Esteemed Mr. Thomas Joseph Barrack Jr.,
I write to you with the memory of Mohammad Al-Abdallah, the late Lebanese poet you have surely never heard of. He was a southern poet—witty, tender-spirited, and as I liked to call him, “sweet of soul.” In his book My Beloved, the State, he recounts how he once decided to negotiate with the Americans. He dressed in his finest suit, took his old car, and went to the U.S. embassy to negotiate with America about Lebanon.
He arrived, sat waiting in the suffocating atmosphere, until the ambassador emerged from the swimming pool in his swimsuit, dripping water as he approached. Mohammad lost his temper, stood up, and shouted at the top of his voice, raising his finger to the sky: “This is not negotiation. This is a farce.”
Why link you with the ambassador in a swimsuit? Perhaps because of the surreal resemblance between the poet’s imagination and your recent visits to the land of your grandparents. Each time you enter or exit a hall, I see you in swim trunks, dripping water. And I see what you are doing in Lebanon not as negotiation but exactly as Mohammad said—a farce.
And though, to be fair, you are imposing in appearance, intimidating in gaze, and carry upon your broad shoulders the full weight of America Almighty, I cannot “take you seriously.” Why, you ask? Because I’ve stereotyped you, Mr. Tom—and you, a Trumpist, will understand my political incorrectness better than anyone.
Yes, I’ve stereotyped you. You are the son of second-generation immigrants who learned early on that your path forward required imitation of the white man. You climbed the logical ladder of social ascent by copying him. You expended colossal effort to join the circles of wealthy white men, sons of wealthy white men, until they accepted you as one of their own. Men with numbered names—George II, William III, or “Junior” as in your case. They inherit many of humanity’s ailments, not least the perpetual sense of superiority. This same superiority you no doubt practiced all your life toward those you deemed beneath you in America, you now feel doubly comfortable imposing on your own kin in your dilapidated ancestral land.
You speak to them as you see them, backward, instinct-driven, chaotic, pitiful. Animals, as you called them, ungrateful for the noble service your administration seeks to bestow upon them. They spurn your generosity, your condescension in mingling with them, your wasting of precious time and effort to save them from themselves.
But the world is ironic, Tom. I look at you scolding us, perhaps out of a bitterness in your own soul. At seventy years old—Mr. Tom, billionaire, successful businessman, American to the bone—all you managed to secure was a vague appointment as ambassador and envoy for the Trump administration. An office you could have risen above, had you not been—not to put too fine a point on it—not entirely white. There are two kinds of fish: one that grows wild in nature, and one bred in farms. The first is original, of higher quality. And though you fulfilled every ritual of loyalty and friendship to Trump, nearly landing in prison for him, you remained a farmed fish. This grievance you carry is your own problem, Tom, don’t unload it onto us, please.
And since I’ve turned you into a fish, Mr. Tom, I’ll accuse you of sharing its memory span as well. I don’t know if you were returning from Israel or heading there after your tirade against Lebanese journalists, calling them animals, demanding they “be civilized,” your face twisted in disgust so intense you might have needed to be revived with rosewater.
But tell me, Thomas—Tommy—did you remember to ask your friends in Israel how they managed to kill all those journalists, in Gaza and Lebanon, civilizedly? Never mind the hundreds of thousands of civilian victims in Gaza—let’s focus on the journalists. Did you ask Benjamin Netanyahu about the degree of refinement and elegance with which his army deliberately murdered their colleagues? Or is it that whenever you see him, he too emerges from the swimming pool, dripping water, and his humanity naked before you makes you forget the question?
Come now, Tom—the prophet of his own dawn, who stood lecturing us all before boarding his ship—tell us your honest opinion of the State of Israel. Then bury us in the dust afterward, and we will not be offended.
Mr. Thomas, I now reach the “finally” that closes most letters, and I don’t know how to end this one. Not only because you are so dreadfully boring, in your obviousness, conventionality, and predictability, but for a technical reason too: you probably don’t read Arabic, the language of these “obsolete peoples” whose speech and sound you can’t stand. Perhaps it’s better I close with a piece of advice, a little extra beyond my wasted time and effort on you: leave us alone. Go back to your golf and forget us. What business have you with this small, complicated country? Leave this “mission” to Morgan Ortagus, to sit upon its ruins alone. By now she’s more Lebanese than you or I, and it won’t be long before she becomes a permanent fixture on television, eyes brimming with tears, saying: “We’re tired, Mr. Marcel.”
In conclusion:
Sincerely yours
