كانون آخر

جاء كانون آخر
جاء بأعياده وبشـائره
وجاء بأحزانه
كانون آخر يشـهد على رحيل حبيبة أخرى
رحيل عمّة ثانية

...أبكرتِ بالموعد يا عمّتي
لم نقوم بعد بآخر زياراتنا
لم نسـتذكر مجدداً قصص طفولتنا التي عاشـت في عينيك

غبت عنّا وغبنا عنك سـنوات طويلة
وعدت الينا اليوم بغيابك

دخل غيابك علينا كزائر انتظر طويلاً على عتبة الباب
لم نراه، يا عمّتي، لم نتوقع قدومه
...ولكنه جاء الآن
جاء في كانون وخيّم كثلج يخفي ملامح الأرض
يغطي على ما مرّ في المواسم السـابقة
يفسـح أمامنا صفحة بيضاء تغيّبك
فنرسـم عليها ما سـكن فينا من ضحكتك
من حبك
من كفاحك
من صمودك
من جمالك...
... نرسـم عليها الى أن يذوب الثلج

The Audacity of Hope

I never thought I would find myself saying this, but today, I would like to take a page from America’s history.

I am not about to comment on how world politics will change now that Obama has been elected president. I have witnessed enough elections, and enough disappointments to know better, to know that no matter who is elected as president of the United States, my beloved region will not fair any better (though often, could fair much worse… Iraq anyone?)

What I am moved by today, what I am awed by, is evidence, this living proof that change is possible. That the overwhelmingly dominant right-wing, prejudiced, capitalist tide that has washed over the world can actually be turned. I am moved to tears to witness that the forgotten, the downtrodden, and the frequently apathetic stood up to be counted, and used what little power they are afforded as citizens to prove the old adage true, ‘every drop in the bucket counts’, and today, it runneth over.
So before you cynically question my excitement, as a distant Arab, at the outcome of this election, let me just point out that all things aside, this is a socio-political milestone that we will refer to for years and years to come as shorthand for the possibility of change.

And now to the man himself – I think there are many more people out there far brighter and well-versed in political analysis than me to offer their views on him as a candidate. I will leave that job to them. There are two specific parts that I want to point to in his victory speech that moved me deeply :

“And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote tonight, but I hear your voices. I need your help. And I will be your president, too.”

“America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves -- if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?”

I probably don’t need to explain why I was moved by these statements, but bear with me as I elaborate – I feel I need to express it. As I said earlier, this election did not echo just because it happened in America, but because all of us everywhere yearning for change in our systems, our own governments or regimes, could not help but stop to reflect and compare. Can you imagine a leader, winning by a landslide, recognizing and admitting that he has arrived to serve all and not just those who supported him? That he has arrived not to turn the tables in favour of his like-minded? Not to take advantage of his new position to break down voters who disagreed with him? I had almost forgotten that that was possible.
And can you imagine a leader, a world leader, finally rising to look beyond his nose out onto the horizon and consider what role his 4 years need to play as a building block for the 96 to follow? The ceiling that was bearing down on us for so many years, keeping our gazes directed at our feet and our daily bread, delicately cracked to attract our sights to the sky.

There will be ordeals to address tomorrow, there will be critiques and criticism… but I will be high on today’s events for some time. I will be clinging to the audacity of hope…

Sleepy Willow

I feel this should be the name of our city these days. I do not recall any sleep fairy dust being blown into our air, or sleepy potion slipped into our water supply. There have been no Snowhite-type poisoned apples in circulation, and no hypnotizing Pied Pipers have been observed around town. And yet, we have been overcome by the slumbers, the ‘soporifs’… we are all very sleepy at rather early hours.

The last thing we remember before this happened was the changing of the clocks. We marked the arrival of autumn-winter by turning our clock back one hour. This has certainly helped the likes of me wake up more easily at it is now no longer pitch dark when my first alarm goes off. However, not unlike pulling the bed sheet from one end, this has also meant that it gets dark much earlier in the day. I always get distracted by the prospect of gaining an hour and forget that an early sunset will also be part and parcel. More so this year as winter arrived early and the euphoria of living a week or two in transitory weather (and hence more sun) was washed away with a series of rain storms.

So we now start getting sleepy because we’re waking up earlier, because it’s dark sooner, and because as the third dark hour passes after a 4pm sunset, our brain remains programmed that it must now be late and systems more or less start to shut down. You may not find any of this sufficiently convincing, but I tried to sell the sleep fairy dust theory and it didn’t fly…

Harsh words spoken

I was recently the target of some bad-mouthing. In typical adult manner, this wasn’t done to my face, but, also in typical manner, it eventually reached me. The colleague, a friend, who felt she should tell me was quite apologetic, while I must admit I felt nothing. All I could say to her was “Consider the source”. The source was known for such antics, usually baseless and usually in disproportionate reaction to something or the other. She was so well known for this that she puts the boy who cried wolf to shame.

Which made me realize that: if a hollow tree falls in the woods, and there actually was someone around to hear it, it still makes no sound.

I am not there...

It may seem to odd to learn a new poem courtesy of an episode of 'Desperate Housewives', then again, maybe not!
I share with you here the Eulogy Mrs. Mclusky spontaneously gave her beloved friend Ida. I know I've come across this poem before, but cannot remember who wrote it. If anybody knows, please enlighten us...

