Succession

One of the benefits of learning a new language is that you gain the ability to view the world differenty. I was in my Arabic (Lebanese) class last week, and I learnt some interesting things about family and succession.

The first thing is that everyone has their Dad’s first name as their middle’s name. Like my Dad’ s name is Guillermo, so in Lebanon I am Maria Guillermo Ortiz.

Another thing I thought was interesting was that if you ask someone about their neighbor Joe you wouldn’t say: “Hey, how’s your neighbor Joe doing?”. This is considered disrespectful. You would actually say “Hey’ how your neighbor, Jack’s Dad doing?”, since Joe has a son named Jack.

Also, there are 3 ways of saying “man”: Rajol, Zalame and Rijjel. And one way to say woman: Mara. And a girl and a daughter is the same word: bent. But a boy is sabi and a son is ibn.

Language is a reflection of the culture, and the emphasis on fatherhood, and “sonhood” is very clear in Lebanese Arabic. But what really blew me away was when I learned that women cannot pass their nationality to their kids or spouses in Lebanon. Only men can do that. So if you are born from a Lebanese man or you marry him, you can be Lebanese, but if your Mum is Lebanese and your Dad isn’t, then you are not Lebanese.

One interpretation of this can be political, since this is a way to control religious “proportions” of the population. Lebanon is managed through a very complex system, called a confessional system, where each religious group has control over certain parts of government and decision-making, depending on their numbers. So in this context, not making foreign men Lebanese would make sense.

But some women are opposing this tradition and starting a movement in Lebanon to change it. International Organizations are supporting them. Check out these links to learn more about the issue:

http://tinyurl.com/2f6zv3q

http://tinyurl.com/nskaru

http://lebanon-support.org/tatimma/?q=node/14

Sorry, this table is reserved

Dinner in Lebanon doesn’t start till 9pm. For those of us who like to eat a bit earlier, it is common to enter a restaurant at 7:30 and find it empty.

However, do not be fooled: an empty restaurant doesn’t mean there are open seats. An empty restaurant means that some very specific people haven’t arrived yet.

Let me explain this a bit further: you come to a restaurant, no one is there. You ask for the table in the corner (I love corners) and they tell you it’s reserved. You then get a table in the middle (ugh), and after 2 hours of a lovely meal, you realize that the table in the corner is still empty.

I have 2 theories on this: a) The person who reserved the table didn’t show up or b) you can reserve a table and get to the restaurant eventually.

Option b) would be the most appropriate since the Lebanese (as the Mexicans, I’m not singling out anyone here) are not particularly punctual. But from a business perspective, this makes no sense. How can you have a table open for 2 hours, and not give it to someone else?

The best is when you get to a restaurant, and it is completely empty. You get the crappy table and when you leave, the restaurant is still completely empty. I am clearly missing something here.

PS: I would be very interested in hearing a Lebanese explain this point. This affair of reserved seating remains a mystery to me to this date.

Lebanese Yumminess

I can't believe I have been here for 2 months and I haven't written anything about food!

I must say that Lebanese cuisine is varied, absolutely delicious and on the healthy side. The incredibly fresh vegetables that are used, combined with olive oil and spices are a much needed break for me from the butter/salt combo from the States.

Besides the well known falafel and hummus that are pretty much the same as you would find all over the world, I have discovered slight differences from what I knew before, for instance, that in Lebanon tabouleh has no bulgur and baba ganoush is also called "mutabbal".

I must confess I had love at first bite with mankoushe which some call the Lebanese pizza, which is a think crust of oven-baked dough with za'atar and cheese, or lamb meat on it, that is sold for 1,750 L.L ($1.25 USD) at the corner of my street and makes for a delicious breakfast or snack.

I also absolutely love Fatoush (which doesn't make you fat by the way), a simple but super tasty salad.

And one can't forget the delicious Shawarma, which is a pitta bread sandwich made of lamb, beef or chicken grilled on a spit (like "al pastor", for Mexicans) with garlic mayo and french fries inside. Perfect after a night out.

But Lebanese cuisine goes far more than these rather simple dishes, and I have tasted very interesting combination of ingredients such as Shishbarak (meat pastries in yogurt soup) or Djaj mah Ruz (chicken over rice with pine nuts and a ton of spices, often served with laban, or yogurt).

