Good bye Beirut

I was in front of the Olayan School of Business at AUB, overlooking the Mediterranean, and I had just finished lunch.The breeze was warm and there was a huge yellow cat stretching next to my table and enjoying the sun. Women were strolling on the Corniche chatting, one veiled and dressed fully in black, the other one wearing a Micky Mouse shirt that fell off one of her shoulders.Young people on the AUB beach were jumping into the sea. Fishermen smoked and chatted while patiently waiting for the catch of the day.

I told myself:  "I am really going to miss Beirut."

I found out about 8 weeks ago that I am leaving Beirut. For good.

This was a long overdue move at work, something that I knew had to come at some point.The news came and I felt a wave of euphoria and excitement wash over my entire being. A new adventure for this Mexican!

But a few hours later, an eerie silence took place instead. And the following days the sentence "this might be the last time that I... (fill the blank)" started popping in my head, every time I saw a friend, or visited a restaurant, a shop or a building.

Good byes are always difficult.

So I got into the "getting things done" mode. I packed and booked flights for my upcoming trip. I found a new temporary home for my husband, my cat and I. I cleaned up the apartment and my office and sold my car. I scheduled good bye dinners and meetings. I've been eating at any chance I get Manoushe, Knefe and loads of Mezze.

The reality is that I have been unwilling to ponder upon what this all means. How do you say good bye to a place you called home for 4 years? And especially, how do you say goodbye to Lebanon? Beautiful Lebanon?

I decided to do things I had never done and meant to. So the other day I took the Teleferique off Jounieh and visited Harissa (Can you believe that in 4 years, I had never been??).

Source: http://www.lebanonbynet.com/

In Harissa, there is a statue of our Lady of Lebanon, overlooking the country. It was built in 1908, and some people say that during the Lebanese Civil War the statue turned to look towards Beirut when the city was under siege. That is why it is facing South and not towards the sea.

When I was on top of the hill, with the statue next to me, I was amazed once more by the beauty of this country, with its gorgeous mountains and coastline. I looked around me and I saw men, women and children from all backgrounds walking around and having a peaceful time on a Sunday morning.

I looked up and saw the Lady's peaceful and benevolent face looking back down at me. I closed my eyes and everything that Lebanon has meant to me, the wonderful, the scary, the love and the hate, the bombs and the beauty, all hit me at once. And I asked her "Please take care of this country beautiful Lady. Please take care of my friends".

I will miss you Lebanon. 

May you be peaceful. 

May you be safe.

Shoukran kteer. Bishoufkon qariban inshallah. 

And thank you to all the readers who followed me in this wonderful adventure! 

Lebanese visitors

G. is a young professional that I hired as a consultant a few months back in my office. She is highly educated, ambitious and very talented. She works hard and delivers good quality results.

S. is a talented and cheerful musician that I meet every week for violin practice. Besides the fact that she has the patience of a saint, she truly is a great teacher. She studied with a Russian professor, and has an opening to continue her studies in Germany starting this summer.

What do these two young women have in common? They are both from Syria.

G. visits her family in Damascus a couple of times a year, especially for weddings. She drives there from Beirut (just for a couple of hours, really) and says that besides the checkpoints, the drive is actually not that bad. She tells me with a melancholic air in her eyes that there are fewer and fewer places in her city left to visit. She tells me that she had a successful business back home and shows me her portfolio. When I confess that I never visited Damascus, her eyes widen and she exclaims, "The old Souk in Damascus is the most beautiful place in the world!”

S. was not her usual cheerful self the other day during class. When I asked her what was going on, she told me the German embassy had not been giving appointments for visas for months. Weeks later, she announced that she didn't get her a visa and hence would have to decline her attendance to the German music school. She asked me if I knew anyone who needed a secretary.

In conversations, they both have told me about their friends, cousins and other young people who are not as lucky as they are. They tell me about the countless times that after a job interview, a talented young professional is told "We don't hire Syrians here".

It is sobering to realize that when their country is at war and they have left everything behind, these young people have to deal with the stigma of being Syrian on top of it all. And they will probably face it for their entire lives. 

I know these two young women will prevail no matter what life throws at them. However, I wonder how many of their dreams, hopes, plans and projects have been put on hold, perhaps indefinitely.

No matter what people say, no one will ever convince me that anyone gained anything from this war. If young people lost, so did everyone else. 

Lebanon's nonevents

This morning I woke up, brushed my teeth and went to work. Normal day.

However, by 10 am I had received four e-mails from security services, followed by text messages, followed by me looking at the news, followed by me calling my husband to prevent him about a protest here, closed street there, army presence here, checkpoint there... Downtown was full of trucks with young armed soldiers wearing their "I mean business" look.

My morning went by.

I went out to grab a bite with my colleagues around 1 pm and all streets in downtown were still closed. We had to walk around for four blocks in order to find an opening in the barbed wire wall that the security forces had put up in the morning.  My colleagues and other pedestrians were merrily chatting and walking on the deserted streets, while taking selfies and joking about how wonderful it would be if the streets remained car-free.

