jezreel, let their breed reel upon their mother’s wheels. Fuck them all.
****
So you see, the complexity of the situation will not be answered to soothe it off with some vain mediation of prospects. I don't care to reconcile rotten ends, I am not a man of this kind of peace, but Peace is a Standard, it is a whole ladder of measures, and it is the thought of some 'one' strong, strong enough, very strong, I mean, kind of Almighty Strong.
Thanks again and God bless.
Elie says:
Thank you Dave Arizona for your deep and very profound seeking into my spirit, i mean to so quickly assess the thought within my text and also to be able to see into the knot component of my own mental frame through just one splash of word, this really speaks of the difference between dumb insolence and upright honesty, very Up and very Right.
The problem my friend is no longer the sport of tongue, it is deeper, the tongue is a sport, I mean when we exult our God 'in tongues', we do exult Him in tongues but when we address the world, we address the world in tongues also, we do not exult the world, no, it is way beneath the threshold of our dearly loved dwelling. If you are a Christian or a Muslim or a Jew, remember the psalm of David 'O Lord, bring into account the slingful insolence of the breed of shortcuts, (or remember O Lord what the children of Edom suffer us) on the Day of JeruSalem, when they said 'rase it, rase it down and the foundations thereof', if I forget Thee O JeruSalem, May My Right Hand forget its cunning, if I do not put JeruSalem above my chiefest joys, May my right hand forget its cunning, o beth babylon, have of us just as you have served us'. Maybe David was also schizophrenic.
But apart from answering to you just as you have set me to, tell me Dave, what is really your perfect mental concordance from which you degrade mine? what would be your assessment of the situation? Is it a morality or a lesson in science? If it is morality then you are a poet and if it is a lesson in science, then you must be well illuminated in the disciplines but if you are in a frustrated whiff without say and without diligent breadth in the matter, why then do you sport yourself over the shedded blood of my countrymen and citizens?
Your Word, How I love Your Word
A song to the Eternal, the Elohim, Kavode Kodesh Kodeshim
When the breath of me acquaints itself with the breathings of deaths
Your Word returns to me my total health and redeems me
My heart becomes languid for all its seeming
And Your Word alone stays and keeps to the seeming that calls You mine
That calls me Yours
When my life, all four points of it, finds me on all fours and five and six and all
Through my own leadings and or every other leading, multiple, high or low grand or tall or small
Your Word redefines me through Your Meaning of me safe and sound in Your Abode
For Your Word is Faithful Friend, for Your Word is my sure beginning, preventing all end with Your Ends
Eternal, Favoured Constancy, Beatified Never Ending
According to Your Beauty and Your Enduring, Rested, You fix me and re-frame me with awe and faithfulness
What a passion of pursuit, Your Word
Do I run and skip or do You seek me turning me to You
Your Word becomes my legs, the perfect skill of my hands
Theme upon theme in garlands evergreen You shower celestial peace
It is Spring on my head, it is Your Smile all through the sleep of my bed,
Finally I am no longer soaking wet, in my tears
Your Word, it is Your Word
All the splendour and the majesty
I find me small but You’re Transcendentally Salutary
And You fit me in perfect concord between my littleness and Your Thought toward me
You have thought toward me, Your Word becomes my honeycomb of flashes and fire
My heart sings of its flame, no more the idle pain, no more agonies tear sweeping
Your Word becomes the pool under and the kindred water light above me
And I drink until I am filled and I sleep and bathe within the plenitude of Perfect Fidelity, Yours
Your Word is King and I am through You of source and of proper resourcing
Not only You command me chiefly but You are also my home and bountiful resorting
Your Word is my beginning - and the stripping of my grieving and grievances,
Golded leaves of an Autumn, the glow and proof of fire under the snow
Singing Spring eternally, from the summers of my reciting
And Yours
Your Word is the rest of snow, the gold within flame, the true fire
The burgeon, the budding, the becoming
The breath even into the heart of solitude
That webs its chanting with a hope, odd against all the evening of floods
Your Word, the Dove, Evidence of Life to Life
Thankful I am true enough to be dog by Your Shepherding and Keeping
Your Word I lap, my cup overflows, even I
***
Try to sing it. It is a prayer.
