Downloading Corruption

By Adam A Zaarour

"As I'm whistling for Amir and Zain to come down, my eyes find the sky The black and grey is a fitting backdrop to the muffled sounds of distant gunfire and mortars. It's 9 AM but it feels like dusk. The clouds on the horizon look like the result of all the shooting and bombing, the heaviness in the air a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Zaarour
• Release date: Apr 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087963426

Adam A Zaarour

A gripping and bold journey spanning four continents and more than 25 years. From the dusty playgrounds of Beirut at the height of the Lebanese civil war to the magical streets of Paris. From chic corporate offices in Chicago to the inside of a Lebanese prison. From the lawless, mining fields of the Democratic Republic of Congo to a make-shift mobile theatre and hopeful communes in Liberia, West Africa. This memoir is about growing up in violence, yearning for peace, finding it only in friends and in sport. Discovering family, friends and sinister enemies, this story is about love and revenge, hope and heartbreak, risk and betrayal. But at its heart is the story of a man who is unafraid to take names. Names of people who are insulated in their fortresses and mansions, weaving lies and polarizing people, birthing wars, famine and violence. This raw and unabashed journal describes the life of Adam Zaarour as he traverses across the world, searching for a peaceful and prosperous life. A life seized by powerful politicians, leaders and businessmen. This book is an attempt at exposing these 'untouchable elites'. It births the desire to hold them accountable for their unforgivable crimes against humanity and the earth. This is not just a memoir but a tool for redemption.

Book preview

I dedicate this small memoir to my adorable Mother

Gentle, caring, unbroken, persevering, resilient..

and her heart, my eternal home sweet home

I also dedicate this book

to all 215 innocent people who lost their lives

after the port of Beirut explosion

May justice prevail and healing proceed

Special thanks to:

Chakshu Sharma

Naihan Nath

Making this memoir possible..

Table of Contents

:

- Synopsis

- Story#1: The War of Liberation. March 1989

- Story#2: The Lebanese Army. June 1998

- Story#3: Michel Aoun. August 1999

- Story#4: Kabila - Glencore. November 2010

- Story#5: Corporate America. November 2011

- Story#6: United Nations Mission in Liberia, NGOs. July 2016

Synopsis

As I’m whistling for Amir and Zain to come down, my eyes find the sky. The black and grey is a fitting backdrop to the muffled sounds of distant gunfire and mortars. It’s 9 AM but it feels like dusk. The clouds on the horizon look like the result of all the shooting and bombing, the heaviness in the air a result of the blood and death. My mind keeps drawing these parallels between what I see and the war. Everything is affected by the war, even the sky, the air, the sun. Something thrusts the ball out of my hand and I stagger. ‘Too slow!’ teases Malik as he dribbles the punched ball away. A cheeky smile on his face, which reaches mine as I chase after the ball…

A gripping and bold journey spanning four continents and more than 25 years. From the dusty playgrounds of Beirut at the height of the Lebanese civil war to the magical streets of Paris. From chic corporate offices in Chicago to the inside of a Lebanese prison. From the lawless, mining fields of the Democratic Republic of Congo to a make-shift mobile theatre and hopeful communes in Liberia, West Africa. This memoir is about growing up in violence, yearning for peace, finding it only in friends and in sport. Discovering family, friends and sinister enemies, this story is about love and revenge, hope and heartbreak, risk and betrayal. But at its heart is the story of a man who is unafraid to take names. Names of people who are insulated in their fortresses and mansions, weaving lies and polarizing people, birthing wars, famine and violence.

This raw and unabashed journal describes the life of Adam Zaarour as he traverses across the world, searching for a peaceful and prosperous life. A life seized by powerful politicians, leaders and businessmen.  This book is an attempt at exposing these ‘untouchable elites’. It births the desire to hold them accountable for their unforgivable crimes against humanity and the earth. This is not just a memoir but a tool for redemption.

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Story#1

Southern suburb of Beirut. March 1989 

The war of liberation

A huge explosion. 

