the best revenge

I was sitting in a room crammed with people. Open faces, hungry eyes - looking for answers and inspiration at a three-day event billed as a storytelling festival. There were panels obsessed with the advent of AI, self-professed Tik Tok auteurs, war photographers, journalists that had interviewed tyrants. My takeaway was that I was sitting in a live doom-scroll, and I noted that there were no fiction writers even though there were well over 50 speakers. We see what we want to see, we find what we want to find. We are what we eat.

In this room, a panel promised stories and solutions about acts of resistance, coping with the day-to-day slog, the keeping your head above water, that secret sauce that gets us to light a candle in a window without thinking we are a fool. I sat next to a terribly smart, outspoken expat. About twenty minutes into the tedious non-conversation we sat through, I leaned over and whispered. “This is bullshit.” He nodded, and stood up - interrupted them all, and politely pointed out how far they were straying from the conversation they claimed we would take part in. They nodded blandly, of course he was right. Then, they went back to their nowhere talk, a combination of overstating the simple and simply repeating some monologues they seem to pull out at any event they speak at. My friend stood up and left the room, diplomatically squeezing past the sweaty people who were staying, holding out for some nugget that could be mined.

I stayed with them, convinced if I left I would miss the good part.

I was wrong.

Outside, I saw my friend and spoke in a low voice.“I think the best revenge is living well.”

He looked at me, chewing on this.

“If we can sit and enjoy a lovely dinner, make toasts with good wine - haven’t we won?” I added. “I know it sounds terribly simple. This living on the edge of the volcano, this chaos, but why not find something to enjoy in the middle of that?

He nodded, not disagreeing. His shoulders shrugged, then he moved on to the next panel.

At a July 4th party, I spoke to another expat friend I had not seen in some time. I told him about my struggles with new songs, and how tone deaf and inappropriate they felt.

“They are not of this time.” I said.

He smiled.

“They’re writing love songs in Lebanon, man.” He told me. “There is no right or wrong time, just make art. That is the ultimate resistance.”