When we came back an hour later, a group of 10 soldiers and maintenance workers were pulling back meters and meters of barbed wire into a very ingenious three-pronged contraption on the back of a truck that kept the barbed wire neatly stored. It was like a scene after a parade of some sorts, with that eerie silence that follows a loud event, only interrupted by the swoosh of brooms sweeping the dirty street floors.

But this had been no parade, of course. Judging by the many meters of barbed wire, the authorities had feared the worst and were really preparing for the worse case scenario.

I arrived back to my office, and it really dawned on me. None of all those things that we were worrying about, notified about, warned about, briefed about and informed about happened.  What did happen in reality was that people took the streets of Beirut this morning because Parliament was voting on a law that would entitle a public entity's contractors with benefits and a more stable employment status. Judging by what I read in the news, the outcome was positive. Then everyone went home.

What happened in my mind was the effect of the series of e-mails, text messages, soldiers, guns in the street and meters and meters of barbed wire.

Was all that really necessary? Aren't we all overreacting?

I spent my entire day fearing for something really, really serious to happen. And then my day went by, uneventful. I arrived home, exhausted. Being paranoid is really tiring.

Counting Lebanese Blessings

 Another bomb. Another heart breaking news piece. Another pang of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Another sleepless night with my cat. In situations like this, the only think I can do is to count my blessings. 

So that is what I did last night. 

And while doing it, I started counting my Lebanese blessings as well. These are the people who inspire me incredibly, the ones that you seldom here about in the news.

The news only portray the bad stuff... These days, it is important to focus on the good.

Therefore, I present to you my list of Lebanese blessing (in no particular order):

The folks from Animals Lebanon. They work day in and day out, rescuing abandoned, beaten and abused animals. They take them in, heal them, love them, and find them homes, sometimes abroad. They do this with very little money and pretty much zero government support. Just because they care.

The folks at Souk El Tayeb. They bring together local producers and consumers, and they also have this awesome restaurant called Tawlet with the most amazing Lebanese food. They offer cooking classes, raise awareness about the importance of eating local and give jobs to Syrian refugees. My heart goes to them.

The young people from Onomatopeia, a new music hub/music school/gig central that just opened in Ashrafieh. This quirky place, filled with talent is an amazing space to go have a coffee and listen to good music (and maybe play some). The owners are young people with a huge heart and amazing vision who built the place from the concept to the handmade furniture. They have created a unique and very needed musical haven in this crazy city.

My people from Toastmasters Lebanon. These is a group of young professionals, from all confessional backgrounds, who come together every week to practice public speaking, support each other, develop leadership skills and have fun. I only wish people in Lebanon could be as accepting, honest and open-minded as these young professionals. Every time you go to a meeting, you feel energized and can't help smiling. And where you come from or what you believe in is never an issue to be part of this group.

Mahmoud the fruit vendor (no link unfortnatelly). He has the best customer service I have ever seen. He works 14-hour days, every day of the week. And he is always smiling. Every time I come to see him, he calls me a princess and gives me an extra lemon. There is no coincidence that despite all the small convenience stores that open around the block, people keep coming back to Mahmoud.

So this is my Lebanon. The one I like to live in. The one I like to talk about. You can call me a naïve or a silly optimist, I don’t care.

I’d much rather focus my attention on my Lebanese blessings. 

Lebanese Trash

When I was little, my parents used to take the family on amazing road-trips. We would pack our bags, and set off to an unknown and exciting destination. Depending on the direction we went, we would inevitably pass the enormous dumpsters that surrounded some parts of Mexico City back in the 1980s.
We would joke about the horrible smell and hope to pass the piles of trash as soon as possible. Even then, at a very young age, I knew there was something really wrong about just dumping stuff on the land like that.

Years later, I witnessed a similar trash travesti somewehere else. I was visiting Saida in the south of Lebanon over a weekend, and I stumbled upon the most gigantic mountain of trash I had ever seen.

Source: across cultures

According to the Lebanese Ministry of the Environment, Lebanon generates about 1.5 million tones of trash every year.  From all this waste, only 17% gets recycled or composted.  51% of this waste goes to landfills, better known as dumps.  But this is not the only problem…  40% of Lebanon’s garbage, that is over 32,000 tons, ends up in illegal and non-regulated dumps every year.

This is about 88 tons of waste in the open air, every day.

Some attribute the problem of Solid Waste Management (SWM) to a much bigger issue, which is political indecision. In a 2011 report published by UNDP and the Ministry of the Enviroment, the problem of Solid Waste Management is linked to a lack of long term vision and political commitment and concensus. The Lebanese Goverment has been relying on and "Emergency Plan for Solid Waste Management" for the Beirut/Mount Lebanon area that has been in effect since 1997 (that is a loooong emergency).  This plan effectively gives the Sukkar Engineering Group (a.k.a Sukleen) the monopoly to collect, treat, and landfill solid waste from an area serving about 2 million people (364 towns and municipalities). Leaving the controversies linked to Sukleen's system costs, and effectiveness of sorting and composting plants aside, we can say that effectively, little has been done to manage trash in a sustainable and effective way in Lebanon.

