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.