Halloween

And so Halloween arrived. It was a close call. The dog suit got sewn, but then she almost got sick. She was blowing thick green bubbles from her nostrils as she was in- and exhaling. But she’s got a Neanderthal constitution (ah yes, the Dutch part of her) and so off she went, as a dog, green bubbles and all.
“Oh, what a cute bear,” said the school nurse.
“No, I’m a dog.”
“Oh yes, of course you are, dear.”

“Oh, look at that strong lion,” said the teacher.
“No, I’m a dog.”
“Yes, a dog. That’s what I meant. Did I say lion?”

What!? Something wrong with the costume?

Attachment to the Earth

Today A. and I visited the grave of Ibrahim. He lies buried in one of the oldest and largest muslim cemeteries in Beirut; Bachoura. It used to be surrounded by vast mulberry plantations, in the time when the silk industry was going strong in this part of the world. Silkworms feed on mulberry leaves. I never knew what mulberries looked like until I came to Beirut. They sell them in great heaps when it’s mulberry season.

The silk industry met its demise somewhere in the 18th century, and now the cemetery is in the middle of Beirut, surrounded by apartment buildings.

Ibrahim died last month; he was only one year older than my son. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. But sometimes they do. As him mom and I worked in the same company until four years ago, the two boys played together in the afternoon whenever we had meetings. Ibrahim was not your usual kid, but he wasn’t altogether unusual either. He was one that hadn’t found his bearings yet at that time. As I recall, he had no love for math, and would be unpleasantly surprised if he got a passing grade on a math paper. “That’s just luck,” he’d say, “You know I can’t do this.”
The family left for the States some years ago - his mom was American – and that was basically supposed to be the end of his Lebanese adventure. He now was your all-American kid, playing bass in a school band. I always thought he was more American than Lebanese. All that remained Lebanese was his name. Until he died, of course; in a car accident. He was 15 years old.

And then he became a Lebanese boy again. The attachment to the earth is very strong in this part of the world. Just think of the Palestinians. Although the family lived all the way in the US, Ibrahim was brought back home, to Beirut, and buried in his father’s hometown: Beirut. In this culture, it is tradition to return to your native soil.

The family came for the funeral, and then left again. It must be heart wrenching for a mom to have to leave her boy behind, all alone. And so we visit him, now and then.

A. is quite intrigued by it all. He's never known anyone that has died. Not personally, that is. And now it's someone he hung around with. He asked a million-and-one questions about funeral rites. He's been to a funeral once, and that was a christian one. But there are great differences between the muslims and the christians in how to lay a person to rest. He was at first quite appalled that I sat on another grave, near Ibrahim's. You don't do that in christian cemetaries, he knows. With the muslims it's quite okay. We're all family, after all. He soon was playing on his PSP right next to Ibrahim, while I contemplated. That seems a good thing to do. I bet Ibrahim liked playing PSP too.

I have the feeling other ‘foreign’ moms visit him too. After all, most of us will end up in foreign soil. He’s not all alone. He lies with his grandmother. But still, you need a mom at your grave now and then when you’re a kid.
And so we visit.

Beirut is a Bitch

Near Sodeco Square; the crossing between East and West Beirut. When I was talking to someone yesterday, and mentioned that I drove all the way from 'the West' (meaning West-Beirut), he replied "Jeez, you still use those old terms? I don't even know where the border is." He was too young to remember.

It's my favorite time of the year here; Beirut is at its best during dusk and in Fall.

Beirut used to be described as the ‘Paris of the Middle East’. I never really understood why the comparison to Paris. Why not London, or Rome for instance? If we consider Paris the city of romance, well, there’s little of that here (although I did get managed to meet & marry the man of my life here in merely 12 days, but that’s another story altogether). But yesterday I read the following (read below) on a blog, and that made sense to me.

