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!!