Recently, citizens decided to block the entrance to Sukleen trucks to one of the landfills. The reason behind this blockade is that citizens and NGOs have started protesting against the effects the Naameh landfill is having on their living conditions and overall quality of life. They are demanding the goverment to find an alternative to the landfill and for the stipulations of the landfill contract to be enforced (i.e. burry waste, limits to the types of waste allowed, restriction on quantities...). In fact, the Naameh landfill opened in 1997 and was set to operate for six years. The date came and went, and the landfill exceeded its capacity and height a long time ago.

Confrontations between the protesters and the Lebanese Internal Security Forces have taken place and Sukleen has stopped picking up trash, which resulted in small mountains of waste quickly accumulating in the streets of many cities.

Now it turns out that after all these years, I get to have my own mountain of trash in the corner of my street. Here's a photo of the pile (accumulated in only a few days). Even street cats are starting to avoid it.

Lebanese Precautions

Let's face it: welcoming 2014 with a bomb was not exactly starting the year on a positive note.

And this means naturally that security is tighter everywhere in Lebanon. It means that when you enter the supermarket parking lot, your hood, trunk and car bottom will be checked. It means that when you step into an official building, you will go through the metal detector or have a security guard swipe next to your bag that little thing that looks like a cricket paddle that beeps (sorry, I don't know the exact technical name). It means that when you go to the mall, it feels like you are about to board an international flight (empty your pockets, put your things in a little tray, etc.). So if you go to the movies, get there 2 hours in advance...

It also means you get text messages on your phone asking you to avoid this and that area, telling you to step away from balconies, advising you to avoid unecesary movements (does that include the dance floor?), and informing you through lenghty descriptions of every single incident that happened in the country. We can't travel North, we can't travel South, we can't go East, and West, well, it's the sea.
So, it seems like the only safe place left in Lebanon is my couch with my cat (under a blanket, because it's freezing... ahem, for Lebanon's standards).

I get it, I get, we need to be careful, vigilant and on guard.

But honestly, there are some security measures that I just don't get... Such as the tank in front of the mall.

Are we really expecting a full military operation there?

And what's up with the security personel and their little antenas to detect bombs in parking lots?

Source: ABC News

Come on guys, even I (not exactly a security expert) know that those don't work! It's even on Wikipedia!

In a tense environment like the one we are living in Lebanon, it is important to remain vigilant. But we shouldn't live in a state of total paranoia. The best thing one can do is to stay alert. And if everything else fails, I will follow my Dad's words of wisdom (applicable to any situation, including dates): "If something doens't feel right honey, you just run in the opposite direction".

PS: Little musical bonus if you think you are paranoid...

Lebanese Hair

Hair salons are a dime a dozen in my neighborhood. I mean, in a 2 block radius from my apartment, there are 6 of them. In any other context, this would be a perfect example of market saturation. How can all these businesses stay open or be possibly making money? Where are the clients coming from?

You don't have to be a sharp observer to notice that hair is a big thing in Lebanon. I personally had never seen hairdos like the ones I have seen in Beirut. Big curls, hair extensions, highlights, low lights, wigs... you see it all. And the sophistication, intricacy and complexity of some Lebanese hairdos make the most elaborate styles from other parts of the world look like mere poney tails.

But I didn't understand the extent of the perfect hair culture until one morning at the office. It was about 9 am, and I was rushing through the door when I noticed that my Lebanese colleague was looking particularly polished that day.When I commented on her new look, she just brushed it off by saying "Oh, I just went to the salon this morning".
"What time did you go?" I asked, intrigued. She proceeded to explain that she whatsapps her stylist whenever and he will come to the salon next to her house, rain or shine, and as early as needed.

I thought this was a bit extreme... In my world, you need an on demand stylist if you are in the show business or the President. But after doing a little survey among my Lebanese friends, I corroborated to my surprise that going to the hair salon before work is not only a pretty common practice but also considered completely normal. Apparently, for little more than 10 dollars, you can get a hairdo whenever you want and spend the rest of your day having a fabulous hair day.

Once, I arrived to a meeting and a female colleague asked me with a tone of excitement "Who did your hair?"
I looked at her a little confused. She was certainly not implying that my Mum still does my hair or something like that and she was looking at me with a big smile (which in my mind meant she was not being mean).
I hesitantly replied "Hum... me." (I had a braid).
"Whaaat?"she said impressed. " Where did you learn to do that?"
I kept staring at her not knowing what to say. She then explained to me that in Lebanon, there are places where you can go get your hair done by really famous people, and then you can tell others that "so and so" did your hair. Like a brand name for your hair. Lebanese sophistication at its prime.