“Paris is a bitch, but I love her anyway.”
‘An Englishwoman who once lived in Paris shared this little saying with me the other day. We were chatting about how Paris is magical and wondrous, yet sometimes living there can be a complete nightmare. In her view, it’s a nightmare “at least 50 percent of the time.” But when you experience the fabulous parts of Paris, it’s like a dream. In Paris, all of your senses are aroused and you can walk the streets and feel as if your feet have never touched the ground. There’s no place like it in the world.
This feeling is so intoxicating that many foreigner visitors vow to move there permanently. This is an understandable but nevertheless misguided notion for the vast majority of Paris lovers. The spell that Paris casts is best experienced in small, dream-like doses. That is its power. Strolls along the Seine, reading in the gardens, the abundance of art and architecture, decadent treats in cozy cafés — this is the postcard Paris that bewitches so many of us, that draws us back again and again. But one cannot live in a postcard, so to settle in Paris over the long haul means experiencing a different side of it, one that is sometimes difficult for dreamers and romantics to handle. The real world will eventually intrude.’ (Source)

And in that sense, yes, Beirut is a Bitch.

An old lady crossing the street near the overpass in Basta.

On Halloween, TCK & Cultural (Con)Fusion

Halloween is on its way. I’ve been preparing my daughter’s Princess costume since summer. Bought all kinds of cute accessories for it. She is going to be the star of the Halloween show, I had decided.

Then yesterday she announced that for Halloween, she was going to be a dog.

A dog.

Fine. I can handle that. I can handle anything. I do not get stressed over this. Not at all. I’ll just go over to Bourj Hammoud this afternoon and look for furry material to sew a dog suit. Great. Wonderful. When’s Halloween again? Next week? No problemo. (where’s the Prozac?)

And to think of it all; We don’t even celebrate Halloween in Holland. What am I saying? We do not celebrate Halloween in Lebanon either. Hubbie and I never ever in our entire lives went 'trick 'r treating'. And we do not live in the States either.

TCK: A Dutch girl, eating a Lebanese 'manakoushi ("zaatar only, please") while posing for the American Halloween pumpkins.

This Halloween bit comes from the school environment. When you follow an American curriculum (In Lebanon you can choose between a Lebanese curriculum, an American one, a French one and there’s even a German one!) you’ve got to throw in the American tradition bit. And so we celebrate Halloween. Not the whole Halloween, I might add. Just the dressing up. Not the ‘trick or treating’ bit, because nobody in this neighborhood would know what to do with scary dressed up kids ringing the doorbell at night asking for candy.

I wonder what my kids will make of all this later in life. What kind of traditions will they pass on? There’s the Lebanese culture, although slightly filtered into ‘Lebanese Lite’ (we’ve cancelled all the difficult and demanding stuff, like visiting relatives on feasts and such). There’s quite a bit of Dutch influx (dominant mother in the house), some American, and a little bit of French from the sister-in-law. They’ve had some Sri Lankan exposure too, although nowadays it’s Tagalo (from the Philipino housekeeper) that plays the upper hand.

I know multi-culturalism is supposed to be enriching, but I think this must be pretty confusing too. The lack of an own cultural identify may lead to religious fundamentalism, I read somewhere. I don’t hope so.

My kids are what you call TCK’s, or Third Culture Kids. These are children that are from one culture, and grow up (for some time, at least) in another culture, and form their own integrated culture, which is the ‘third culture’, hence the name Third Culture Kids (TCK).

According to sociologist Ruth Hill Useem, who coined the term TCK in the sixties, TCKs have more in common with each other, regardless of nationality, than they do with non-TCK' span. (Source)

There’s a lot of those in Lebanon. When I think of my son and his friends, they’re not even Third Culture Kids anymore, they’re Fifth or Sixth Culture Kids. Their Dad is from Lebanon, Mom from somewhere else, they were born in the States, lived in Saudi Arabia for a while, and the school, society and home environment adds another mixture of culture(s) to it. When you think about the Lebanese situation, it seems the entire country is Third Culture.

All of this of course, does not change the fact that this week I’ve got to come up with a dog suit. And I’m not stressed out. Not at all. I’ll make it extra big. So she can wear it again next year. But maybe next year she wants to dress up as a princess.