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints of snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn’s rain
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die…

Endless Engagement

Scene 1: It’s all in the hues…
After a somewhat lax Sunday at my parents’ house, we all suddenly decide to get dressed at the same time, with no electricity, and only one room with decent natural light and a mirror. Questions such as ‘is this tie a good colour?’ (Dad), or ‘which necklace should I wear?’ (Mum), or ‘is my make up smudged?’ (moi) were pretty pointless as none of us could really see much better than anyone else!

Scene 2: Non-digital navigator
We’re finally all dressed up, and I’m at the wheel of my trusty car, driving onwards and upwards towards the village. I make the mistake of asking Dad to remind me where I need to turn off the highway. It’s a mistake because Mum, sitting in the backseat, hears this, and then proceeds to remind Dad to remind me of every upcoming turn a good ten minutes or so ahead of time.

Scene 3: Of course I remember you!
We arrive at my cousin’s house in good time (a little too early, in fact), and are met with relatives whom I hadn’t seen since the last such event. In a cold rush, I suddenly realize that, though I can partly remember how they’re related to me, I can’t remember their names. Knew I should have asked my parents in the car! As Dad is sitting outside, Mum and I resort to all sorts of covert notes in order to fill in the name gaps of our combined memory. With some, we simply settled for ‘ibn fulan’, realizing that there was no way we were going to remember their names short of outright asking them – very unfamily like, don't you think?

Scene 4: Details are lost in the crowd
As we arrived early, quite a lot of time passes (or at least it feels like a lot) by the time the crowd that is to accompany the groom to his new fiancée is finally complete. There are so many people, relatives and others, walking in and out that we turn completely zen, exchanging niceties and no longer even attempting to figure out who we are.

Scene 5: Hills and heels
The rather long convoy arrives at the fiancée’s village. We park wherever we can, and the ladies collectively breathe in with shock as we are faced with the short but quite steep hill leading up to the house. Let me just say this: asphalt, heels and an incline are a deadly combination. I contemplate for a moment switching my left shoe to my driving flip flops rather than putting the heel on the right. Not advisable, so we start our tiptoe ascent, positioning ourselves in a mock mountain climbing row to minimize the injuries in the event of a slip…

As you can imagine, with all this excitement behind us, we hardly have the energy to take in the music and dancers, or the process of exchanging gifts, wanting the newly engaged couple to basically get on with it and liberate us. We are finally so happy to leave that our smiles and congratulations upon departure are truly heartfelt.

End.

Summert-i-i-i-i-me – Last Act

This may not be the last weekend of the summer, but it certainly feels that way. Most of the summer visitors have left, the weddings are all behind us now, and the festivals – returning after a two year absence – have come and gone. It is so hot and humid that we are actually looking forward to the imminent two weeks of fall before the winter rain (yes, we know that the rain will quickly follow, and we’re actually looking forward to that!).

The summer is slowly winding down, and winding up… and we are slowly returning to what used to be our usual routines. Chores around the house that have been put off for weeks and weeks are now the focus of our Saturdays, and weekends aren’t as stuffed with nail and hair appointments (did I mention the summer series of weddings?), or sequences of brunch, lunch, coffee, dinner, drinks with different groups of friends and cousins for quick catch-ups. My schedule no longer contains arrival and departure dates, and the names of my ‘local’ friends are slowly reappearing for some of our usual get-togethers, which are, as always, suspended during the busy summer.

It has been a good summer, a feast of good times and fresh fond memories, and I am grateful that I am leaving this table satisfied and full. And as things slowly return to some form of ‘normal’, I can’t help but wonder what our non-summer Lebanon will have in store for us. Don’t think of it as pessimism… perhaps it’s remnants of old habits, the little anxiety as the start of the school year approaches. Today, however, I want to focus on the other part; the equivalent of the brightness of brand new stationary, the smell of brand new text books, and the running pool of which of my friends will be in my section. What I am focusing on today is the excitement of the reset button, the end of the summer ushering in a new year full of new possibilities.

January 1st may get all the parties, but if you pay close attention, the real new year starts as the summer ends.

Endings & Beginnings

I am in England, oddly aware that this may be the last time I come for a while after 9 years of going back and forth relatively regularly to follow up different aspects of my PhD, which I have now come to polish off once and for all. While occupied by the thought that this rather long chapter in my academic career is coming to an end, I check myself into the dorm room that the my department has booked for me for my week’s stay on campus. As I walk in, it dawns on me – I am in a dorm again, in a single room on a floor with shared communal bathrooms. The last time I lived in such circumstances was at the very beginning of my university academic career, as a Freshman, exactly 20 years ago. My endings are mirroring the beginnings…

I make my way through a relatively quiet floor on a Sunday afternoon, and I notice that there are a few tangible differences. Mainly, there is no knot in my stomache at the anticipation of meeting any of my floor mates. I am quite certain that I’m a few years older, have been working for as long as they’ve been reading, and am centered by a sense that I can swallow them up with one gulp. What an interesting concept! Guess there are some advantages to age.