On another note, I have found in Lebanon that for the most part, hair salons are run and operated by men. In Mexico, there are some men in hair salons, but I would say 9 times out of 10 hair salons are run by women. And to make it more interesting, here in Lebanon, I have gotten my hair done by men who wouldn't fit the stereotype in my mind of what a "stylist" looks like (i.e. purple highlights, tight leather pants, open shirts with waxed chests, plucked eye brows, etc.). As a matter of fact, the last person who did my hair was a 30 year old man with a 3 day unshaved beard, button down shirt, jeans and Converse, who left to watch the soccer match in a little TV as soon as he was done with my hair.

There is no doubt that hair salons play a key role in Lebanon's day to day life, and I got to experience that firsthand. I was walking around Byblos (North of Beirut), with some time in my hands and I decided to go to a little salon, and ask for a "brushing" (a blow dry). Instantly, I was immersed in the neighborhood's life. In the few Arabic words I picked, I learned about who was getting married that evening, got offered some food and coffee, received expert advice on a wide variety of products, and got asked about every single detail of my life (including the reasons why I don't have blond highlights- which is a very bad thing here). The people in the salon seemed all like they knew each other very well,  like family.

And I understood that the hair salon is much more than just a place where you get a hair done. It is a place where you socialize, get beautified and connected, get special attention, and catch up on the latest and greatest neighborhood gossip. When things are tense and stressful, there is no better place than the hair salon.

No wonder why there are so many of them.

Lebanese Amnesia

A little over a month ago, I wrote a post about fear and how tense I felt about the "situation" in Lebanon. I say "situation" because whenever I gather with my friends to talk about politics, the economy, regional issues, refugees, bombs, attacks, violence, tire burning, road closures or all of the above, we refer to it as "the situation".

However, lately the discussions about "the situation" have subsided, not because less events are taking place (I mean over the weekend there was a shooting between Bab Tebbaneh & Jabal Mohsen,  an "Energa" grenade fell on Syria Street in Tripoli, and Syrian troops infiltrated Lebanese territory, bombing two houses), but because things have gone back to "normal".

As I have mentioned in this blog before, what is considered "normal" in Lebanon is definitely subject to debate. But life has gone back to normal in Lebanon I guess, judging by all the art shows, movie festivals, concerts, restaurants, traffic jams and shopping. The streets are busy, the businesses are open, people are travelling...

I was at a dinner party a couple of days ago and I was discussing this with some Lebanese friends. I expressed my surprise about how quickly everyone had forgotten about last month's crisis, when some countries threatened to bomb Syria, or how no one mentioned all the violent incidents occurring not only in Tripoli, but in many other places as well.

A young woman looked at me and told me "Well, what are we supposed to do, then?".  I responded based on the little experience I have with dealing with collective trauma, which is what I have witnessed in the US. Over there, whenever there is a shooting or a terrorist attack, there is an immediate response with hot-lines, support groups, movies, documentaries, talk shows, magazine articles, blogs, Facebook pages, and so on and so forth.

"Here in Lebanon, people just move on", she said. "We have to move on".

And then it really dawned on me: imagine if every time there was a shooting in Tripoli, or an explosion in the North, people took the time stop and actually consider what it meant.

On the one had, this could be an important introspection exercise, in order to discontinue a vicious cycle of violence. But on the other, the country would be paralyzed for months, if not years.

I would argue that the Lebanese just move on with their lives not because the "situation" is less painful, but because they can't afford to stop. I guess the happy and peaceful times are fewer and far between so it is better to opt for a momentary collective amnesia.

The more time I spend in Lebanon, the clearer it becomes that these intermittent crises, followed by times of "quiet" is what is normal here. I wouldn't personally advice amnesia, as I think one of the worse things we can do to ourselves is reducing our standards of what is an acceptable living condition or not take the time to heal.

But when there are no other options... "What are we supposed to do, then?"


 

Mexican lies, Lebanese lies?

An inherent part of traveling is comparison. I know I shouldn't, but in a recent trip to Mexico, I couldn't help comparing my country with my current home, Beirut.

Maybe this comparison derives naturally from the fact that most people I meet in Mexico ask me at some point during the conversation "How are things in Beirut?". In order to give a quick answer and not to fall into a lengthy debate, I try to put things into context.

Like the fact that 1.17 million Syrians arriving to Lebanon in the past 2 years is like 25 million people arriving to Mexico in the same amount of time. Or like when an article in the newspaper says there was a bomb in Lebanon, the event occurs for the most part in very specific locations (for the time being), just like most drug-related violence in Mexico occurs in key states in the country.

I wonder if these comparisons are not only a way of simplifying a complex matter to someone who is not familiar with the Lebanese context or my new way to tell people that things are not as bad as they sound. In deed, I have recently developed a need to tell people this, that things are not as bad as they sound.

