So Sad

I was in the process of writing this long & sad post about my very dear friend leaving the country. Forever. 
 

And then, while I was writing, another very dear friend of mine here in Lebanon, a fellow Dutchie, called. 
 

“I have some bad news,” she said. “J. has been shot in the head.” Her husband, J., had been shot three times that morning, at close range,  on the sea road near Dbayeh, on his way to work in Beirut. One of the shots was in the head. He died that same afternoon, not regaining consciousness.

It was exactly 30 years ago this month, that they met each other. In Hamana, if I am correct. She was a nurse at the local hospital, on loan from Holland, and he was vacationing with his parents in the village. Pretty much love at first sight. They stuck it out all these years, through explosions and invasions, unlike many other Dutch/Lebanese couples, who tried their luck in Holland during the war. He loved his land.

Some of his characteristics got all of us ´Dutch ladies married to Lebanese men´ decisively jealous. His habit of buying his wife flowers on Valentines. And on her birthday. And on their anniversary. And on any occasion that might be celebratory. Heck, even when there was no reason at all.

 Whenever I´d show up, he’d prepare me chips with a special ‘dip sauce’, because once, somewhere in 1991, I had commented on the fact that I liked that kind of thing. If we were on the beach, he´d go to the restaurant, and prepare it there. Once, one Valentine´s Day, his wife and I were lounging on an empty beach, when he prepared a lovely surprise for us. He did that kind of stuff all the time.  

And now, for reasons that elude us all, he was shot, and died. He leaves behind a daughter and a son, and his wife. The sad post about a friend leaving will have to wait for a while.

 

P.S. If anyone saw anything on that stretch of sea road near the Dbayeh Marina on June 27, sometime between 6:45 and 7:30, please be so kind as to notify the police.

The Art of Being Idle

Beirut

School’s out! Dutch children have to do with a meager six weeks summer holiday, but here in Lebanon, we do it differently. My daughter has eleven weeks; her brother gets fourteen (!) before he returns to the classroom. I get a lousy eight weeks, but knowing that the poor inhabitants of the ‘no vacation nation’ get only 10 days off with pay, and will in general not take all as it “ might look like they're not committed to their job“’, I guess I will take my eight weeks without complaining.

Beirut's new skyline

Most Lebanese will spend their holidays in country, but move to the mountains where the ancestral family home awaits in order to escape the smothering heat that is upon us now. This has been an unusually pleasant spring. I am used to Junes in oppressive heat, when you take a shower in the morning, and while drying off, you’re sweating again. This June has been cool (in comparison) with some pleasant showers. This Global Warming climate changing pattern has been kind to us so far. 

School's finally out!

The kids jump right into the holiday; they have no problem with being idle. They can make the switch instantaneously. When you leave for work in the morning, they lay sprawled on the couches in the living room. 

“What are you going to do today?”

“Uhh, dunno. Beach maybe.”

And then when you come home from work, they still lay on that same couch.

“What did you do today?”

“Uhhh, dunno. Nothing.”

Bijschrift toevoegen

I need a week or two (yes, of the precious eight) before I’m off ‘default mode’ and into ‘idle mode’. My default mode causes me to start cleaning and organizing the entire house, room by room. Or at least, rearranging the mess that I haven’t touched for months. Since last summer probably. I also get into this huge discard mood, which doesn’t happen very often and so I use it wisely; I throw everything out. Usually it’s stuff you haven’t used for at least two years, and of course, once thrown away, is what you need about two weeks later. I also tend to replace burnt out light bulbs. I do this only once a year, when I'm off for the summer. So you can imagine that around May, we live practically in the dark.

But being idle is good for you. I just read that city people have stressed-out brains. ‘People who live in the city, show more activity in the part of the brains which are associated with depression, anxiety and violence,’ according to a Dutch research. (source)

An ice cream a day ......

And so ‘Doing nothing is, however, very good for the mind, body and spirit” (another source) .

It seems that (and I quote) ‘The holiday, or holy day, has its origin as a break from toil and commerce, and was a chance to meditate, contemplate and reflect on spiritual matters.’ I'm not idle enough yet, but I'm getting there.

Favorite Time of the Day/Year

 Favorite time of the day. The family members slowly trickle back home, and gather around the only place where the entire household actually gets to see each other once a day; the dining room table. Our dining room is 8 months a year outside the house, on the balcony.

PLanes flying into Beirut Airport

We’re not the only ones coming home. In the evening, plane after plane flies into Beirut – you can often see them lining up after one another, 4 lights in a row – and you can imagine them being full of Lebanese who are coming home for the summer break.

Israelis flying over

Now and then the Israelis pay us a visit. You know they’re Israelis because commercial planes don’t fly side by side. When it is a quiet night (i.e. there is government electricity, so no generators), and dinner time, so very few cars are on the road, you can clearly hear the humming in the distance. Commercial planes make a different sound.

