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 :)

When Lebanon gives you lemons...

There is this old saying I really like: "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." And I think the Lebanese have mastered the art of making the best out of what they have.

As you know, things in Lebanon have not been particularly stable or quiet. A lot of people, from different places in the country are displeased with how things are turning out. And I am keeping this general, as this blog is a place where I don't inlcude, to the extent possible, any political views.

So, as I was saying, things are not turning out so great in Lebanon lately. And one of the favourite ways for some Lebanese to express their discontent is through burning tires. Once there is a problem, be with goverment, with another group, for bad wages, etc. the tires go up in flames and the streets are blocked.

What I love about this place is that someone actually saw this as an opportunity for an add campaign. A fancy mall is having its summer sales, and found a creative way for attracting costumers:

The add depicts a young woman, wearing fashionable clothes and extinguising burning tires with price reductions. The word "chill" both applies to extinguishing the fire, being away from the smothering heat of the summer and also chilling as in not making a big fuss out of things. The words in Arabic under the word "chill" say "and don't leave", probably refering to the thought that Lebanese would leave if things in the country got really "heated".

I find this add of particular interest because it is both an add campaign and a political statement. Maybe the publicist was just trying to say, "Life goes on. Come shopping".

The design studio Bjorka has turned the symbol of the tires into art pieces, to protest pollution in Beirut (I can only imagine the amount of bad stuff that gets released into the air when you burn a tire). Their moto? "We are Tyred". I don't know if they meant to use the "y" to spell the word in British English, or they are hinting to Tyr in Sounth Lebanon (these days I see political messages everywhere).

And lastly, I recently heard a story of a person who actually made the business of tire delivery in Tripoli, in case someone wants to start a protest. You call the number and... Tada! Tires delivered at your place of choice. I don't know if this is an urban legend, but knowing the Lebanese's ability to make the best out of things, it wouldn't  surprise me.

So when in Lebanon, if you are given lemons, you make lemonade. And if you are given burning tires... well, possibilities are endless. 

Public Space in Beirut

It is that time of the year when the heat is pretty intense in Lebanon, and the only thing we want is to go to the beach and enjoy the little breeze that comes from the sea.

One of the big challenges one faces is a) going to an awesome beach that happens to be a beach club, where you have to pay loads of money to enter, listen to techno music and be maybe the victim of discrimination (see St. George Beach Club story here)  or b) go to a public beach were you can face poor maintenance and very dirty water (according to a local newspaper 85% of household water ends up in the shore without any treatment). Add to this little regulation on how beach fronts get exploited  (or no respect for regulation as this article indicates) and you find yourself with a coastline that is increasingly privatized, "VIP" and exclusive.

Little options for the simple, non- Louis Vuitton, beach goer.

But the beach is not the only public place that is getting very private in Lebanon. I have recently heard accounts of people regarding Beirut's exclusive marina, Zeitunay Bay.

Photo credit: Lebanon Pictures

This place is very fancy, with a series of exclusive restaurants overlooking the water. Everyone who is anyone in Beirut can be seen here, sipping a cappuccino or having a meal with friends and family. If you want to know what the latest fashion trends are in the world, just come here to see the Lebanese ladies display their best outfits.

This is all good. The downside is that there are LOADS of things that you cannot do in Zeitunay Bay (including not speaking loudly), as the guards around it and the signs gently (and not so gently) continiously remind you.

Photo credit: author's own

Two friends of mine have recently gone to Zeitunay Bay with a book and a sandwich to seat down and spend a quiet moment while enjoying the view. In both cases they have been told that they cannot eat  seating on the benches. You can sit there, you can drink a to-go Mocha, but you cannot eat. In other words, if you can't afford the restaurants, you don't eat in Zeitunay Bay.

And I guess that would be somehow OK if this was a private space as the sign point out, but let me clarify that this is a very public space. Yes, you pay to park your boat here, yes you pay to eat at the restaurant, but the access to the deck is open to the public, since it is, afterall, directly connected to the street. A friend of mine, which is not one to be shy to argue when she sees an injustice, sat down with the guard and then the manager asking them to tell her exactly where it is written that she cannot have a sandwich in that place. Besides an "it is our policy", they were not able to produce anything more substantive. And they could also do nothing to prevent her from continuing to eat. She was, afterall, doing nothing illegal.