Probably to make myself believe it.

But interestingly enough, I have been doing the same thing in Lebanon, when people ask me about Mexico. I talk about the positive things, describe beautiful landscapes and present violence and abuse as isolated incidents, and not part of every day life.

Is this lying?

I tell myself that I have some wiggle room when describing "the situation" in Lebanon or in Mexico, since it is unclear at what point car bombs, executions, or kidnappings become an every day fact of life (if they ever do). I mean, there is violence both in Lebanon and Mexico every day, but don't we want to believe that these are in fact unusual, isolated events? Doesn't this rationalization somehow make our anxiety (angoisse, as the French say) easier to bare?

I think this is why when we read the news, we hear the account of events (it is hard to say "facts" at this point) and the corresponding political, economic or social analysis. But we rarely hear people talk about their fear.

However, this fear is very real to me lately. I feel it in the pit of my stomach every time I hear "Lebanon" in the news. I feel it when I leave the country (what if something happens when I am gone?) or when I arrive after a trip (what if something happens when I am here?). This silent fear has become my companion, but I diligently hide it behind the "things are not that bad", "life goes on", or "one has to live" comments I say over and over to make things OK.

Life does go on, and one does have to live, with or without fear. But I wonder if we allowed ourselves to feel the fear, acknowledge it and talk about it with one another, we would soon realize how much we all have to loose.  We would see our experience and our enemies' and not only our position. And we would perhaps find our way back to our common humanity, the one that keeps us from harming, killing and annihilating each other.

The Lebanese Way

Celebratory gunfire is a concept that someone not from Lebanon wouldn't really get when first introduced to it... 

I initially thought it meant really scary people with AK-47s and covered faces shooting in the air and terrorizing the population and that war was coming very soon.

But then a couple of weeks ago, there were a lot of bangs in the street for a few days. I didn't want to panic so I started my little usual inquiry: I checked my e-mail. And indeed, there was a message from my employer saying, "Celebrations for the end of exams are taking place. Celebratory gunfire shouldn't be discarded. Please remain away from windows."

I looked at my Lebanese colleague and asked: "What do they mean, celebratory gunfire for the exams? Celebratory as in yay-I-passed-celebratory?"

She smiled at me and said " Yeeeesss, people are celebrating the Lebanese way." 

The Lebanese Way. This is a concept even trickier than celebratory gunfire. And an endless source of inspiration, I dare say. 

The Lebanese Way applies to pretty much anything that a foreigner finds odd. And it is sometimes the only way a Lebanese can explain to foreigner why things are the way they are, when all reason fails.

There have been two instances where the Lebanese Way has worked to my advantage, so this is not like a bad thing at all.

The first time this happened was when I got locked out of my apartment on a Saturday night. I called my Landlord and explained the situation, super apologetic (I mean, how could he find a locksmith at that time?). He said "No problem", showed up 10 minutes later munching on pumpkin seeds, and with a huge envelope on hand. He looked at me bright-eyed and said lifting his envelope "I brought my tools" (I was intrigued).

Out of the envelope came an X-ray... of a mammogram (I was very intrigued at that point). He passed the X-Ray between the door and the wall, and "click", the door was open. "This is how we open doors," he said, "the Lebanese Way."

The other time I was saved was when I got stuck in my building's elevator. The power went off when I was inside, and the generator didn't kick in. I started shouting "Ascenseur" because I had no clue how you say “Elevator” or “I am stuck” in Arabic.

I was really, really hot, and it was dark, and I was late for a meeting. I started freaking out (just a little) because in Lebanon it's not like you call 911 and the fire fighters show up. So I was banging the door for 10 minutes when I heard a small voice on the other side say, "Wait, wait just a moment".

I stepped back, heard a metallic sound and the door opened. I found myself not in front of firefighters, but face to face with two young women. They were holding a long metal hook. They then showed me the little hole on the top of the door so next time someone gets stuck, I know what to do. I was very grateful for the Lebanese Way that day.

So in absence of services or of a solid infrastructure, people find solutions. And I must say the Lebanese Way is creative, certainly ingenious, and a little defiant... A rule broken here and bent there, but basita, it's not a big deal, right?  

How about you? Have you ever been saved by the Lebanese Way?

Fifty Shades of Lebanese Grey

A few weeks ago, I woke up on a Saturday morning and did what everyone does: I checked my e-mail. I had 2 messages awaiting in my inbox: one, from the security services saying that there had been a violent clash in Tripoli and residents were leaving the area. Two, an invitation to a beach party in Batroun.

Source: Lonely Planet

Go along the coast line up North. Yup, that is about a 30 kms (18.6 miles) distance between the two places. In my book, that is not very far. How is this possible?

Well, this is the perfect example of the illusion of war, or that of peace. While something devastating, violent and horrifying is happening, life goes on in other places. I knew that intellectually, I mean, violence and war are occurring in many places in the world as we speak. I just had never experienced it this close. 