It’s all the fault of the Americans, you know. Halloween! Tfeh!

The Masaharati

The ‘masaharati’ just dropped by.

“Mom, there’s a guy with a derbaki (Lebanese drum) at the door,” my son yelled.

It seems he’s been at my door already a couple of times, but I’m never home. It took me some time to figure out who he was.

“I do booom boom boom. I wake you up all night in Ramadan. Good, no?” he said, smiling at me with eager eyes, while nodding his head enthusiastically.

This made me laugh. The guy had no idea what he was just telling me, but that’s okay.

“Aah, you’re the masaharati!”

“Yes!” he beamed.

The masaharati (talking about culture) is something typically Lebanese, although I’ve read somewhere that have them in Egypt and Syria as well. (And here's a little 'masaharati' clip from Turkey)

A masaharati is a man that walks the streets of a certain neighborhood at night during Ramadan, and wakes up the people with a drum and a prayer, so they do not miss their last meal before day break (sun rise).

It is a tradition that dates back to the days when people did not have alarm clocks. As the buildings rise up some 12 stories here, he’s got to do some extensive yelling and drumming.

Ramadan is over now, but he had come to collect his fee.

I only learned of the existence of the phenomenon when I had lived in Lebanon for some four years. This was because I had been living in mixed neighborhoods, or christian ones, where you do not have them.

But when I moved to Ras-Beirut, which has – although mixed – a large number of sunni muslims, one night during Ramadan, I woke up to the sound of what I thought were a couple of students going home late at night, and who’d obviously had had one too many. That, of course, would be the case in Holland. (I think you could describe it as some ‘college frat kids’ for American readers).

But when I heard it again the next night, I thought it odd. Open drunkenness is something you do not see a lot in Beirut. This may be due to the fact that we do not have (active) laws concerning drinking & driving, and therefore you can drive home, totally drunk. In Holland you’d have to walk, which for some reason inspires loud singing and banging on things.

The third night, I got up. I had to see those drunk college students! Hubbie then explained that, no, these were not drunk people, this was the traditional neighborhood masaharati, and the guy had been doing this job for a long time.

It is a voluntary thing, but after Ramadan, you can make the rounds and collect money. Our old neighborhood ‘masaharari’ died two years ago. We got a new one. He’s not as good as the old one, I must say. There’s no particular rhythm to his drum, and he does not articulate well. Still, it's a tradition, and a cute one at that.

Anyway, he passed by today, making the rounds and collecting money.

"I wake you up good, no?" he asked.

Yes, yes, very much, but I don't fast. I'm christian," I said.

"Never mind," he replied.

Enough!

So I'm not the only one. Many Lebanese have had enough of it all. This particular organization is campaigning for an end to the political deadlock that has lasted for about a year now. If it doesn't help, it doesn't hurt either.

Post # 500

I have been re-inspired recently, have several posts already done and waiting for publication. And then I noticed that I wrote 500 pieces since February 2005. This is post # 501. Now I know that writing is my job, but I am still quite impressed with myself.

And therefore a picture of Lebanon in the fall. Yes!

What Does It Say?

I totally missed the graffiti, but two bloggers did not.

Leila wondered: “Does the graffiti on the left side of the picture, on the white cabinet (news kiosk?) say "Al za'eem malek al-hareem?" And does that mean "the zaeem (feudal overlords, militia leaders, big guys) are kings of the shameful/forbidden? or is it harems?”

And Diamond in the Sunlight said “Did you read the graffiti? "Al-za3im malik al-7areem". I don't know which za'im the writer intended - maybe its clearer if you know the neighborhood - but its a hoot nonetheless.”

So what does it say in graffiti on this picture? This one was taken on Hamra Street (West-beirut).

Uninspired by the Elections

I’ve got to write a piece about the upcoming presidential elections. I don't think I have ever been as uninspired by a topic in Lebanon as this one.

