Dusty Wyndow Blog

Our first Volunteer, Mr. Michel from Koura. Picture by Rimal Abeed. Being severely brought down by all the notorious stench in the air the last few weeks, the three of us had decided to do something about it. Just as any other activity in Trablos, things had happened so spontaneously and smoothly. Discussions have been taking place for almost a month before that, but never were more serious than the week before, where we managed to borrow a guitar for Rimal to practice with, Moussa would practice his drawing skills, and I would prepare basically everything else in order to have a smooth chillout time for everybody, and offer people something they were craving for, I assume. I wonder to myself sometimes, what have we got in this, all of us? It’s neither Rimal, Moussa or le moi that are getting paid anything for taking that action (something society fiercely teaches you in order to survive), neither are we taking any credit, any promotion, not even appraisal. And the photos & sto...

A couple months ago and right after losing my daytime job, I approached my dear old friends at Deghri Messengers to join them aboard ever since I was drooling to do that ages ago. In no time, I officially became a proud Deghri Messenger, I had my own messenger backpack, my receipt notebook and a whole lot more stationary and accessories that would make one a Deghri messenger, that’s of course besides the bike and helmet. To all those to whom the word “Deghri” doesn’t ring any bell, here’s a snippet: “We deliver things by bicycle. Our service is fast, reliable and good value. Businesses and organisations all over Beirut rely on us to respond to their urgent delivery needs reliably and with a smile.” Deghri Messengers is a bike messenger service in Beirut. They deliver all kinds of stuff around the city using only bicycles and the power of their own bodies. It's hard work and takes a special mix of fitness, passion for cycling, city orientation and pure guts. Bike Messenger...

www.natheerhalawani.com I never would have imagined the day I called the owners of Al Baba Sweets offering them a free photosession a couple years ago that, one day coming really soon, I would be congratulated by friends and family for my own website , the website that held my name. I ask myself sometimes where is this path taking me to, what am I doing here. I am fully aware this is my sense of insecurity due to the absence of somebody to drag me and guide me somewhere – as it’s always been – that is talking at the moment. I wholeheartedly listened to my close friends’ advice and rode the wave, and boy I must say it took me somewhere unbelievable. I’m officially a photographer now, I built a career identity that is available for the public and I can simply throw in my website to anybody wanting to see my work. I used to prepare collages and work for hours picking my photos and eliminating others, only to be able to send a sample or two of my work to a potential client. The we...

Well, I got this pretty darn bad habit of not doing the birthday dues on time, and I've been lately avoiding birthdays all in all. Yet, for one of my brothers, I’m willing to make an exception. On April 15th 1998, I was bending over my grandma’s balcony waving goodbye to my teary mom who was waiting in front of the open door of that car, while everybody else was already inside. For a moment, and regardless of my young age at the time, it hit me. My mom was utterly sad. She felt so bad for having that baby and now that it’s about to deliver, she never felt worse. My smile for a split second turned into a frown and somehow I managed to get it all. This pregnancy was totally unexpected. Flash backward in time, there was that home in Azmi street with a mom and two boys who lived their life day by day, and felt supreme joy around each other and most importantly whenever they were visited by their aunts, mom’s side’s aunts. Ever since we, the boys, knew we’ll be having an ad...

I just had another anger crisis yesterday, described by not wanting to contact any person anymore, and has developed into becoming furious in front of most people who reach out for me. It’s kind of disappointing since I don’t intend to do that, and the person on the other side wouldn't understand a bit, except for what they are receiving – the frustration. I became an adult at a very little age, I was responsible for a fatherless family at the age of 9. I still remember not being able to cross the street until my mom, bending over our balcony – 5 floors up, would signal me to cross. I still remember the amount of times I hesitated before entering a barber shop only for the fact that I wouldn't know what to say. What's behind the mask? - Taken at the Clown Walk 2014 I got used to not speaking out for myself. In fact, I was praised for that. I was the all-the-time silent kid who usually is overly-accepting. I used to wait for my older aunt to come over because she took me...

Anja Niedringhaus, killed today in Afghanistan in their car. Source I always thought they were invincible, reporters- whether writer, photographers, videographers, you name it - I thought they were the untouchables, the proteges.. "Never kill the messenger", a quality the ancient ethics of peace and war used to abide by, yet apparently not anymore. A 48yr-old world renowned German photojournalist Anja Niedringhaus was shot today and was killed instantly, all while her companion, Canadian reporter Kathy Gannon was wounded and is stable condition at the moment. Kathy Gannon, AP Special Regional Correspondent for Afghanistan and Pakistan, wounded at the same incident. Source AP had stated the following: A veteran Associated Press photographer was killed and an AP reporter was wounded on Friday when an Afghan policeman opened fire while they were sitting in their car in eastern Afghanistan. The author's emotionlessness is nothing but an image of the grave traumatic ...

The Lieutenant “I recognized you from your sneakers” . I wish I remember his name, for he had remained in the back of my mind till this day today. “I remember they were exactly like the ones I saw on that bus the other day. You’re going to Tripoli, right?” That was what one man who had picked me up, over two years ago, while waiting for a mini-bus to take me back home after one long hectic day at work. He pulled over and shouted “Tla3” meaning “hop in”, and to my utter surprise, being shouted at by an army lieutenant behind his driving wheel with his rugged military voice, was enough to obey, well at least until my curiosity was satisfied and I'd figure out what the hell was going on. It wasn't until he threw in those two sentences that I knew what he was talking about. A couple months earlier, it seems, he kind of met me on one of those huge Connexion buses to Tripoli, but – funny enough – he only remembers my white sneakers, the reason why he was more than certain it w...