Recently, I've had to face my pre-conceived notion about what war (or peace) looks like. In my mind, when there is war in a country, then all is black. When there is peace, all is white. In Lebanon, we have been living in a comfortable grey, that has been getting darker lately, but remains grey all the same. And people in Lebanon are very comfortable in the grey. 

For instance: I was in a traffic jam the other day and two people started honking, then yelling, then the fist fight started. My first thought was immediately dramatic and I thought " I hope they don't have guns". As I drove frantically around this to "escape", I looked 25 metres ahead and saw a couple kissing passionately. 

No big deal. It's just a fight, right? 

However, I constantly feel this fear that we are all like the frogs in the pot, and that as the temperature rises in the country and we pretend nothing is happening- we keep living in the grey- one day, we will fail to see danger until its too late. And we will get boiled. 

Source: The Atlantic

But a conversation with a Lebanese colleague, opened my eyes. People in Lebanon are not in denial.  They are, in fact, very aware of what is happening. But this war just doesn't affect them anymore, or at least not the way it affects me.

We were in the elevator with him and another friend, and I was asking them about what they thought of "the situation". And they told me: "We hate to break the news darling, but you are living in a country at war." Then I looked at them, both spotting this suberb tan, and said "But you are still going to the beach!". They both smiled in the oh-you-poor-little-foreigner way and said "Dear, no one stops going to the beach, just because there's war".

Fifty Shades of Lebanese Grey.

Spring in Beirut

The last couple of weeks have been a true pleasure in Beirut. The Spring is finally here after a very wet "winter" (I mean, winter for Mediterranean standards). And the Spring has brought one of my favourite things about Beirut: flowers.

One of my earliest childhood memories was the blossoming Jacaranda trees outside of my aunt's summer house. I would walk among these beautiful trees, and just love the purple carpet under my feet and the contrast between the very dark and knotted bark and the fragile purple flowers. 

Source: The Independent

To my delight, Jacaranda trees are very common in Beirut. And the flowers cover all streets and cars beautifully (and cars get sticky, but let's us not talk about that).

Also, the scent of flowers in the street is truly exquisite. I like to take walks at night around the neighbourhood- taking advantage of the last remaining cool evenings before the sweltering summer arrives- and I come to a sudden halt many times just to relish on the gardenia trees' perfume emanating from people's backyards. It is intoxicating. And there are so many of them! On a couple of occasions, Lebanese friends have brought me from their garden some of these flowers in trays. "We don't know what to do with them" they say. I welcome these gifts gladly. 

These days, when you walk on the "Corniche"- the seaside road in Beirut- you will see several street vendors with little wooden racks, who sell gardenia garlands to cars. It is not uncommon to see a car - a brand new Porsche or a 1984 Mercedes- with a couple of garlands danggling from the review mirror. Forget about the little pine scented things people buy at the gas station! These garlands will keep your car smelling a-ma-zing, even when the flowers have dried up.

I know there are little good news coming from this part of the world these days. However, in the midst of it all, there are still amazing things happening in Beirut. I guess the old saying "Stop and smell the roses" has taken in Beirut a whole new meaning for me.

PS: The morning after I wrote this post, I was entering my car and saw an old gentleman waiting for the school bus with his granddaughter. They were standing next to a huge garnenia tree. I smiled at him and he approached my car... with a gardenia as a gift. Only in Beirut...

Electric Lebanon

I was blow-drying my hair the other day, rushing to get to work and asked my husband to plug the iron so I could retouch my shirt... I continued drying my hair and.... silence. The power went off. 

That is when I remembered that we were on "generator electricity" that morning, and I could not have 2 appliances on at once. With half wet hair, laughing and cursing, and a wrinkly shirt on, I had to go outside of my apartment, down half a floor and flip the generator switch back on (dangling from a cable that climbs from God knows where all the way up to where we live). I hear the sound of the blow-dryer at the distance. It worked.

Welcome to a normal morning in Beirut.

"Ma fi Kahraba"(there's no electricity) is one of the first sentences you learn in Arabic when you move to this city. You know that you need to know this in case you have to call your landlord to tell him/her that the generator is not working during the 3 hours of power cuts that you will experience every day. The generator not working is a very big deal, believe me. It means no Internet... and no AC, which in the summer is equal to a death sentence. 

Unfortunately, I found out only when I moved to the building that the generator only fed individual apartments and not the common areas. This means that when there are power cuts... the elevator doesn't work. Bummer when you live on the upper floors. So my husband and I have the handy (and free!) "Beirut Electricity" app in our phones, which tells us when the electricity will be off in the coming days and we can plan accordingly. Trust me, when you go grocery shopping, you don't want to carry your bags up multiple flights of stairs.