Elie says:
Good morning.
Manuela, there is no doubt to the corruption of the Syrian Regime and even in its hand in the assassinations.
There is utter loathing from my part to the rhetoric of the 8 March chimpanzees and rottenness. They are also playing the part of heroes in the same scenario that played the so-called revolution of Cedars.
As a Lebanese, a citizen and not only, I do love my country with a love stronger than fire but as a human being, my heart that gives its love at its most perfect is also candidate to speak its hate.
There was a writer called Emil Cioran, a Romanian of origin who lived all his life after self-imposed exile in Paris, in the same room the size of a prison cell with one window that is often visited by doves that flap and shit before they pirouette back into their vast empty sky. Briefly, when Cioran passed away in 1997 (or 96), there was a release of 15 pages that were found by the cleaner post-mortem in the same old suitcase he carried with him from Romania to France. The papers were hand-written and dispersed together under a title 'TARA MEA' which is Romanian for 'My Country' (or 'My Land of Me' - to appropriate the proper poetic resonance of the original title.)
Cioran wrote:
'Une espece de mouvement se constitua vers ce temps-la - qui voulait tout reformer, meme le passe. Je n'y crus sincerement un seul instant. Mais ce mouvement etait le seul indice que notre pays put etre autre chose qu'une fiction. Et ce fut un mouvement cruel, melange de prehistoire et de prophetie, de mystique de la priere et du revolver, et que toutes les autorites persecuterent, et qui cherchait a etre persecute. Car il avait commis la faute inexpiabe a concevoir un avenir a ce qui n'en avait pas. Tous les chefs en furent decapites, leurs cadavres furent jetes dans la rue; il eurent eux un destin, ce qui dispensait le pays, lui, d'en avoir un. Ils rachetaient leur patrie par leur demence. Car, ce furent des martyrs sanguinaires. Ils croyaient au meurtre; aussi bien furent-ils tues. Ils emportaient dans leur mort l'avenir qu'ils avaient concu, en depit du bon sens, de l'evidence, de 'l'histoire'. etc...
I will translate:
A species of mouvement emerged in an orderly custom of a manner in those days - they wanted to reform everything, even the past. I personally did not buy it the simplest second. But this movement happened as the single index that our country could become other than slumberly fiction. And it was a cruel movement, a blend of prehistoricism and of proclaimed prophecy, a combination of spiritual mysticism and the gun, that every authority persecuted, but they sought to be persecuted. The movement had already committed the fatal fault of conceiving a future for a country that did not have it. They were buying their country with their madness. Because they winded up as blooded martyrs. They themselves excused murder and murder in turn did not excuse them. They carried still in their death the future they had conceived, in spite of the better sense, in spite of evidence, of a 'scenario'.'
I would recommend the reading of this book only to see with it to what extent of folly and love and madness Cioran himself was patriotic only to put his magnum opus in a suitcase and impose on himself a life long exile.
If you walk in Lebanon and you are a liberal with a taste for a bronze skin fuck, then you can say Lebanon is a fair country, when your eyes are set on bottoms and not on the matters substantial for continuance. Today, there were some fore-runners who bought their place on the stands with their own blood because someone gave them away for his revolution, which is ungiven. What is mediocre to the point of nausea and vomit is their adversary who counterparts them for visions way beneath the degree of an old rotten shoe that does not fit. They were dethroned for monstrous corruption and they found a way back from the shit-hole of shame to bubble themselves with chews such as 'we are now playing the opposition'.