I was supposed to do it last week, but could not get myself to even talk to people about it. The Lebanese president is elected by the parliament. The new man was supposed to be elected September 25, but that election got postponed because the two opposing movements cannot even face each other anymore in parliament. Now we’re set for October 24. Hezbollah & Co insist on a presidential vote by consensus, but as neither side can reach that 2/3 majority, most people assume it will be postponed again. The current guy still has till November 24 of this year. How do we find a candidate that both sides can have peace with? The options are next to non-existing. And so we will end up with no president. This in return will result in two governments, because neither side will accept the other.

This particular picture is not my work, but found on Flickr (click on it for the link)
The kids on a Roman road, some 1800 years or more old.

All that was supposed to be done last weekend.

Instead I took the kids out to Tyre to play in one of the largest Roman hippodrome ever found in the Roman Empire. They ran around on a Roman road dating from 200 AD (yep, some 1,800 years old and still in pristine condition. Better than the current road system), and frolicked trough the graves of a Phoenician necropolis from the first millennium BC. I don’t know how recently this grave yard was being used, but these graves have bones stuffed up to the ceiling.

Going for bones in a sarcophagus. All very unethical, I am aware of that, so you don't have to mail me about it. We didn't bring any home.

I doubt the kids realized how old this stuff really is. And how unique it is they can just play on it. In it, even. People passed by on their scooters, joggers went out a run around the arena. And if you think about all this, then the fact whether we will have a president or not; does it really matter?

We ended up on the beach. Fall has started, so we were the only ones. But that did not really solve my problem. I've still got to produce that piece, so no beach this weekend.

When Do You Know If The Ship Is Sinking?

When looking back at the events leading up to the 1975 civil war, it seems obvious that something awful was about to happen. ‘Couldn’t they have seen this coming’, you wonder?

Clouds gather above the mountains

I wonder how – in fifty years from now – people will look back on the period we currently live in. ‘Couldn’t they have seen it coming’, they may ask?

I don’t know what’s coming, so I can’t tell you, but things are not looking good right now. I’ve been blogging since February 2005 - which in retrospect seems to be the date when the future changed for this country -, and although I’m always positive, I can’t say I’m writing a whole lot of optimistic stuff about this place. So if you’d reread me in fifty years, you could say that I felt that something was changing. I don’t know what the near future holds for Lebanon, but I’m not holding my breath.

Maybe it is because I live with someone who predicts doom. But when you talk to friends, the overall tone is pessimism. Whenever you hear someone say they got a job abroad, the reaction is ‘lucky you!’ A friend that married a foreigner and moved to her husband’s country was told ‘at least you’re out of this place.’

It’s like the ship is sinking, and everyone is trying to get off. Is the ship really sinking? I don’t know. When do you realize – while on a sinking ship – that the thing is sinking? When people are abandoning ship? In that case; were sinking! When the horizon is skewed? When things are floating around you? I don’t know. But things are not going right.

Some time ago, in early 2006, I was speaking to a colleague, when he mentioned he had recently interviewed Sleiman Frangieh and that Frangieh had told him they were back in the business of buying arms.

Just some things I saw today while driving in the mountains above Beirut.

Roots

I shrugged it off. Frangieh is an old-timer when it comes to militias. He runs the northern mountain Christians, is closely allied to Syria (his Dad fled to Syria once when he was charged in a murder case and found refuge with a certain Assad family. Yes, ‘those’ Assad’s), and during the civil war he had organized a militia (actually his dad did; Sleiman inherited it) called the Marada Brigade, or more officially, the Zghorta Liberation Army

A pumpkin patch (It's almost Halloween)

After the civil war all militias (except Hezbollah) handed in their weapons and continued life as official political parties with seats in the parliament.

And then yesterday I read this; ‘In Lebanon, Mr. Suleiman Franjieh, a Christian opposition leader, was blunt. He told Assafir that his Marada party was arming to prevent another Ehden & Safra massacre. (The one the took the life of his family back in the civil war)’ at this blog.

