I finally got confirmation from the university in the States today that my Dutch HBO diploma has been accepted as a credible paper, and that I have therefore been officially accepted into their Masters Program. Now I need to explain to them that I actually already finished the entire Masters program, and if they can please send me the diploma. It took me a good two years to get my Dutch diploma accepted. And I thought paperwork in Lebanon was complicated…
The Dutch can be a royal pain in the you-know-what too when it comes to paperwork, it’s not the monopoly of the Lebanese. Dutch law – until recently – forbade dual nationality. So if you were married to a Lebanese, you were not allowed to accept Lebanese papers. No passport and no khras-elkaid (Yes, you may laugh as I write this in Arabic, no idea what you call them) were allowed. You’d have to go every year to the Amn-elAm to get your residency permit, pay God knows how many thousands of Lebanese pounds, stand in line for hours, get sent from window to window, stand some more in line, get verbally abused by some uneducated idiot or otherwise treated impolitely, and then in another 12 months time you can go through the same misery again. If you’d want to go to Syria, you’d have to wait at the border for some 24 hours before the Syrians deemed you okay to give you a visa.
Anyway, no Dutch women actually followed that law, they all had passports, and the embassy knew that, but the embassy also knew that it was logistically a lot easier for us, so they sort of let it slide. Until this bitch arrived at the embassy some years ago. I will not mention her name here, but all Dutch know who I am talking about.
Anyway, she must have a very sour life or something, or a shitty marriage - I don’t know what made her tick that way - because she saw things slightly differently.
The trouble started when my daughter was born. Two weeks after her birth I went to the embassy, to apply for a Dutch passport for her. “Oh, is your daughter here,” she asked? I thought that was rather thoughtful of her, and very un-Dutch, because Dutch people in general are not overly interested in other people’s babies. I feel quite okay with that. In Holland, we do not kiss dogs and other people’s children. But anyway, I thought that was mighty thoughtful of her. Or was it? “No, she needs to be present when you apply, to verify she actually exists.” That took me by surprise. “But you held her in your arms just four days ago. You must surely know she exists”, I replied. “Yes, I know she exists, but the law requires she is present,” was the answer. She is the law, I remind you.
Fine. So next time, when I came with all the paperwork, AND the baby, she noticed that my place on the family khras-elkaid was not in accordance with my status as a ‘foreigner’. She realized then and there that I actually had acquired a Lebanese passport. So she took my passport away. That summer I had to travel on my Lebanese one (a humbling experience, as I now had to stand in line for the British and the Dutch embassy for visas). I was now officially ‘Lebanese only’.
But light was at the end of the tunnel; the Dutch parliament would be passing a law that stipulated dual nationalities was accepted in certain cases. I was that ‘certain case’. All I had to do was apply for a new passport. Easy, no? NO! Not with that bitch behind the counter.
I needed a proof that I was no longer living in Holland. So I sent my poor father (87 at the time) to the city that I used to live in, to ask for a proof that I had ‘unregistered’ myself. He went, got the paper and sent it to me. She took one long look at it. “But the paper doesn’t say where you moved to. You could have moved to another city in Holland. I need it to mention that you actually moved abroad.” Well, that was bit difficult, because when I moved out, I never intended to not come back. However, my Dad went again. He explained the story, and the employee behind the counter said: “We get this shit all the time. Just tell me what you want me to write on it, and I’ll write it. Makes everybody’s life much easier.” So I got a paper stating that I had moved out of that city, and moved abroad. Everybody happy, except the Bitch.
She needed a paper I was married. To this Lebanese gentleman. Well, I had a paper from the Muslim court stating I got married somewhere in 1993. “But maybe you are divorced now,” the Bitch said when I handed it over. That took me – again – by surprise. All my other papers state that I am married. Moreover, I just gave birth to a girl, and the father’s name on her birth certificate miraculously happened to be the same guy as the one I had married in 1993. “No, you might have divorced and remarried. I need to know that you were married to this gentleman during the time that you got Lebanese citizenship.” Go figure!