I suppose some of the other differences have been around for a while, but this ending vs. beginning contrast that the dorm launched helped me recognize them. For example, I no longer weigh out overall cost as I glean over the titillating book titles at the bookstore, being able to support my long-held belief that books are priceless with an account that can actually afford them. Alternatively, I am also no longer as easily enticed by titles and books that I feel will no longer add much more to others I have acquired, absorbed and used over the years. This is not a reflection of feeble indifference to “There is nothing left for me to learn”, quite the contrary; I find I am now more specific in my search to add to what I already know, rather than confirm it. This feeds into another discovery made recently, that my main concepts and outlook on life, no matter how idealistic, are still the same as the ones I formed when I was a young undergraduate. And if I were to be perfectly honest, I would admit that those are the concepts and outlooks that I would like to return to as fully as I was committed to back then, before the tosses and turns of life temporarily beat them out of me.

And finally, there is one part of this ending that mirrors the beginnings, though this one clearly has more to do with age than any academic journey per se: not unlike some of my restlessness as a late teen college student, I am somewhat disillusioned by what I see in the world around me. Whereas I certainly know more and have done more by now than at that point, the similarity is that I still feel things could be done differently. And no different than my state of mind 20 years ago, I’m raring to get out there and find out: how?

Have come full circle to an ending that is really just a beginning…

Step out into the world… Leave your car behind

I had to send my car in for some body repair after I forgot about the side wall in my garage while driving out in a morning daze. (And that’s all I care to discuss about that!) Being without a car for over a week meant that I was getting around with the aid of my walking shoes, and what remains the most reliable form of public transport in Beirut – service taxis.

It has been a number of years since I was car-less in Beirut, and though I do not think I would ever give my car up willingly, I must confess that this week has reminded me of a world that I have missed. I didn’t have a car the first year I was in Lebanon, so I learned much of Beirut’s geography (and topography!) by foot, and learned heaps about my countrymen from taxi drivers. There are always horror stories, but what I remember are the funny ones – like the driver who kept asking for a word and would compose a short poem with it. I can say I was quite quite fortunate this last week in that there were no horror stories, but rather reaffirmations of kindness and a sense of community. A number of drivers would go out of their way to drop me off that much closer to my destination, or would go to lengths to reassure me that there was no harm done when I misdirected their route. Tiny acts of kindness that I was grateful for in these cynical days.

But what I truly appreciated were some of the social commentaries. In one of the earlier drives, my driving companion shared his confusion as to what people considered bargain-priced food. His argument was that everyone sought out the cheaper stores and restaurants, which were becoming so cheap that the food must be of sub-standard quality; “Do they know what they’re eating? Why pay any money for something bad?” I couldn’t agree more. Another one, a proud father of a new graduate, regaled us with his success in sending all five of his children to university, having always felt that education was much more important than leaving them a building or piece of property instead. And this in the face of a rising school drop-out rate… I could have kissed him. A third shared his theory as to the differences between inhabitants of different sections of our lovely city, no unnecessary over-analysis, just general observations, and he wasn’t far off. An economist, activist, sociologist and anthropologist in taxi driver clothing.

Aside from how much I gained from the actual trips, and how much I now saw of my city as a passenger rather than a traffic-focused driver, I have to confess I also really enjoyed walking around my city again, reacquainting myself with its twists and turns, and no-car alleys. It was certainly convenient that this all happened in an albeit hot summer, rather than our raging rainy season, and as thrilled as I am to finally have my car back, I’m going to try to remember to do this more often – to step out of our car bubbles and into the world.

Say it in a comic strip...

Courtesy of Doonesbury by G.B. Trudeau - one of my modern day heroes.

If you can't read it clearly, just click on the strip and it zooms in.

The Year Bottled Up in a Summer

The days are too long, the weeks are too short… It feels as if we’re all trying to cram in all the fun that we’ve missed out on in the last two years into a relatively short season. The elements are all rather customary for a Lebanese summer: the festivals have been announced and the tickets are selling like hotcakes, visitors are flying in from abroad, weddings are blooming galore, sluggish cafés and restaurants are revived for the longer summer days… All pretty regular except for two main factors: first, we haven’t done this in a while and are a little out of shape, and second, everything has been magnified with multiple more visitors and weddings – and I mean LOTS more.

So much so that it doesn’t just feel like we’re making up for lost time, but rather packing in as much summer fun as possible before something goes wrong again and suspends this high we’re on. And that really is all we’re on – a high. I have likened our current state to that of a druggie who knows that he’ll crash when it’s all over, but just wants to enjoy it while it lasts.

But that’s not what I’m writing about right now. Right now, I too am trying to make the most of this high, suddenly realizing that there could be more going on in my days than long working hours and slow evenings, and actually stressing over juggling schedules of arrival and departure dates. Once again, as with practically every summer that has passed since I was a student, I recognize the wisdom of taking the summer off. Lebanon is one of the only countries I know of that has a system of summer working hours, promoting shorter days. As odd as I found that when I first heard of it, I totally understand it now. Not making the most of glorious summer days is like waiting for ice cream to melt before taking in the first spoonful… what would be the point?