On the same road; an 'umbrella' pine forest.

And lots of green.

He’s not the only one. The past two weeks several reports have come out from a various number of sources, including (unofficially) the UN, that more and more of the old fractions are preparing for the worst case scenario.

Hezbollah of course never stopped, and is – according to Israel, for what it’s worth – stronger then it was before the 2006 summer war. And now it seems that the druze of Joumblat, and the other druze contingent of Arslan, the sunni Future Movement of Hariri, and the Christians with Aoun are also in the market of some assault type equipment.
In some cases training camps are mentioned, and Aoun’s (as always) people got caught on camera in full regalia, complete with camouflage paint, which the party dismissed as just’ having fun and playing around.’

The only ladies wearing the facial veil (see side right of picture) are tourists from the Gulf countries.

Dutch blogger Riemer words it very well, when he says ‘There is an atmosphere in the country that doesn’t bode well. The thing is that every single aspect is something to shrug off. Combined, however, they show a pattern that is dangerous. It feels like events have been set in motion and before you know it, they take a course of their own.’

It would be such a pity. This place is so special. Nevertheless, its’ better to be prepared, in case the ship really sinks.

Abandoned

A wall I ran into today (not literally) .

I wonder; would this have been the bathroom or the kitchen? The blue tiles are rather unusual.

There are quite a few abandoned buildings in Lebanon. Not all of them are war-related abandonment. In some cases the owners went abroad (well, that’s probably war –related), but more often than not the neglect is due to too many inheritors. Grandfather dies, and there are 18 grand children; one wants to sell, another doesn’t, a third isn’t there and so they cannot proceed with the inheritance, and then these buildings just sort of crumble and slowly disappear. There are several terrains that I know of where the heirs are so numerous and globally spread, that the property is never even going to get sold.

Dutch Integration into Lebanese Society

First you get something light, before I give you something heavy tomorrow.

Arabs in Europe, or at least in Holland, are often accused of not making a big enough effort at ‘assimilating’ with the local population. They often stand out with their (islamic) dress, don’t want to join the Dutch in their annual trek to France in order to sleep on the floor and share toilets with another 1,000 Dutch for 3 weeks, eating pork sausages from the Hema, undergoing beer-induced brain-damaging experiences during soccer matches and Queen’s Day Celebrations, drinking coffee at 11:00 AM (only), unwrapping Sinterklaas gifts on December 5th and at otherwise being ‘ongezellig’.

I must say, if I were an Arab, and used to Lebanese food, hospitality, dress and overall love of life, then the life in Holland is indeed drab, dull, depressing, and mighty hard to integrate into.

The Dutch way of integrating into Lebanon; French-manicured toe nails.

Yesterday evening, at a pub in Gemayze, I noticed that the Dutch in Lebanon however, have done a wonderful job at integrating into this society. How does it show? Well, just look at our French manicure. You don’t see this in Holland a whole lot.

Gemayze at night; back in business as usual, regardless of the occasional bombs

And that makes living here so much fun (before I piss of that anonymous person again).

Now we are waiting from a clear sign from the Dutch males in Lebanon. What are you guys doing? Riemer? Theo? Harald? Peter? Gerard? Anyone?
I’m not expecting painted toenails, but come on!

In Which I get Somebody Really Upset

Oh my my, did I piss somebody off!

Look what I found as a comment.

Anonymous said...
what makes you think you can live in a country and go on mocking it all the way?? That's how lebanese people live, if you're not satisfied just leave it!

Seems like somebody needs to get a life. And obviously not reading me often enough either. Well, here is my reply:

Dear anonymous,
I must say I am quite pleased with the fact that I got you so upset that you took the time and effort to leave a comment. I hope I really ruined your day today. I will try and make an effort to ruin your day on a daily basis, so please pass by again. :)

In Which the Salesman Gets Electrocuted

I had a truly electrifying experience today. It concerned Lebanese men and their perception of the technical knowledge of women. Lebanon not is a female-unfriendly society. Quite the opposite. I sometimes feel that the Lebanese men are a little too strong in their display of love for women. This is not to say that this is a liberal society, but it’s not female-unfriendly.
It’s just that this society is sometimes incomprehensive when it concerns the (cap)abilities of women.