I went to the Muslim court in Tarek –el-Jdeideh. Now I need to remind you that I work for a living. 45 to 50 hours a week. I am in a position that you cannot just take off for the day and go do some paperwork. All that needs to be carefully coordinated, and my working hours coincide with government working hours, so when I am free, they are generally closed. I had this little time span on every Saturday morning, between 9:00 and 1:00 to run and get my stamps and stuff. Anyway, I went to the religious court. The first two times, they send you left and right and up and down, and it is only by the third time that you show up they understand what you want and take your request actually serious. So here I am, three Saturdays further (not to mention 3 scarves further, because you need to enter veiled, or semi-veiled at least, which I forgot every time. So every time I wanted to enter, I was sent back to a shop nearby to buy a scarf.) Anyway, they finally understand I am serious, and get me to a sheikh. What was it that I needed? I explained my case; a proof that I had been continuously married to the man I married in 1993. “But doesn’t it say you are married on all your paper work? Aren’t your children from the same father,” the sheikh asked flabbergasted? Yes, I replied, but I might have gone off, marry someone else, get a passport and then divorce and remarry the same guy. Or something like that. I never quite understood why it was so important that she knew I was married all the time to the same guy. So I am explaining this to the sheikh as I sit in his office, scarf and all, in my crummy Arabic, while people walk in and out, phones ring, get picked up (some don’t) and answered, and another five or six people are just sitting there on old sofas and what they do is not quite clear. When I am done with my story, the sheikh stared at me for the longest time. The other six people sitting in his office, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, fell silent as well. “WHAT embassy is that, you said”? the sheikh asks. “The Dutch embassy, your honor.” He lets out the longest sigh ever. “Mam, have you seen our archive?” I had. When you sit there many Saturdays in a row, you get to know the place. Shelves and shelves and shelves of book upon books and ledger upon ledgers. And there this one old guy, who runs around, looking for things. There are a few sandwiches on top of ledger, a full ashtray and some empty plastic coffee cups. He’s got it categorized according to a system incomprehensible to everyone but him, so if he dies, it is inaccessible as well. No computerized system in sight when I was there. Anyway, the sheikh gets this tired look on his face. “Mam, do you know how many months that will take us, do you have any idea? Do they have any idea at your embassy?” He remained quiet for a while. No one in the office dared speaking at this time. He looked out of the window, head bobbing up and down, when he finally said “What do you want us to write? You say it, he writes it (signaling the clerk), and I’ll sign and stamp it. Anything you want”, he said and you could hear him mutter ‘this is just ridiculous.’ And that’s how I got my paper from the religious court.
Next step was a proof of good behavior from some police station in Furn el-Shiback. I don’t remember the things they requested, but it took me another three Saturdays of hanging around in a crowd of rather obscure origins. It was Ramadan then; no one was on breath mints, so not a great place to be standing in a crowd. It was wintertime as well, to make matters worse, so it was cold and everybody tries to cram him/herself in this little office, mint breathless and all. Ooooffff. I was deemed to be a safe element to Lebanese society, so got that paper as well.
There were several other papers she requested, all very obscure and otherwise unnecessary. Anyway, after a year of running back and forth from government offices in the Netherlands and Lebanon, I finally got my status as ‘Dutch’ back.
I never ever said Hello to the Bitch again. I do see her now and then at official functions and gatherings, but make it a point to avoid her at all costs. Her life is drawn in shades of grey, no color present there.
Anyway, she must have a very sour life or something, or a shitty marriage - I don’t know what made her tick that way - because she saw things slightly differently.
The trouble started when my daughter was born. Two weeks after her birth I went to the embassy, to apply for a Dutch passport for her. “Oh, is your daughter here,” she asked? I thought that was rather thoughtful of her, and very un-Dutch, because Dutch people in general are not overly interested in other people’s babies. I feel quite okay with that. In Holland, we do not kiss dogs and other people’s children. But anyway, I thought that was mighty thoughtful of her. Or was it? “No, she needs to be present when you apply, to verify she actually exists.” That took me by surprise. “But you held her in your arms just four days ago. You must surely know she exists”, I replied. “Yes, I know she exists, but the law requires she is present,” was the answer. She is the law, I remind you.
Fine. So next time, when I came with all the paperwork, AND the baby, she noticed that my place on the family khras-elkaid was not in accordance with my status as a ‘foreigner’. She realized then and there that I actually had acquired a Lebanese passport. So she took my passport away. That summer I had to travel on my Lebanese one (a humbling experience, as I now had to stand in line for the British and the Dutch embassy for visas). I was now officially ‘Lebanese only’.
But light was at the end of the tunnel; the Dutch parliament would be passing a law that stipulated dual nationalities was accepted in certain cases. I was that ‘certain case’. All I had to do was apply for a new passport. Easy, no? NO! Not with that bitch behind the counter.
I needed a proof that I was no longer living in Holland. So I sent my poor father (87 at the time) to the city that I used to live in, to ask for a proof that I had ‘unregistered’ myself. He went, got the paper and sent it to me. She took one long look at it. “But the paper doesn’t say where you moved to. You could have moved to another city in Holland. I need it to mention that you actually moved abroad.” Well, that was bit difficult, because when I moved out, I never intended to not come back. However, my Dad went again. He explained the story, and the employee behind the counter said: “We get this shit all the time. Just tell me what you want me to write on it, and I’ll write it. Makes everybody’s life much easier.” So I got a paper stating that I had moved out of that city, and moved abroad. Everybody happy, except the Bitch.