For the desserts... forget it. I could write pages and pages about them. They are absolutely delicious. Baklava is the one that almost everyone knows, but there are many others.

There are tons of other amazing dishes I have tasted, but to be honest, I don't remember their names... So next time you go to a Lebanese restaurant, try some of these more elaborate dishes. You will not regret it!

Or maybe, if you are feeling adventurous, you can try cooking? A friend got me in the States a book that is pretty close to the real deal, called "A taste of Lebanon" by Mary Salloum.

Sahtayn! To your good health!

Hi! Kifik, tu vas bien?

Living in Beirut is listening to multiple languages everyday, French and Lebanese (Arabic) being the most common ones, although a lot of people know English as well.

What is fascinating is that the all people you encounter will speak a different combination of languages, depending on where you are in the city, or where they come from.

In Hamra, you'll hear Arabic, and English the closer you get to AUB (the American University of Beirut)

I Ashrafieh, you'll hear Arabic and French, and English the closer you get to ABC (the mall).

What I love about the Lebanese is that they use all the languages they know interchangeably when speaking, because the person they are talking to also understands perfectly well, so there is no need to make an effort to stick to one. And the more languages they know the more they'll use.

So if you have the good fortune of knowing one or maybe 2 of the languages they speak, conversations sound like this:

At a party 2 girlfriends are talking, "Yesterday, blah, blah, blah, blah, black leather, blah, blah, blah, blah, I told him, blah, blah, blah, blah, I like it very much." (turns out they were talking about a new car)

At the office, "Hi dear, blah, blah, blah, no way, blah, blah, blah OK, blah blah, khalas. Thank you. Yalla bye"

At the Yoga studio. "Hi!!! Blah blah blah?" Very cute! Blah blah blah blah blah in ABC, blah blah blah blah, half price."

There are some words like Mabrouk! (Congratulations), Sukran (Thank you) or Marhaba (Hi!) that you'll start using as a foreigner, as a way to integrate yourself and not sound absolutely clueless.

And inevitably all Lebanese will sprinkle their conversations with the following 3 absolutely transferable words, no matter what language they are speaking in or who they are talking to: "Yalla" (very similar to the Spanish "Vamos"), Ya3ni (Very similar to the English "I mean") and Khalas (that can mean "That's it", or "stop", or "finished", or "allow me").

So... shukran for reading. A bientot. Yalla, bye

Bang-Bang-Bang

This morning I was woken up by a crazy thunderstorm. I didn't quite understand what those loud bangs were at first. Were those fireworks? At 7 am??

Nope, just the beginning of the rainy season.

I must say that Lebanon is a very "explosive" country. I have heard more fire works in the past two months than in my entire life.

Also, I have heard gun shots for the first time in my life, which by the way, sound a lot like fireworks, except there is - quoting my Lebanese friend- a different rythm to them (isn't this just a totally poetic view of life?).

Fire works go bang (count 1,2,3) bang (1,2,3), bang (1,2,3).

Gun shots go bang-bang-bang-bang-bang (1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8) bang-bang-bang (silence) bang.

But the most common explosions are not the auditory, but the human ones.

Laughter, loud, sincere, unashamed laughter.

Anger, loud, aggressive, impulsive shouting, pushing, banging.

Kisses (3 loud ones each time to say hello and bye).

Loss, so deeply rooted and concelaed it is obvious, especially when vivid memories are recounted with hollow eyes, and a hole in the middle of your chest when you hear them

Pleasure, with eating, drinking and smoking, a lot and often

I am sometimes surrounded, engulfed, by these explosions of emotion, left sometimes a little disoriented, in my head and also in my heart. Such intensity of feelings. I need time to get my bearings. And then another wave comes.

In Lebanon people have seen horrors I can't even imagine. And their resilience is incredible. Someone was explaining to me the meaning of the Lebanese flag: red for the blood shed, white for the snow on the mountains, and a beautiful cedar tree, to symbolize resilience.

Sometimes I feel like a winy little kid who needs to get tough, so I get to play with the older kids. Or a naive little girl, who hasn't lived. My sorrows seems small. My concerns sometimes petty. What do you say when someone shares an experience? I haven't found the words. I just listen.

I have encountered in Lebanon a pride I have not seen often. A desire to survive and prosper, no matter what. And all these feelings too, on the surface, ready to explode, with just a scratch...