I ran to my balcony and saw a tank engulfed in flames. I was nine and a half.  It was a strange sight to see a huge chunk of metal on fire. The flames licking their way to the barrel. A massive matchstick. I could sense panic in the air around me but I stood in one place, solid as a pole. The tank would soon explode and rain burning shrapnel.

Nimer, the burly, bearded Amal fighter who had been hanging around our neighborhood ran towards the burning tank. Nimer had the aura of a bear. I would often stare at his massive limbs and solid gait, he seemed at peace in the street, AK by his side. 

As he charged towards the tank, his swiftness seemed to deflect the fire. He clambered onto it, got in and the tank now seemed to be slowly moving. Thick, black smoke was billowing from the tank in addition to reddish flames as it started hurtling down the road. Nimer drove it to the empty compound bordering our buildings. There was a taut knot of nerves twisting in my stomach as the tank came to a halt, the smoke thickening, liquidly gurgling from the top. I saw the Amal fighter unsteadily clamber out and stagger away, his AK’s strap having slid down to his elbow. He was ten meters away when it exploded again. The explosion threw him face-first to the ground, he slowly got up. A bloody smile appearing on his sooty face. The knot in my stomach relaxed and I walked back inside. 

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A tank on fire, driving down the road. 

Its turret turns, faces me. 

I breathe, it seethes.

The nightmares seem never ending.

I shake and wake up with a start. It’s a cloudy morning. The grey light is urging me to shut my eyes again but I catch a glimpse of the football on my cupboard. ‘He is going to end up in the street if you keep treating him like a little prince,’ I hear my dad’s muffled scream. ‘What would you have me do? Beat him into being a scholar?’ retorts, Mamma. Them yelling is what makes up a big part of my dreams. Their yelling takes the texture of my dreams, my nightmares. They are probably yelling at each other even now, this present moment. 

I grab my ball and shoot out of my room and the house, my mother yelling behind me to eat something.

As I’m whistling for Amir and Zain to come down, my eyes find the sky. The black and grey is a fitting backdrop to the muffled sounds of distant gunfire and mortars. It’s 9 AM but it feels like dusk. The clouds on the horizon look like the result of all the shooting and bombing, the heaviness in the air a result of the blood and death. My mind keeps drawing these parallels between what I see and the war. Everything is affected by the war, even the sky, the air, the sun. 

Something thrusts the ball out of my hand and I stagger. ‘Too slow!’ teases Malik as he dribbles the punched ball away. A cheeky smile on his face, which reaches mine as I chase after the ball. Amir, Zain along with the other boys soon trickle down from the buildings and our mini militia of footballers is armed and ready. A battle ensues with a singular bullet, the ball. Our legs feel locked, itching to also feel loaded and let out venomous bangs. The beginning of our game is always spent oiling our shots and running around after the ball in a possessed manner. Pushing away the sleep from our stiff limbs and eyes. Each one of us let out numerous shots and sprint enough for our muscles to become hot and lithe. Pliable enough to spend the next three to six hours playing non-stop. The games were always hard-fought, the field echoing with impassioned yells for the ball or to call out malicious tackles. That particular day I was unstoppable, the ball felt glued to my feet. My passes zipping across the gravel with a laser-like accuracy, the goalkeeper always a split second too late to react to my shots fired at the goal. Malik always knew to deliver the ball to my waiting feet. A telepathic connection of sorts; no need to look or yell. I dribbled and faked, cut and tore through the legs of my opponents. When given even the slightest space, I let out ferocious shots which left Amir and the others scattering away like startled pigeons. The game was followed by intense discussions, ‘Adam your shots today were glorious but when you’re winded make the ball travel, don’t run with it so much!’ ‘Zain, your tackles are getting a bit out of hand, we don’t want to be out of action for a week.’ ‘Our short passes need to be quicker, the ‘Abou  Adal’ boys know our pattern now, we better change it up.’ We lay bare our fears and insecurities, strengths and proud moments without a care in the world. 

Playing was a therapeutic balm, an unabashed group hug, a breathing meditation and a loud ‘fuck you’ to all the violence and oppression that was trying to smother and snuff the life out of us. Football was the only thing I looked forward to, it silenced the explosions, the gunfire. It muted my