Fine line between work and play

"A master in the art of living draws no sharp
distinction between his work and his play;
his labor and his leisure; his education and his recreation.
He simply pursues his vision of excellence
through everything he does, leaving others to
determine if he is working or playing. To
himself, it always appears to be both."
- François-René Augustus, Viscount de Chateaubriand

A lovely dear friend sent this to me in her kind response to a flippant remark I made. She is one who subscribes to this quote in a wonderful way, and in reading various news of her fun activities I carelessly asked when she has time to work. Let me confess here as I did to her that I was rightfully put in my place.

More importantly, I was inspired. I had become so engrossed in the details of my own work that I had forgotten to enjoy it. Not forcefully, I might add, as I really do love my work, but had reached a point where that feeling had become interpreted into continuous effort, rather than joy. How could I have forgotten to play? Or, to be exact, when did I start taking myself so seriously?

Environmental activists are always telling us to change just one habit in our daily lives that could make a difference. Such as turning the water off while you brush your teeth, installing a timer on your water boiler, replacing your regular light bulbs with energy efficient bulbs, and so on. I think I’m going to adopt their approach to return some zaniness into my life… and my office. Won’t be introducing whoopee cushions or trick chairs, but going to dig up some of my old desk toys, and maybe, just maybe, introduce a singing break every now and then.
And maybe I should also check out those paintball grounds I’ve been reading about…

But first, I’m hanging that quote on my wall as a little constant reminder.

Additional suggestions are welcome.

Rapunzel, Rapunzel…

When I read the fairy tale as a child, I marveled at the inventiveness of the unjustly imprisoned young woman in pulling her loved one up to her tower by throwing down her long, long hair. I also marveled at how strong her hair must have been.

I think of our lovely Rapunzel today as we sit here, hanging by a thread – or a hair – and curious to see if there’s something of her tactic that we can use to pull ourselves up. After all, we seem to be living a fictitious ‘reality’ over and over again, what’s to say we’re not in a position to bring fairytales to life?

The question that poses itself, however, is whether we’d be better off cutting that hair and falling down to some form of solid ground, or somehow sufficiently reinforcing it so that it can carry the weight of our disillusion and confusion. And if you think of it a little longer, you will wonder, like me, where we will find the strength to then climb upwards rather than to continue swaying in midair.

Fairytales were never this complicated… guess we really aren’t living in one after all.

Forgive me if I hesitate to celebrate

I don’t mean to be difficult, or cynical. I don’t mean to rain on your parade, Mr. President, and don’t take this as a personal opinion of your selection. We have had no choice in selections in the past, and you have easy shoes to fill from your bumbling predecessor. Don’t take this personally because, quite frankly, you haven’t done anything yet for me to judge.

You will all, however, forgive me if I hesitate to celebrate. In our tradition, one mourns the dead for 40 days, and I don’t want to be disrespectful with jubilations so soon after their passing. You will allow me a moment to digest my country’s incestual rape, to find ways to make peace with the violation. And though I may not have the right to ask you for this last bit, but I’m going to include it here anyway: you will allow me to grieve my broken faith, and the trust that has been shattered to pieces. What I had held as sacred was desecrated overnight. The pain does not stem from the fact that our neighbourhoods were attacked, but that they could be attacked, that our days and lives could be so inconsequential. The sacred that I refer to is our values as fellow members in a community, and our hope.
You must, therefore, forgive me, if I lack the enthusiasm with which you have painted over my city’s pain and scars, with which you are hiding our fear and anger.

This war flu we just experienced was gracious in only one aspect, in that it ended almost as quickly as it started. I can only be grateful for that. But though the symptoms have subsided, our recovery needs some time. Perhaps we may also need some convincing that the ‘disease’ has been eradicated when we can all see that its hosts are still … right… there.

A Note from Beirut

I have been tongue-tied these last few days. Try as I may to write something, if only for self-therapy, I could only come up with half-finished sentences and incoherent thoughts. But as I have kept some of you worried, I felt I at least owed you a little something, part description, part reassurance.

Let me start with the latter: we are all alright. A miracle of human nature and resilience, and in some cases, just miracles. For all the ammunition that was let loose in Beirut on Thursday and Friday, we emerged physically unharmed, where others were not as lucky. A miracle that bullets didn’t make it past my balcony, and loose shots that made it through some of my friends’ windows (one of which went through my lovely teenage niece's bedroom window) hit only furniture and walls. A miracle that friends who were suddenly cut off from their homes could find somewhere else safe in which to shelter. Darkened corners in our homes – corridors and bathrooms – became safe havens, and we were spared. One friend spent the night in the bathroom with her three children aged 6 years, 2 years, and 5 months, whereas her husband’s only possible route from work, a building that was attacked, was to exit Beirut. There were many others like them. Other friends took on the task of keeping armed fighters out of their buildings using only their negotiation and persuasion devices, and they succeeded, safely. And for all the fighting that took over my mountain on Sunday and Monday, family and friends remained safe. These have become my versions of modern day miracles.

I started by reassuring you that we’re fine, so I don’t write this to rile up sympathy or concern, but rather to document these last few days as they were to us, outside of political analysis and pontification. After remaining under pseudo house arrest for a couple of days, we slowly emerged onto the streets in our attempt to gradually reclaim our city. Schools remain closed, but we have all returned to our offices for a few hours a day. I lead my car as if I have just learned how to drive, paying attention to everything on the streets, taking in all signs of reassurance (more stores opening up) and caution. The phrase “cautious calm” best describes our status quo. Something in my lovely city, and country, has changed drastically and I am trying to reacquaint myself with it.
But today saw our real breakthrough, when our sense of humour broke out and pushed our spirits up. Laughter shall set you free!

