I’m possibly jumping the gun with this post, but I’m too emotionally invested in this improbable happening to stop myself, so the communications strategists will have to forgive this sentimental old immigrant so far-flung across the globe—in a week, that modest proposal that took over my life for the longest time over a decade ago, first as @busmapproject then as @ridersrightslb, is being featured in the “Atlas of Popular Transport,” a compendium and exhibit organized by @mit_lcau & @civicdatadesignlab at @labiennale. One of the most exhausting periods I’ve ever fought through will be one slim chapter of a global story that I could not be prouder of floating through as minor protagonist.
My views on and theories of change have complexified and matured (or become more confused, depending on your point of view) over the years, but my basic orientation to the world has been permanently marked by this time of my life. I probably wouldn’t be feeling so nostalgic if I was still in Lebanon right now, keeping on keeping on, but I’m not, so my stinging eyes betray me and my increasing irrelevance. But holy crap—the Venice freaking Biennale. What??
It was purely providential that I happened to be in Lebanon—to mourn, to heal—when we were approached by Ilham and the rest of the team for an interview and on-the-ground contributions to this project.
And though I would have preferred not to have to run around trying to find the strongest spot of wi-fi in between power cuts to make that video call with Chadi and Ilham happen, there could have been no substitute for riding the bus and recording these clips that ended up providing the stills for our chapter of the Atlas. I wish I could visit the exhibit in Venice, but we’ll be seeing what we can see posted by official channels soon.
Pictures hangin’ in a hallway
And the fragment of a song
Half remembered names and faces
But to whom do they belong?
You’d have to get to know me pretty well to truly understand what it feels like to see the ghosts of my past intermingle with the shadows of my present.
Nothing ever dies. It only changes form.