The situation in Lebanon today is madness, madness, stubborness and deemlessness. Where I love my country for its humble house gardens that grow vine and thank God for the glisten of the grape bud, I abhor it from head to toe for its corruption, its vulgarities, its decadence outdoing the stinkiest pisspond. From tv stations to hotels to municipality licenses and code of licenses for building; For its Bank Secrecy, for its Taxing on Purchase, for its business contractions, for its string underwears, for its horrible most horrible most repelling music and musicians that makes me at the end of the day, every day, furiously ashamed and cursing my birthmark of having been born amidst such a crowd of shit mongrels and filthy whores and bleached dogs, with their twisted jaw on the chew of their rottenness, fouling the atmosphere with every sunrise until sundown until the shittiest version of Dawn Raising, even shittier than the euneuchs of Istanbul alarms my head in the morning hours that I am still in this same earth, under the same horrid governance of existence. My Country, I love it to a point that I mock myself for being attached with the tiniest sentiment toward it, yet every day and every night, I find me on my knees (and I am not of a religion that obliges such prostration), pleading with my God, my Father, to redeem it between a night and a day, to reinstitute the Capstone, to crush mice and men with the Foundation.
Yet today, blood groans muted from the ground, the blood of young men like Cheikh Pierre who spat at his insolent offender on live television, a young man full of truth and verity and noble undertaking, a brave man who was betrayed into a battlefield while the king who governs the scene was promising himself the orchestral synthesis of his self-introducing and self-entitling to the cunt of the Princess. (the last time I checked, the Princess brings the coffee to my table).
While some say, the problem of Lebanon today is between many rivers, I say, the solution for Lebanon is the four corners of the earth. We have to suspend time and words and good and bad intentions, we simply have to break the teeth of the four corners of the world and compel them and oblige them to trial themselves to merit the first degree of voice and resonance before they breathe and belch their fart hose out in the earth.
Yeah, we have to humiliate the nations and piss on their glories and on all their trumpetings in an ecstatic ride over the high mountains with songs of jubilance and extollations and make the knees of the world to tremble just as the knees of the world trembled when the Arch of the Holy Covenant, the Ark of the Might of the Lord was the standard of awe to all stars and nations. We need to show no mercy, neither to lion nor to lamb, neither to the one who finds himself more kin to be God nor to the one who finds himself embarking with those who apprehend the sweet fuck of the dolphin as a statement of life and joy.
For 30 years I saw people mutilated, I saw families humiliated, I saw children dying...30 years without a break, every day a tragedy and a trauma worse than the one before. Maybe it is high time we roar and shock the world, maybe it is high time to show the rabid beasts of the forest WHO CAN really king and dash to pieces the rotten shoots of their mouths and their mouths alike.
Manuela, you were complaining about my aggressiveness, ah ha ha, 'you loved me as a loser but now you worry that I just might win, ah you know the way to stop me, ah but you don't have the discipline, how many nights I prrrrrrayed for this, to see my work begin, first, we take Manhatten, then we take Berlin. I don't like your fashion business mister, and i don't like these drugs that keep you thin, I don't like what happened to my sister...first we take manhatten and then we take berlin...they sentenced me for 20 years in prison, for trying to change the system, from within, i am coming now, I am coming to reward them, first we take manhatten and then we take berlin...I am guided by a signal in the heavens, guided yeah yeah yeah, I am guided by this birthmark on my skin, I am guided by the beauty of a weapon, first we take manhatten, then we take berlin; ah remember me, I used to live for music, remember me I brought your groceries in, but it is father's day and everybody is wounded, first we take manhatten, then we take berlin...well i really like to lay beside you baby, i love your body and your spirit and your clothes, but you see that train now moving to the station, well i told you, i told you, ahhhhh told youuuuuuu, I was one of those....well i thank you for these items that you sent me, yeah the monkey and the plywood violin, well i practiced everynight and now i am ready, first we take manhatten, then we take berlin.'
yeah...you call it aggressiveness, i call it honesty with the temper.
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