I don’t know what the coming days will bring, but we are clearly all here for the long haul, and perhaps we’re now a little better prepared for it. Who knows.

One thing I do know is that I could not have made it through the last few days without the support of amazing family and friends. They will never know how much their messages and calls meant to me during this ordeal, and I equally cannot thank them enough for your support. I guess that’s another miracle – having people like them in my life. I hope I never have to return the favour under similar circumstances!!

There’s no place like home…

I have to write this out immediately if only to justify to myself how such a well-laid plan could fail so miserably. It was a simple premise – escape to somewhere peaceful, quiet and remote in the mountains to encourage me to focus on the last revisions required of my thesis. The fact that it was off-season I took to mean that the hotel would be quiet and, more importantly, cheap. Concerned friends asked if I was sure there would be food, or heating, and I was concerned about hygiene and towels, but I convinced myself that all criteria would be met and set off up the mountain.

After a few wrong turns, the type that mistakenly carry you through two tiny villages before you realize you must be off track, I finally arrived at my hotel. Its name contained the adjective ‘Grand’, which made me sit in my parked car next to the prophetic sign and stare up at this grand hotel. I should have stopped at the element of doubt that entered my mind at that point. I even debated for a moment whether to check out the rooms before carrying in my bag. Then again, I had done this before, had a similar feeling, and it turned out to be a pretty good experience. Guess lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place.

I’ll spare you all the details, but let me at least share some of the highlights…
I wasn’t given a key as no member of management was there, and was reassured that I would get one in the afternoon – this meant that I would need to be accompanied by one of the three staff in attendance any time I wanted to get back in.
As I was going up to the room, I was also told that the kitchen wasn’t open yet, perhaps in the evening, but nobody had felt like cooking that morning. Still in positive spirits, I brushed this setback off and filed through my memory to the last supermarket or snack shop I saw on the way up.
With absolutely no other guest at the hotel, I was given a room that overlooked the backyard and some rusty barrels, instead of the breathtaking view of the mountainside and coast. I asked if this could be rectified, and to their credit, they saw to it immediately (again, no one at the hotel). The room was identical, oddly cramped though not too small, perhaps due to the green, turf-like wallpaper. No matter, I continued to focus on the positives. I did, however, quickly figure out why that room had not been the management’s first choice. For one thing, it had no heating. A space heater was promptly provided that buzzzzzed when it was on. I pondered whether I could brave the temperature, but decided against it as it was high noon and pretty cold. The heater was soon adjusted, and all was well.
The deal-breaker, the final straw, was when I peeked into the bathroom. As I didn’t touch anything, I really can’t claim that standards of hygiene weren’t met, but I just couldn’t picture myself trying to shower in a no-tub, open-floor shower for four days.
My positive attitude lost the battle, I consoled my bruised ‘full of great ideas’ ego, and left. I decided I would try to do the work at home, and not correct anyone’s information that I was far away from Beirut. I will tell them all later, but perhaps I can recreate the retreat that I needed in the comfort and convenience of my own home.

Oddly, I felt the need to reassure the lovely Filipina who had checked me in that the hotel was lovely, but didn’t suit the type of space and quiet that I needed. A sucker till the last moment… but that’s what I get for picking hotels out of the yellow pages!

Sounds from a Beirut Café

Sunday evening and I find myself in a bustling Beirut café. I guess many people had my same idea of winding down this long Easter weekend in public rather than in private. I believe it is also related to the gust of gloriously warm Spring weather that now makes our indoor abodes, our warm comfort zone throughout this winter, a place we’d like to distance ourselves from.

The sounds certainly reflect it…
The music playing overhead is a vivacious Cuban band, and cheerful banter emanating from the tables seems to fit right in. We’ve got it all here – young and younger (!) single sex and mixed groups catching up, couples holed up in corners, and the random stray table with our new age couple: an individual and his/her laptop (present company included). Quite simply, you walk in and everything says: whatever fraction or multiple you are, we have a place for you here. Beirut streets and cafes have always been generous that way, and, not to belittle the gracious shelter from cold winter nights, I actually never appreciate them more than when they offer this private/public, indoor/outdoor space…

There’s a free table waiting…

Nostalgia

Another email arrived with photos of our lovely little country, in which the sender had insightfully pointed out “isn’t it interesting how we are nostalgic for Lebanon even though we’re living in it?”

How true. And what an appropriate observation to accompany the umpteenth email within the span of a few months that has been circulating with photos of Lebanon in the snow, Lebanon in the 1950s, Lebanon’s bewitching nature, Lebanon’s artisans and artists, and so on. We’re living right in the heart of the country, and we miss it. How did we become so estranged?

I’m not sure if I can, or need to, explain any of this. Think I'll just leave it here for now - the topic will no doubt come up again in other posts...

Neither Here Nor There

I went away for a few days on a business trip, the type of short and guilt-free getaway that I have come to relish as a brief escape from our chaotic days in Beirut. I must have been carrying with me much more than my little destination city could have handled, because instead of experiencing any detached escape, I found myself suspended between the two cities and continuously disoriented.