She needed a paper I was married. To this Lebanese gentleman. Well, I had a paper from the Muslim court stating I got married somewhere in 1993. “But maybe you are divorced now,” the Bitch said when I handed it over. That took me – again – by surprise. All my other papers state that I am married. Moreover, I just gave birth to a girl, and the father’s name on her birth certificate miraculously happened to be the same guy as the one I had married in 1993. “No, you might have divorced and remarried. I need to know that you were married to this gentleman during the time that you got Lebanese citizenship.” Go figure!
I went to the Muslim court in Tarek –el-Jdeideh. Now I need to remind you that I work for a living. 45 to 50 hours a week. I am in a position that you cannot just take off for the day and go do some paperwork. All that needs to be carefully coordinated, and my working hours coincide with government working hours, so when I am free, they are generally closed. I had this little time span on every Saturday morning, between 9:00 and 1:00 to run and get my stamps and stuff. Anyway, I went to the religious court. The first two times, they send you left and right and up and down, and it is only by the third time that you show up they understand what you want and take your request actually serious. So here I am, three Saturdays further (not to mention 3 scarves further, because you need to enter veiled, or semi-veiled at least, which I forgot every time. So every time I wanted to enter, I was sent back to a shop nearby to buy a scarf.) Anyway, they finally understand I am serious, and get me to a sheikh. What was it that I needed? I explained my case; a proof that I had been continuously married to the man I married in 1993. “But doesn’t it say you are married on all your paper work? Aren’t your children from the same father,” the sheikh asked flabbergasted? Yes, I replied, but I might have gone off, marry someone else, get a passport and then divorce and remarry the same guy. Or something like that. I never quite understood why it was so important that she knew I was married all the time to the same guy. So I am explaining this to the sheikh as I sit in his office, scarf and all, in my crummy Arabic, while people walk in and out, phones ring, get picked up (some don’t) and answered, and another five or six people are just sitting there on old sofas and what they do is not quite clear. When I am done with my story, the sheikh stared at me for the longest time. The other six people sitting in his office, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, fell silent as well. “WHAT embassy is that, you said”? the sheikh asks. “The Dutch embassy, your honor.” He lets out the longest sigh ever. “Mam, have you seen our archive?” I had. When you sit there many Saturdays in a row, you get to know the place. Shelves and shelves and shelves of book upon books and ledger upon ledgers. And there this one old guy, who runs around, looking for things. There are a few sandwiches on top of ledger, a full ashtray and some empty plastic coffee cups. He’s got it categorized according to a system incomprehensible to everyone but him, so if he dies, it is inaccessible as well. No computerized system in sight when I was there. Anyway, the sheikh gets this tired look on his face. “Mam, do you know how many months that will take us, do you have any idea? Do they have any idea at your embassy?” He remained quiet for a while. No one in the office dared speaking at this time. He looked out of the window, head bobbing up and down, when he finally said “What do you want us to write? You say it, he writes it (signaling the clerk), and I’ll sign and stamp it. Anything you want”, he said and you could hear him mutter ‘this is just ridiculous.’ And that’s how I got my paper from the religious court.
Next step was a proof of good behavior from some police station in Furn el-Shiback. I don’t remember the things they requested, but it took me another three Saturdays of hanging around in a crowd of rather obscure origins. It was Ramadan then; no one was on breath mints, so not a great place to be standing in a crowd. It was wintertime as well, to make matters worse, so it was cold and everybody tries to cram him/herself in this little office, mint breathless and all. Ooooffff. I was deemed to be a safe element to Lebanese society, so got that paper as well.
There were several other papers she requested, all very obscure and otherwise unnecessary. Anyway, after a year of running back and forth from government offices in the Netherlands and Lebanon, I finally got my status as ‘Dutch’ back.
I never ever said Hello to the Bitch again. I do see her now and then at official functions and gatherings, but make it a point to avoid her at all costs. Her life is drawn in shades of grey, no color present there.
Oh well, that was the story about my status as a foreigner. Do not know what suddenly inspired me to type all this. Still have a shit load of work to finish before tomorrow, so I guess I better quit this now.
2 comments:
Ja, dat wordt wat problematisch als ik mijn paspoby email lest I succumb to the wrath of paypalal
Welaan, daar ging wat mis. Ja, ik heb er dus wel even aan gedacht. Mijn paspoort verlengen in Beiroet is dan wel van de baan want B is here to stay. Maar niemand leest dit, dus het kan geen kwaad. Kan het altijd nog deleten.
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