What really cracks me up is when I am in an important meeting, with everyone debating heatedly, and the power goes out. When it comes back, all the people from outside Lebanon have a puzzled, and sometimes scared " what's going on?" look on their face. And then you act like this is normal and continue with the meeting. 

Therefore, we are all condemned to pay extra (lots extra) to have electricity 24/7- or more like 23.75/7, as there is always a delay when the electricity switches from source. My Lebanese friend even has another generator for this gap, but that's another story. 

I thought this electricity issue added "character" to life in Beirut until I read an article that brought to my attention the environmental and health hazards that this problem brings. Turns out that these diesel-run generators release carcinogenic particles in the air we all breath, and residents are highly and directly exposed to them when the generators are on. And the fact that generators are not necessarily new, or well maintained, aggravates the problem. Just imagine having the generator blowing carcinogenic stuff into your balcony every day?? Not an encouraging thought.

So generators are a quick fix to a broader electricity problem in the country, but now it turns out that it is also having a direct negative impact on our health. When will this issue be fixed? With the current state of affairs in the country and the region, I think we'll all keep involuntarily inhaling bad stuff, planning our grocery time and turning off appliances for a while.

PS: Thank you to M.M for sending me this article.

Lebanese honesty

When reading newspapers lately, there is a lot of talk about crime increasing in Lebanon. Kidnappings have been on the headlines for the past month or so, armed robberies are occurring and there is definitely a sense of mistrust in the air with all the newcomers from Syria, whom some stereotype as thieves.

I think this is a true pity, us buying into the idea that Lebanon has become a crime-ridden place. I will not deny these incidents are happening, nor that one should be careful and use common sense to avoid unsafe situations. But my experience in Lebanon has been so far, in the past 2.5 years, and more so recently, that Lebanese are some of the most honest people I have met.

And as this statement might raise some eyebrows, I would like to share with you 2 recent incidents that happened in the past couple of weeks. 

Some friends organized a party at my place recently and one of them went to the corner store to buy water. As he was leaving my house after the party was over, he realized he didn't have his wallet. We looked everywhere in the house and couldn't find it. After reflecting some time, he realized the last time he saw it was at the corner store when he paid for the water. We looked in the street but couldn't find it. The next morning, my husband went to the store, and the storeowner, a 70 year old man who doesn't make more than 40 dollars a day in his store, handed him back the wallet intact, with all IDs, credit cards and money (over $200) inside. 

As we might try to downplay this, by saying that this is a "normal" thing to do, the reality is that the man could have decided to keep the wallet for himself. No one would know. But he instead chose to act with kindness and honesty.

Which takes me to my other story. I went swimming a couple of days ago to the gym. When I was taking my shower, I realized that one of my earrings had fallen. I freaked out, as I had received these earrings from my husband just the day before, and they had not only sentimental but also monetary value. I dressed as fast as I could and went back to the pool area, praying that my earring might have fallen outside of the water. I asked all instructors and people who where there and they all looked at me with a "poor you/hopeless case" look on their face.  Ten minutes later, as I was packing my stuff from the locker room, I heard a knock on the door. One of the swimmers had found the earring at the bottom of the swimming pool (what are the odds??) and most important, had decided to return it. The person who gave it back, a trainer who has seen me there a couple of times before, put his hand on my shoulder and said "You are at home here. You have nothing to worry about".

This exchange really brought me back to reality and made me realize how much I was buying into the negative speech that has been floating around me, trying to convince me (us) that Lebanon is indeed a dangerous place to be in, a place where one needs to be in fear. And although I do not want to downplay the consequences of the dreadful conflict that is occurring very near, the effects of the economic crises, and the crime rise, I would like to remind ourselves that Lebanon is still the place where people are honest, where people are kind, and where people have your back.

Death and Love in Beirut

Last week I was engaged in all sorts of debates with friends about the meaning of Valentine's Day in Lebanon. I must say that I am quite impressed by how adamant some people can get about celebrating or not celebrating the day, as a matter of ethical principle in some cases...

A Lebanese friend told me that celebrating Valentine's Day was a rather new phenomenon, and that even if it was in the end a "commercial" holiday when restaurants, flower shops and teddy bear makers would do anything to sell a mass produced ideal of romance, she still liked to celebrate it. As a matter of fact, Lebanese- according to her- use any occasion or excuse to turn it into a holiday. She then proceeded to explain that during the war, when (I quote) "death always waited behind the door", anything was a good reason to forget the misery and the pain, and celebrating even the smallest things became a matter of survival.

I thought this was a rather interesting way to put things in perspective, as the Lebanese do celebrate loads of holidays and have special dishes for the weirdest occasions (take Snayniya, for instance, a dessert made to honor the occasion of a baby's first tooth). And I also thought that the image of having death waiting for you behind the door was rather spooky.

Valentine's Day in Lebanon is a day off, not because the Lebanese are particularly into the holiday, but because the 14 of February also commemorates the assassination of the late Rafic Hariri. You walk on the streets and will see everywhere adds for diamonds, roses and hearts alongside billboards with dark images and political messages inviting you not to forget his death. In the words of another friend, "On Valentine's Day, politicians even managed to take love away".