For all our capacities for worldly adaptation, our endemic status quo has imbued us with traits similar to war veterans or asylum inmates. Perhaps, to be fair, I shouldn’t assume that my compatriots feel as I do and specify that what I am describing here is how I feel. Or at least how I felt during three days when I was almost stepping outside myself to socialize ‘normally’ and find semi-objective, cryptic responses to enquiries about how Lebanon is doing. I felt like I was learning to speak again, drawing an utter blank when the questions were posed. It was like having a relative who is seriously ill, you can never stop thinking of them as you go about your day, and you’re not sure whether to burden others with your concern when, for all practical purposes, they are just being polite and considerate. After all, how could they understand how you’re feeling, or how this is affecting you, when you haven’t quite figured that out yourself? Their positive part is to encourage you to keep your chin up, your hopes high, and bravely stride through it all. I didn’t want to disappoint, so I reacted appropriately. Perhaps I also found some comfort in the familiarity of that role. Perhaps I found the suggested braveness somewhat empowering. That is, until I would walk out of that conversational bubble to find my reality unchanged.

I wondered if others could see the heavy cloud following me around like a balloon tied to my finger, sometimes high, sometimes low, but never too far behind. To resent the balloon implies rejecting your sick relative. To accept it is to concede that your relative may never be cured. You’re damned both ways and find yourself, once again, neither here nor there…

Lubnan Lebanon Libanus

Lebanon has disappeared among the sum of its parts. A mosaic that could, and should, bring us pride, lies today in a shambles, with no particular cohesive design. The dynamism of shifting parts has borne nothing but fuzzy, distorted, Picasso-like portraits that can only be understood by the artist, and frequently imbue drastically different meanings to the observer.

Something as simple as our national anthem, I feel, is often lost in translation. What is reciting it supposed to mean exactly? For some obscure reason, singing it always brings tears to my eyes. It also makes me feel guilty, as if I had fulfilled some national duty by its mere recital when there is so much real work to be done.

A trite American TV show kicks off with “Good Morning America”, and I think – that would never work here. An announcement like “Good Morning Lebanon” would certainly draw attention… as something odd and slightly alien. I mean, who do they mean exactly and what Lebanon do they speak of? And our conspiracy theory infested minds would wonder what political rhetoric the announcement fit into, or was trying to create. Couldn’t possibly be a call for a united identity, not after all the years where every political leader drilled into our heads that our versions of Lebanon are diametrically opposed and mutually exclusive.

It takes us a while to realize that there is no art or creativity in monochoromed canvases. Even if the palette consists of only one colour, the painting only becomes one if there is some variety in shades or textures. The little people, like you and me, realize this as we stare at paintings searching for ourselves. Sadly, those holding the paintbrushes remain stoically unimaginative, moving across any striking patches like a censor’s ugly black marker, because they cannot control what they do not understand.

I am holding onto my Lebanon, as I hope we all do, so that I am prepared when we finally get a turn to step up to the canvas.

Black

Another friend has passed away. As the third installment here in the relatively young age of my blog to mention death, I won’t go into any analysis or expression about it. What could I possibly add? Besides, I had only known Ibrahim for a few months, and what stays with me, what lingers like a bad taste in the pit of my stomache is how sudden it all was. How quickly he became a part of our days, and how he then abruptly left us as if in mid-sentence, or in Ibrahim’s case, in mid-life.

Having been struck by a number of losses recently, I found myself closing up to this loss, not wanting to feel it or empathize with his family. At least not as deeply as I usually do. This reflected itself in my resistance to wearing black, not in prolonged mourning which is unnecessary, but for any length of my day longer than the duration of the funeral. As a result, I ended up doing something I do not think I have ever done – I actually carried a change of clothing with me to work so that I could change into the appropriately black attire when it was time to make my way to the church, not a moment earlier. As someone who thrives on efficiency and multi-functional outfits, this was totally out of character for me.

I have come to detest black. With this comes a self-explanatory confession that I do not understand people who dress in black from head to toe for the purposes of fashion or to seem slimmer. I also don’t understand people who don it in mourning for periods that far far exceed their time of grief. The social purposes of that totally elude me. Which is ironic because one of the main reasons for which I now detest black is precisely for all its associations with times when I was in mourning. Though I always found it comforting in the first few days when I would feel that the black was sucking out my sadness and emptiness, this was always followed by a feeling of suffocating claustrophobia. No doubt reflections of my personal mourning process… and who would want to keep remembering what they were feeling then?

So, as I was saying, I hate black. Whereas classy in parts with splashes of pure, bright colour, I find it burdensome when displayed in continuous, uninterrupted form. It takes on a life of its own that I would rather put aside rather than be reminded of. If you’re thinking that it’s a life that I’ve actually created in my own perception, you’re absolutely right. But guess what – my blog, my irrational ramblings… deal with it!

Memory of Survival vs. Memory of Loss

The country is divided. Nothing new, but I am referring to yet another type of division – between those raring to go into war, and those desperately wanting to avoid it.