Beirut; Some people see this,

I’ve encountered that quite often, especially when it concerns matters of a technical or electronical nature. It is as if men have disconnected the two topics, and so if they talk to a woman regarding a technical matter, there’s this mis-communication. They hear you, but they don’t necessarily understand you.

I notice that oftern when I shop in the hardware department of BHV. The salesmen are not very willing to explain to me the exact working of a certain drill, for instance. And when I went to the lumber yard last year (in my green overalls splattered with paint, as I was fixing my kitchen) here in Beirut, looking for a 2 sq meters of wood, 12 mm thick, and sanded, the man of the lumber yard did not understand my request. I had to repeat it like five times, and my Arabic is really not that crummy. It was just that a woman in paint-splattered overalls, asking for a piece of wood, was a language he did not speak. Had it been a man; no problem, but a women, that just did not process well.

but I see this; a matter of perception

I must say, I often use (read ‘abuse) this Lebanese inability to connect women and technical matters. And so when I stand by the road with a flat tire, I won’t even attempt to change it, even though I know very well how to. I just look real helpless, and traffic comes to a screeching halt (Well, maybe not screeching)..

Anyway, to get back to the topic, men may hear you, but they may not necessarily understand you in this field. And so today, as I was shopping for something else, I ran into this very cute little lamp, shaped like a little flower with glass petals. Perfect for the bathroom I thought, and I asked the saleslady if she could get me one.
Well, that was the last one, and so she had to get it off the display. She gave one look at it, and decided that this was way too complicated to get it off the ceiling.

In strutted Hisham.
Hisham apparently was ‘the man’ on the floor, and matters such as taking lamps down, which required a three-step stair and some muscles, was his domain.
And Hisham was very much the man. Greased hair, muscles bulging from a tight T-shirt, pointed loafers, jeans below his ass.

The lamp, however, was not just hanging, it was also connected.
Hisham tried to pull it loose, but it would not give way.

“Uhmm, it’s still attached to the electricity,” I pointed out.
“No problem,” smiled Hisham, “I’ll get something”.
Off he went

And back he came with a wire cutter.
Hisham was just going to cut the electric wire.

“But it ‘s still connected,” I repeated.
“No problem.”
“Yes, but to the electricity, you see the wire?” I said
“No no, don’t worry, the light is off.”

Yes, of course the light was off, you iditot, I thought, there is no bulb in the thing. But some of the other lights hanging there were on.
“I know, but if you cut it, you’ll get electrocuted, you know, like ‘zappfff’,” and I imitated a mosquito in one of those blue lights.
Hisham smiles meekly at me.
“Ya madam, don’t worry”, he said, as he got on top of the stool he had brought along, and reached for the wire.

“He’s going to get electrocuted!” I said to the saleslady standing next to him.
She looked at me and shrugged.
“Maalesh (It’s okay).’
Whether it was okay for Hisham to get electrocuted or whether it was something I really should not worry about, I don’t know.
And he got hold of the wire.

I could not watch this. What’s more, I didn’t even want to be in the neighborhood. If he was going to get zapped, not near me.

I stepped back, and as he put up his other hand, and closed the wire cutter around the electrical wire. When he was about to cut it, I turned around and put my fingers in my ears.

….


But I could still hear the enormous animal-like roar that must have come from Hisham as he was ‘bbzzzzzttttttt’ off the stool. All the lights in the lamp sections went off.

The lady went hysterical.

‘Great’, I thought, ‘now I’ll never get my lamp.

The story ended well. The wire was cut, rather by the fall of Hisham than the actual cutting of it. He survived, looking rather humbled though, and I got my lamp. (It caused quite a consternation though).

I could have said “I told you so,” but in the spirit of Ramadan, I think he learned his lesson.