Which brings me to my last point: public and private space in Beirut. I recently talked with a Lebanese friend who happens to be an anthropologist, specialized in Lebanon. She was telling me that one fascinating thing about the Lebanese is that the concept of public space doesn't really exist. It is more of an inside/outside phenomenon, where inside (my home, my relatives' homes, my people's space) is to be protected, cherished, polished and cleaned (indeed, Lebanese houses are gorgeous, spotless and tastfully decorated... on the inside) and outside doesn't really matter. Outside is not mine, so why bother taking care of it?

No surprise then that streets are dirty, people litter, there are no parcs and the little open space left is privatized. If the sense of public is equated to "not mine" then it is also subject to be made "mine" by paying a bribe, building a fence around it and charging to get in. I am afterall letting you in "my" space now.

So my question is... What happened to "our" space?

Soccer in Lebanon

It is the final. Tonight. Italy vs. Spain. And I am not watching it (please don't hate me).

The past couple of weeks have been a little disorienting. I have really felt like I was in Mexico. Except I am in Beirut. And people here seem as obessesed with the Euro 2012 Soccer Cup as they are back home. Mind you, neither countries are in Europe. But I guess that is just a minor detail.

When there is any sort of soccer related event, Mexicans go crazy. I mean, life literally stops. I used to date this guy who would tell me never to call on Sunday afternoon, because that's when soccer was on (that relationship didn't last much). Also, I remember this place where I used to work in Mexico during the 2002 world cup. The director decided to buy a TV and put it in the office, since no one was showing up to work. It was a smart move...

The last few weeks my Facebook page has been occupied by 50% people cursing because of the presidential elections in Mexico, and 50% cursing because this and that team lost/wan.

In Lebanon it is the same. But what I like about the Lebanese is that they really went full out with the Euro 2012. The square near my house is virtually covered with European flags. I actually didn't need to watch the games, as every time a team lost, the flags from that country would be taken down (who would want to buy flags of a losing team, anyway).

Tonight, the square is covered in red and yellow. Some little flags of the non-Spanish team are flown here and there. But I am clear the Lebanese are going for Spain (don't ask me why, I don't know either). I was just at the mall and I couldn't even hear myself speak, people were yelling so loud. Giant screens were on in every restaurant, in every floor on the building. People have those noise makers that you would actually bring to a 100,000 people stadium (and that I am sure can make you deaf if you stand next to them in a confined space). Teenagers have flags as capes and their faces painted. Young girls shriek everytime, what's his name- Shakira's boyfriend, enters the screen. I decided to escape. And spend some alone, quiet, soccer-free time in my house.

I guess I just didn't know the Lebanese were that much into soccer. Which brings me back to my point. The past couple of weeks have been a little disorienting. Because the more I spend time in Lebanon, the more I feel like I am in Mexico. The more I feel like home.

Who do you call in Beirut?

A couple of days ago there was a big fight in the street, just outside of my building.  I heard screaming and a big commotion and when I went to the balcony, I saw about 12 guys going at it. Swearing and punches and a lot of yelling. I quickly moved away, as I thought that someone might be armed.

I looked around and saw all my neighbors in the buildings in front of mine in their balconies, just watching the “show”. No one seemed ready to intervene or even to try to call the police. And that’s when it hit me… There is no police to call in Lebanon.

I mean there is a police. And an army. And sometimes army guys stand outside private houses as guards. Or tell you not to park somewhere. While the police is coordinating traffic, but sometimes the army is. Listen, it is very confusing. I wouldn’t even try to understand who does what.

But that was what alarmed me the most. Without clear roles, in a moment of stress, I didn’t know who to call. The fight ended up eventually. But the feeling of vulnerability didn’t leave me. Who would I call? Who do Lebanese call?

I sat down for lunch the following day with a Lebanese colleague. I shared with him the experience and he just smiled. And then he told me “You call your uncle. He will call his friends. And in 15 minutes, you have 30 guys at your house ready to help”.

He continued “ In Lebanon you call your people when you need help. You don’t rely on the government, or on your neighbors. Your people are the only ones you can count on for your safety, for survival. “

As things get tense in Lebanon these days, these words resonate more and more in my head. That is probably what happened on my street that day. Two people had a problem, and they called their people for the fight. And when we see the ongoing fighting in this part of the world, although at a different scale, it is not that different. People fight for their own, and against the “other” because there is no common identity, institution or sense of citizenship that binds them together. My family, my friends, the people of my same religion, sect, tribe, group are my people. The other ones are outside. I fight for my own because if I don’t a) no one will protect the people I love and b) the group won’t be there when I need them.

Looking at it from this perspective, the conflicts that comprise the every day struggle of the Lebanese make a little more sense. And it also overwhelms me. Where do you start building unity? How can one trade a sense of group, safety and survival when no one else will have your back?