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.

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 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.

All we need is a little hope

TEDx Beirut took place last week at the UNESCO Palace in Beirut. For those not familiar with the TED concept, this is basically an amazing group of people who share their passion, knowledge and experience with an audience in the form of 10-minute long talks.

Most of the speakers were Lebanese, both men and women from all walks of life and all ages, whom decided that they had an idea or a compelling story worth sharing with the world.

As a member of the audience- comprised of mostly a young crowd- I was very pleasantly surprised by the experience. The organization of the event was pretty good and the quality of the speakers was astonishing. We heard from the man who led the team that landed the “Curiosity” on Mars, to a woman who found her voice by becoming a cartoonist, to the mountaineer who had conquered some of the highest peaks of the world, as well as his own fears. And there was the extraordinary speaker who talked about gratitude and recognition as a means to transform our world.

I loved the excitement and enthusiasm the event generated. However, what truly reinvigorated me was the collective hope, passion and positivity that shone in the faces of both participants and speakers. Beirut- as you might imagine- has not been a very fun place in the last month or so. The mood in the streets has been tense and aloof –seemingly contradictory moods-in a way only Beirut can be. Beirut has felt numb and shallow lately, as people avoid talking about their fear, the bomb in Ashrafieh, and the local leaders threatening to form militias.  Feelings stuffed, life goes on.

TEDxBeirut offered a space to have a good laugh, a good cry and feel proud about the beauty of the human spirit. It pushed boundaries, brought us together, and put a smile on our faces. It had us think about what the world needed with its brilliant campaign “ All we need is... (fill in the blank)”.  Strangers chatted about positive stuff, exchanged ideas, laughed together, ate standing and traded for a moment the dim picture painted by recent events for a brighter perspective. I truly hope this feeling will be contagious and last for a little longer than that day.

Lebanese courage

The recent events in Beirut last week left loads of us with a strange feeling in the gut.

I had never felt before the awful worry of wondering if my friends had died as collateral damage during a political assassination. I had never felt the fear of having lost someone, or maybe something (i.e. home or car). And I had never experienced the feeling of something in my everyday life suddenly being gone.

Believe me, it is not a nice feeling. It is a mix of fear, anxiety, anger and helplessness. And I am just a foreigner, with no extended family and no roots here. This was just one event, and I wasn't even there to see it. I cannot imagine what this would be like if this place was my permanent home, or this incident was only one of many.

This horrible feeling, this post-bomb feeling cannot be shaken easily. It floats like a thick fog in the streets of the lovely city I call home now. The silence is eerie. There are few people in the streets. There is tension in the air. And in the eyes of people around.

I can only start understanding how easily this feeling can turn into hatred. For those that have witnessed bombs before, this event can just be a switch to turn them immediately back on. So many memories these incidents bring back, for so many Lebanese.

I have seen many take the streets and heard reports of people demanding the leadership to step down, or to take control. I have heard stories of people being caught in the street while protesters throw stuff at their car. And I haven't even dared going  near the place where the bomb exploded. It will probably take me months to muster the courage to do that.

But Beirut lives. This morning, kids went to school. Across the street from my house, the workers showed up to the constructions site. Fruit vendors are on the street. Life goes on.

And on my Facebook, e-mail and Twitter I have seen dozens of messages from Lebanese friends asking me - and each other- if everything is OK.  One Lebanese friend offered me the help of his sisters in case I need it. My other friend's father called on my mobile, to check my husband and I are all right.

And all over I see, I read many prayers for peace, words of encouragement and kind offers to help. Restaurants and hotels offering free housing and food for those who lost their home. I have seen moving photos of those who lost loved ones, and slogans calling for strength and tolerance. I have heard leaders call for peace and order and condemning the assassination. There are far many more voices who want peace than those who want violence in this country.

People who kill, people who are willing to kill in order to control, want only one thing: to make others afraid. They want others to be so afraid that they will follow for fear of being hurt if they don't. And they use assassination as a way of saying "You mess with us, this is what happens."

But the Lebanese I see in the street today are not buying it. They are living their lives. They are being kind, loving and concerned for others. They will not give those little people that make themselves big with bombs the pleasure of seeing them scared.

I really admire that.

Al Baba in Beirut

The Pope- or Al Baba as you would call him in Arabic- came to Lebanon last weekend.

I cannot highlight the importance of this event enough, not only for its spiritual value to those who believe in him, but mostly as a reaffirming and unifying statement of the existence of the Christian community in Lebanon. I mean the Pope is “the” guy representing Christianity, and having him in Lebanese territory bears a tremendous symbolic- if not political- weight.

Some of my Christian friends were left indifferent to the Supreme Pontiff’s visit. Some others saw a renewed wave of devotion and faith surge in them, and even lit candles the night he arrived and stuck them in their balconies, as rumor had it that a satellite would take photos that night and the candles would be seen as a physical proof of the presence of Christians in Lebanon. I personally am not convinced that a satellite can capture the light of a candle, but I found the idea very poetic.

The Pope hosted a massive Sunday mass in Beirut’s waterfront, that according to the enthusiastic statistics, gathered 350,000 people. That’s close to 10% of Lebanon's entire population. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.

Source: rtl.fr 

Downtown Beirut was closed, in what was a very well organized operation, with thousands of people either walking, or taking buses which proudly displayed welcoming messages for the Pope in all languages, even his native German. People gathered since 4 am, to ensure a good spot to catch a glimpse of the Pontifex Maximus. Some asserted they had been “blessed” by his mere sight.