As these different opinions repeat themselves in various conversations, they have pushed me to wonder what really separates the two. Are they two faces of the same coin? Another glass half full / half empty dichotomy, essentially meaning that it’s the same situation viewed from two different perspectives? I’m not sure. But as I analysed this a little more closely, this is what I noticed –

I have dubbed those edging towards war as those feeding off memories of survival. The memories of survival seem to stem from pride; a pride that we have survived all this, and if need be, we can do it again. That is, the game hasn’t changed, the same tools of war are all we see, and we are ready to face them again. Pride also that we will not back down for the sake of what matters to us. We will put up with random militia raids, with shortages in power, water and food, we will home-school children, we will send our children abroad to safety as we move to different homes… In short, that we will survive an irrationally crazy situation if that is our only way out.

The memories of loss reflect on the same events, remember them as irrationally crazy, and wonder why we had to be put in that context to begin with. They realize that survival, valiant as it may have been, wasn’t a choice, it was a necessity. The memories of loss recognise the sacrifices; of days, lives or hopes; and shudder at the thought of having to live with that again. Shudder at the thought of having to live beyond that again; for the survival they remember extended past the ceasefire to the arduous task of piecing their lives together again when the guns were laid down.

I’m not sure if the proponents of this second group have identified different tools, if they have found the alternative to war. My own feeling is that they’re our only hope for finding one.

One last note that also came to mind – when speaking of the civil war, nobody seems forthcoming with memories of victory. Think maybe that’s a sign…

The New Internet Age of Passive Communication

There was a time when I wrote letters. I remember this well – the attention to my stationary, stickers to be used as a seal or just funky decoration, remembering to write “By Air Mail” to avoid confusion as to other possible methods of transport, taking care to ensure I write the address legibly (part of my paranoia that it will be sent to a different street… or continent!). This part was actually pure fun, which we then expanded on with what we placed inside. I once wrote a friend an entire letter on an airline barf bag, used every available surface area (external, of course). I wrote another as a spiral starting from the edge of a page, or as non-consecutive, but numbered, boxes… And if you think I have a twisted mind, let me point out that these methods were either copied or inspired from what others had done to me, which I suppose could also only mean that ‘birds of a feather flock together’.

But I digress as I wax and wane nostalgically like an old lady rocking on her porch, or Mediterranean veranda. The point is not only in the directed effort for individual lines of communication, but rather that we were aware of who we were communicating with and actively shared news and views with them. Each piece of communication was a little different, was not necessarily comprehensive as much as carrying what we most wanted to share with our correspondent at that time. Furthermore, receiving a letter frequently triggered a need for acknowledgement, leading to a response, and the cycle of communication maintained momentum.

The introduction of email facilitated this process in many ways. And with that grew the demand to communicate with more people, and at a quicker pace. Fortunately, email contained the tricks that allowed us to do this – copying and pasting parts written in one email into another, mass emails, one liners… It was all done in good faith, but communication started its slippery slide towards what would become more impersonal.

Today, we maintain blogs, have turned ‘facebooking’ into a verb, and seem to write as if to ourselves, while we lay back and passively expect others to read all about us. I don’t write this in criticism, which would be utterly hypocritical as I partake in both facilities. Rather, I point this out as I self-reflect on two realizations: (a) that I’m always pleasantly surprised by who does read all about me, compared to who I thought would, and (b) that I’m consistently missing out on communicating with friends I would have normally written to regularly who are, sadly, not blog surfers or facebookers. I suppose I’m writing this in part as confession, and in part as apology – I have slid down the easy path to passive communication, and not sure how to find my way out.

I’ll keep working on it… promise!

I Danced in Baalback

It wasn’t truly an intricate dance, but it was dabke. And it wasn’t around the Baalback ruins, or the temples that usually house great performances. Wasn’t exactly in front of the grand pillars that served as the backdrop of our annual dabke performances in school.

But it was in Baalback. And it was dabke. If you haven’t already guessed, the two go hand in hand in these parts.

And there was someone from the Hamieh family in attendance, which is coincidentally the same family as our late dabke teacher / trainer / wonderful man. I’m not sure why I found the incident so special, but I did. I suspect it was for the reasons that I’ve just rambled off, but I think also that the occasion was my momentary crashing of a dabke class in which a group of lovely women of all ages (and I mean ALL ages) were diligently learning their first steps. To find them there after emerging from a depressing meeting that was weighed down with a continuous series of miserable, hard facts about the impoverished situation of their region was … uplifting!

I can’t thank them enough for letting me partake…

I Will Not Let You In!

You may blacken my skies, cut off my streets, restrict the air that we breathe
But I will not let you in
You may make it impossible to plan, to look ahead hopefully, to look beyond our mere survival
But I will not let you in
You may continue to bubble underground, but despite you
Our children will be born and will grow in a country that we will continue to love
The flowers will bloom, trees will carry their leaves again, the earth will bear its fruits
And our sea will rock us into our usual therapeutic dance
Despite you, we will cook our traditional meals, celebrate our holidays with family and friends
We will get out of bed every morning, every day, and go about our work, sure as the sun rises and sets.

You will haunt us in our moments of rest or idle thought
You will infest our conversations, our jokes, our songs, our writings
But let me make this perfectly clear – though you may follow me like a shadow, WAR, I WILL NOT LET YOU IN!