How do you keep your sanity, how do you cope? With explosions. Explosions of fireworks, parties, love, food, abundance, joie de vivre, intensity, intensity, intensity. To feel alive. To feel something.

The "right kind"

I am very pleased to find out that some Lebanese people are reading my blog. I even found out that one of my blog posts inspired another blogger to write something about kindness and how some think Lebanese are only kind to the right kind of people.

The "right kind" is a fascinating (not to say delusional) concept that human beings have developed to refer to the people that a) look like them or b) they wish they looked like them (i.e. we all agree Cristiano Ronaldo and Angelina Jolie are the right kind no matter what we look like).

Jokes aside, I have heard from my Lebanese friends and also from expats that there is a widespread racism among Lebanese against the "wrong kind": domestic workers, people who from South East Asia and people from African descent. Like a cast system. You look a certain way, you are not allowed some places, you are discriminated upon, you are treated like a second class citizen.

To comment on the topic, I want to highlight that in Mexico we have the same thing for anyone who isn't fair skinned, so the Lebanese are not really innovating here. And to be fair, this racism is not particular to the Lebanese or to Mexicans. Just ask a Muslim woman in France how she is feeling right now...

What I want to point out to in this blog is how ridiculous, subjective, and completely detached from reality the whole "right" and "wrong" kind is. To me, these categories are just the visible symptoms of the absolute insecurity and sense of worthlessness of the ones who made them (i.e. I make you little because I feel little). Plus, this putting people in categories business can make anyone go bananas, just by travelling across the world... No matter where I go, there will always be a wrong kind... But I was actually very surprised when I moved to Lebanon and suddenly became the "right kind" after living in the United States and being the wrong kind for years (I am a dark-haired-darkish-skinned Mexican).

What changed? I kept asking... Did I loose weight?? Is it my new haircut?? I am still wondering...

On a personal note, I can only say that this was a lesson for me to stop thinking about what people think of me. Who cares if they think I am the right or wrong kind anyways??

And on a humankind note, I would like to add that we, as people, should stop being so effing shallow. People look the way they look. I can't certainly help looking the way I look. Can you?

I invite us to just get over ourselves and focus on far more productive discussions. Such as: if you see someone being discriminated upon in Lebanon, or elsewhere, don't keep your mouth shut. It could be you next time...

Random Acts of Kindness

There is something very intriguing about hospitality in Lebanon. I mean hospitality here is taken to a whole different level.

I am sure I could do a historical, sociological, or psychological analysis of the whole thing, but I really don't feel like it. I have been doing way too much reading today. So I will just stick to my experience this time.

Since I got to Lebanon I have been surrounded my random acts of kindness. Here are some examples:
I am sitting outside of the building where my yoga class takes place. I am reading a book, standing by the door. The concierge approaches me and offers me to come in and seat on his chair. When I do this, he brings me a coffee. Then he leaves (this is without words, I don’t speak his language, he doesn’t speak mine).

Other examples: I am in a taxi; the driver doesn't have any change. He tells me I can leave, without paying (impossible scenario in NYC!). I am in another taxi, the driver asks me if I am comfortable, and whether I prefer window or AC (yeah right Boston cabs). I am out with friends, someone pays for my whole meal without me even knowing the person that well. When I offer to pay the person categorically refuses. I am in the street, waiting for a cab, next to a guy who is waiting for a cab too. A cab comes, he doesn’t take it but lets me go instead and helps me negotiate a price… I can go on.

The most interesting part is my reaction to the whole thing: first mistrust kicks in ("what do you want from me?"). Second, paranoia ("Am I about to get robbed?"). Third comes skepticism ('yeah, how much is THAT going to cost?"). Then comes doubt ("Naaaah, this is not right. Am I being too naive?"). Finally, vanity ("Is this guy hitting on me?")

When I think about it, I realize that I have become so accustomed to look out for myself that I find it difficult to accept with an open heart these random acts of kindness. Could it be that people are just being kind? Could it be that I could just stop "being careful" without fearing for my life?

I feel the barrier dissolve and me accepting this kindness. Then I get scared and I put it right back up. Then I relax, then it comes up...

But I can't simply ignore the fact that in Lebanon people are just incredibly welcoming and warm, regardless of what goes on in my head.