Overall, the Pope's message was one of peace and unity and, although I feared his presence might have been seen by some as a provocation, all sects were very respectful. Covered women and Hezbollah scouts even welcomed him at this arrival.

The Pope came and went, and life in Beirut continued. I wish some of the aftermath had been planned better, as a week later, the only thing left from the memorable visit is the trash generated in the waterfront.

Don't get me wrong, his message of peace and reconciliation remains with us. However, the actual implementation of such well-intentioned advice remains, unfortunately,  a miracle we all wish will happen in our lifetime.

Hanging out in Beirut

“Hanging out is not what it used to be” , or so I thought before coming to Beirut. I used to remember those long afternoons in my grandmother’s village when I was a kid, far away from Mexico City. I would sit down with her and her sister and “people watch” from the porch, while sipping a Coke or eating a homemade tortilla. The hours, days, weeks, would pass and we would give ourselves to those slow afternoons, just enjoying a cool breeze or each other’s company.

In Mexico City, such an activity was almost impossible, mostly because my house didn’t have a porch and people rarely walked in front of it. Also, in a fast-paced city such as Mexico there wasn’t really time to hang out like that anyway. So as I grew older, as a busy city girl, I would remember those afternoons with my grandma with nostalgia, the times when people would just hang out for the sake of it, without accomplishing much more than looking out or chatting about that evening’s supper.

When I came to Beirut, I had the chance to re-discover hanging out and I really admire Beirutis for keeping that ability. Beirut is in fact a big city, with traffic and all, but people still take the time to chat for hours on end, maybe smoking arghileh, eating some nuts or drinking their third of fourth cup of coffee. This is the case for men and women by the way, young and old.

The very sociable side of the Lebanese has them hanging out with people all the time. As a matter of fact, you can drop by your neighbors’ house anytime for a cup of coffee and a chat, without announcing yourself, or planning to meet up one week in advance -like you would in Mexico City. People invite you to stay for lunch, dinner, or both, just to hang out, without doing anything, getting anywhere or accomplishing a thing.

There is this juice bar in the corner of my street and people spend hours there, just drinking juice (they don’t sell anything else). I can’t imagine what someone can talk about for so long, but I guess someone who has lost the habit of “just hanging out”-like me- needs a bit of practice to master this art.

Some people would call this behavior “lazy”. But sometimes, I wonder if this being constantly busy, constantly on the run from one appointment to the other is in fact more of a disease than something “productive”.

After all, what is more revitalizing than a nice long afternoon with friends, talking about everything and nothing, relaxing and reinventing the world?

Following rules in Lebanon

I recently visited the United States, a land that I love dearly and one that I also equate to "the land of rules".


Those who know me well know that I am an avid rule follower, but the US takes rules to the extreme. From the moment you step out of the plane, directives are showered on you: where to stand, where to look, what to do, what not to do. Coming from Beirut, all the rules are at first overwhelming. But I must confess my jaw dropped when we came out from the airport to a wide highway full of lanes, with people driving one behind the other, under the speed limit, using their blinkers, letting us pass as we approached the exit... The Jounieh-Beirut highway I had driven (praying) the previous Saturday night seemed so far away!

As the days passed, I would look at some street signs and only smiled as I discussed with my husband how these rules could be applied in Lebanon.

My favorite example is the "no honking" signs, looking down at you from many street corners, and threatening violators with a $350 dollar fine. Can you only imagine if every time someone honked in Beirut, the government got $350? Lebanon could pay the national debt in a month! * 

Another thing that made us laugh was street crossing. We were patiently waiting for all cars to pass before we would dare even stepping down from the sidewalk. At one point we realized that all drivers had stopped, a long distance away from the crossing lines, looking at us patiently. And that's when we realized that drivers give priority to pedestrians! Can you imagine this in Beirut? 

Looking for a parking spot in an American city was an adventure. You see, there's all sorts of complex parking rules you need to know: resident parking, parking available at certain hours, places near the crossing where you can't park, water hydrants for firefighting you wouldn't even dream of parking in front of, handicap parking, sides of the street where you can't park for street cleaning... And those few spots left, you bet you have to pay the meter to park in them. Violating these rules is very expensive and often means your car is towed away. 

As we kept driving in circles, I imagined just pulling in one of those "forbidden places". In the end, the parking ticket in Beirut can be as low as 10,000 LL (around $7 dollars).  

I could go on and on about these little incidents. But what really impressed me was when I arrived back to Beirut (and parked on the sidewalk in front of my house- good habits quickly lost) and found out that there was a new smoking ban in restaurants and cafes. This is the new talk in town, and everyone has an opinion about the issue. Regardless of whether I agree with it or not, I have to say it is proven to be the first effective rule I have ever seen in Beirut. I think this is due to the fact that it has the essential two components of a rule: a consequence if broken, and someone to enforce it. If someone catches you smoking, it is $100 fine for you, but $1,000 for the restaurant. And if 2 people are smoking, it's $100 each, plus $2,000 for the restaurant, $3,000 for 3 people and so on and so forth. You bet the restaurant owners will make sure you will not smoke in their establishment!

So it seems like rule following is possible in Beirut. And even if I am not clear if this city will ever be an "orderly" place, I must say this ban is a breath of fresh air, literally.

* On a side note: a friend of mine just started a "Stop honking" group on Facebook. This group was created to give some ideas about how to stop this very bad habit in Beirut... or at least to provide a space to vent a little :)