On the Streets of Beirut These Days…

Driving in Beirut has always been a challenge to one’s patience, good graces and wits. I love driving in this city partly because I simply love driving, and partly because, on a day when I am particularly stressed and trying to contain it as best I can, the streets will always offer me an opportunity to yell at the top of my lungs and r-e-l-e-a-s-e. Don’t underestimate the therapeutic effects of screaming at another car behind locked doors and closed windows.

The scene is a little different these days, however. For one thing, road, tunnel and bridge constructions, and other detour-causing activities, have produced more bottle necks than over-extended, irate traffic policemen. This becomes ever more apparent when you hear a siren and use every spare accident-missing inch to try and make way. But that’s not all… With the state of affairs the way it is, you wonder where the ambulance is coming from, and if the poor soul being urgently rushed needs medical care for illness, accident or clash. You edge a little closer to the sidewalk, curve into the corner behind that other car. You are relieved to hear the siren steadily approaching, making its way to its destination. The siren is now next to you, you look over to find that it’s a police car… and it’s not alone. The car is part of a short convoy, and the car in the middle is tinted, bullet-proof and unmarked. Only one thought comes to mind now: car-bomb target!!! You do everything short of abandoning your car and running in the opposite direction. The realization makes its way down the queue of cars like a rolling wave, and space is fearfully carved out for the convoy, followed by a moment of stillness; nobody moves until we’re quite certain the car is in continuous motion and has reached a safe distance away. Moment over – and we all rush to take advantage of the fresh free space to speed towards our own destinations, instantaneously recreating our earlier traffic jam.

Typical day on the streets.

Home

Inspired by a ‘No Comment’ segment on Euronews this week*

Picture this: you’ve been out on what feels like a very long day. You’ve managed to get some of your errands done, but others have been postponed yet again to another day. You’re tired, you haven’t eaten right, your feet are throbbing, aching to tear out of your shoes and breathe. You’ll be home in a little while. You can already anticipate that sense of security when you walk through the front door and shut out the world. The book you were reading will still be next to your favourite chair, you’ve already started craving the leftovers in the fridge, and you can’t wait to treat yourself to a soothing shower, to curl up into your bed, your pillow, with that lingering detergent scent that reminds you of your mother and laundry day as a child. Maybe you’ll go through some of the old photos to cheer yourself up, listen to the worn down tape your friends made for your 25th birthday. It’s been a tough day, but you will soon be home, and you will be safe.

As you approach, you feel a strangeness, something has changed, is out of place, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. With a hollow, sinking feeling you realize that what has moved is your house. It is, simply, no longer there. Your neighbours count you lucky because you weren’t at home when they came, so you weren’t dragged out by four soldiers, piled into a truck and forced to watch the bulldozer make its repetitive, predatory blows. You stare blankly at the space, the ghost of a home now replaced by bulldozed, flattened bricks, pipes, tiles… clothes, sheets, books, photos…

I can’t picture the rest of that scene, cannot for a moment imagine the depths of the ensuing confusion and loss.

Can you?


* Scenes were from a village near Nablus, Palestine.

Mis-Politics

When I was a child, in the midst of various news broadcasts that carried news of war in what I was told was my home country, I developed a complete and utter aversion to politics. I basically thought anything political was evil and to be ignored. As I grew into a pseudo-activist university student, inserting myself in the world outside my school walls, I began to re-think that long-held opinion and realized I needed to learn more about what was going on in the world of politics. At that point, I began to idealistically consider politics and its tactics as clever, unarmed strategies for socio-political change (as university students would).

Now, many years later, I’m beginning to think that my first opinion as a 4-year old was actually more on the dot. Politics are evil. Or, perhaps I should be fair to the academic and intellectual world of politics and specify that politics as is now being practiced on the world stage is more akin to mis-politics, and is malicious at the very least, if not outright evil.

Our current mis-politics are no longer unarmed, and far from clever. Or perhaps I have become a little smarter. How does that saying go? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me… Shame on us indeed. The tactics are too obvious, the deals are too cheap, and our lives do not hang in the balance, they plainly don’t count for anything.
How did we become so devalued? And how did the standards of admission to this group of ‘world leaders’ become so skewed as to plummet so far down the negative scale?

If you’ve been following mid-east politics, then you would not be wrong in assuming that this little rant is influenced by yesterday’s events – a car bomb in Beirut and shelling in Gaza. All to commemorate Bush’s trip to the region, where he comes with gifts of arms deals or the like in exchange for, what else, leverage. Can't understand how he expects to solve anything by bringing MORE arms into the region. And this leverage, love it - leverage that helps sweep some of these pesky regional problems under the carpet so that he can exit his presidential term with a seemingly neat slate, which his successor will trip over. What’s more, they will trip over us. Again.

How pathetic… when will we ever learn…

First post of the new year…

You’re going to laugh at this. In one of several “So what are your resolutions for the new year?” conversations, I found myself waxing philosophically and saying “that the only audience I care about is me”. How appropriate for someone who maintains a blog, dontcha think?

Well, let me also say that I have grown so accustomed to writing in this space that I won’t be disappearing any time soon. Even though what I have been writing in the last couple of weeks has been a little too personal or private to post, even anonymously, I will be reverting back here very soon.

In the meantime, hope your new year is off to a great start!