This day brings about yet another contradiction that I don't seem to understand about Lebanon. How can one celebrate, while morning at the same time? I guess if death had been - and these days seems like still is- waiting behind the door, I would try to make the best out of life. Even if that meant buying a stupid teddy bear.

Lebanese Nuances

Travelling is an excellent way of discovering our preconceived notions. And although after almost 3 years, it would be difficult to still assert that Beirut is "abroad" for me, I continue to be impressed by this city's ability to challenge me.

Here is the story.

Last week, the Muslim community celebrated a holiday that marks the birth of the Prophet Muhammad. I personally don't know much about this celebration other than it is a day off at work. So I enjoyed my free day, thinking that all my Muslim colleagues would be celebrating.

The next day, I overheard a conversation between an Egyptian and a Lebanese colleague, who both happen to be Muslim. My Egyptian friend said that she had witnessed the strangest thing in downtown Beirut. She then proceeded to describe a scene: she was walking on the street and a couple of people approached her to give her flowers and chocolates. She was taken aback by the gesture and asked them what this was for. The people looked at her wide-eyed and in disbelief and replied: "To celebrate the holiday of course".
She apologized, said she meant no disrespect and continued her way confused. She had never seen this done for this holiday before.

I then asked her how people celebrated this particular holiday in Egypt. She replied, "Well, there are many ways, but I just don't" and explained that this particular holiday poses disagreement among different currents in Islam, where some believe it should be celebrated and others don't. And then she made an intriguing remark: "I went to a Catholic school and noticed that Christians give each other gifts the day that Jesus was born. I wonder if Muslims in Lebanon don't have this tradition of giving chocolates during the Eid (holiday) as a practice mimicking the traditions of other groups in the country."

I don't know how true her statement is, but I thought this was an anecdote worth sharing as it highlighted two things that I often forget as a foreigner:
1) The diversity among and inside groups in Lebanon- and in the Arab world for that matter- are far more complex than the "neat" labels that us foreigners apply on people from various religious backgrounds
2) Religious practices are local and, as with any other religion, vary from one country to another.

I think this week helped me uncover yet another layer of stereotyping that was hidden in my head. I am thankful to be able to be here, see these things, draw some conclusions and share then with you dear readers, hoping that we all learn a bit more about this fascinating place that we call the Middle East.

Holidays in Beirut: Merry Halloween!

The holidays are in the air in Beirut. In the last couple of weeks, holiday decorations have flourished in every street corner and store front.

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking in the supermarket when I came face to face with a very strange scene: an aisle full of Santas and plastic snowmen facing a section of Halloween costumes. I checked my calendar just to confirm we were indeed at the end of November, and not at the end of October, and left laughing a little and telling myself that the Lebanese had a very strange way of confusing holidays.

What would be my surprise the next day when I came face to face with this sight (please excuse the photo, as I took it while my husband and I were driving by)!

On the left you can see Rudolph and his friend, warmly clothed with little red hats and all, and on the right you see a black truck with a giant and scary tarantula on top of it. I thought Christmas had taken a gloomy turn this year…

When I arrived to the office I shared my confusion with my Lebanese colleagues, to their great amusement. And I finally received the piece of information I was missing: on December 4^th, the Lebanese celebrate the holiday of Saint Barbara, or “Eid il-Burbara” as it is commonly known.

This is a holiday celebrated by Arab Christians in Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and Palestine and the story goes as follows: Barbara- a lady from Baalbek in Lebanon- was put in a tower a la Rapunzel by her pagan (and a bit intense) father to preserve her from the outside world.

In her hours of solace, she became a Christian (not sure how), rejected an offer of marriage and added three windows to her private bath-house as a symbol of the Holy Trinity. The father not being a very tolerant guy, tried to kill her when he discovered her devotions. Miraculously, an opening in the tower wall appeared. Barbara escaped and disguised herself in numerous characters to elude the Romans who were persecuting her (hence the Halloween costumes). After a long series of miracles, the story came to a sad end for Barbara and she was condemned to death. Her own father beheaded her, only to be struck by lightning on the way home and his body was consumed by flames as punishment.

One cool tradition: while fleeing persecution, Barbara supposedly also ran through a freshly planted wheat field, which grew instantly to cover her path. This miracle is recreated symbolically today in Lebanon by planting wheat seeds in cotton wool on Saint Barbara’s feast day. The seeds germinate and grow up to around 6 inches in time for Christmas, when the shoots are used to decorate the nativity scene usually placed below the Christmas tree (thank you Wikipedia!).

And a final note: Saint Barbara is the patron saint of artillerymen, military engineers, miners and others who work with explosives (because of her old legend's association with lightning). Let us hope that she doesn’t intervene too much in our region these days…