They fly pretty high. To avoid being shot at, I assume, but I can’t pertain to be a military expert. There’s this UN resolution. 1701, I believe, that states that the UN ‘Also reiterates its strong support, as recalled in all its previous relevant resolutions, for the territorial integrity, sovereignty and political independence of Lebanon within its internationally recognized borders, as contemplated by the Israeli-Lebanese General Armistice Agreement of 23 March 1949 (Source)

Can't see them? They can see you though. Here's a close-up.

I read somewhere that in 2009 – now that’s some 2 years ago –that the Lebanese government filed a complaint with the UN. What was their beef? The Israelis had violated that resolution some 9,000 times. In 3 years. That’s an average of 100 times a day!? I’m not quite sure what they count as violation, but the flying over Lebanese territory definitely is in violation of this resolution. And they do it frequently.

Nasty teenager

And we’re talking about everything and nothing. My son can’t resist sharing some of the old aunt’s latest additions to the long P/B list  (subermarket, bourquoi, Sbike (our dog Spike), parpeque (BBQ), blease, bromise) with us. He's lucky, in summer the kitchen is closer to the table. Summer holiday is almost here, 6 more days until school’s out. That's everyone's favorite time of the year.

On Happiness and Sadness

Happiness is to be the first one to arrive at the beach!

For some reason I’ve been very busy, and haven’t been able to go to the beach much this year. I’m as white as a milk bottle, and I’ve got to get some tan before I go to Holland for the summer. God knows you won’t get a tan in Holland, although it seems this spring has been their warmest in 100 years. But right now it seems it’s raining over there, and that’s exactly my point.

I could go to the beach in Europe, of course, but once you’ve ‘beached’ in Lebanon, I’m afraid the beach experience in Europe is a major disappointment. I don’t mind slumming it, but not in the heat and sand. I’d rather tan ‘the easy way’  and avoid the beaches while in France or Holland.

And so SIL and I met up in at one of my favorite beaches on the south side of Beirut. This particular beach has a little lagoon with a narrow canal in and out that connects it to the surf. With every wave, there’s this surge of water rushing through that little canal. What did our kids do ALL day? Hang on to the walkway that bridges the little canal, and hold on until the currents gets too strong and you have to let go, pushing you all the way into the lagoon. You then swim back really fast to get hold of that bridge again before the next wave comes crashing in. Cheap entertainment, but it does the job. It’s 7 in the evening now, and my daughter wants to go to bed.

On the way back, a very sad accident had taken place right before we passed by. An older lady, dressed in a dark red velvety robe, the kind the village ladies often wear, had tried to cross the highway.

There are very few overpasses on this highway, and it cuts right through the coastal land, with farmland on both sides. People have no choice but to cross over if they do not have a car. I've seen them do it frequently.

Apparently she had already made it past 3 lanes, but on the 4th towards the mid-barrier, she got clipped. It is a major highway, and none of these cars drive less than 90 kph.
And there she lay, on the tarmac, all frail and disheveled. Her slippers were gone. The bystanders weren’t even occupying themselves with her, it was that clear to all around that she was very dead. They just stood around her, moving cars around the body, and waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

And I am thinking, how bizarre life is. Summer has just arrived for us; we’re planning for a new season with new discoveries, memories and experiences on its way, while hers just ended. How cheap a human life is, to end like that, on a 4-lane highway, on a lazy Sunday, while people are coming back from the beaches, and they stare at you as you lie there, lifeless. I hope she had a good life, but in this place, even that is not a given.

Beirut Dog Show

Beirut dog owners at the BETA Dog Show



The annual BETA Dog Show was on again at the Beirut Hippodrome. After last year’s success  – where our blind, deaf and geriatric bearded collie won first prize in the ‘Best Senior’ Category’ – I had promised my daughter we’d do it again if the dog were still alive. Well, he still is! So I had to go. 

Dragging the dog onto the field



He’s one year older now, 17, and still able to walk, albeit slower and slower. The field of competitors didn’t stand a chance. The poor dog had no idea what was going on, it’s bordering on the abuse (and that in a dog show organized by the Beirut for the Ethical Treatment for Animals), being dragged into the field, and out again, while he’s clueless, but heck, it was for a good cause. BETA was fund-raising.

The competitors join



And fund raising is necessary as I think they’re the only organization in Lebanon that tries to fight animal abuse, which is quite rampant here. Of course, animals are not the only creatures being abused here; I could make a long list. There’s women, housemaids, migrant workers (dare I say Palestinians? Better not) and children. But animals would be definitely on the bottom of that list. 

And he wins again!



Dog ownership seems to be on the rise in my neighborhood, Hamra, judging from the amount of poop that decorates the sidewalks each morning as I walk to work. But with a rise in dog ownership, you get neglected and abandoned animals too. 

Happiest girl in the world



Once the old bearded collie dies, we (actually, my daughter) have decided that the next dog will come from the dog pond of BETA. I pray he makes it another 20 years.

Goodbye

It was a tearful goodbye. We shook hands, touched chest (some do not shake hands with a woman) and slapped backs. We shared jokes and remembered old stories, as in “you remember way back when…”

I said goodbye to the entire crew, Abu Ali and Abu George, Madame Joumana and ‘Isteez M’.



I bid farewell to all the secretaries I had come to know so well over the two years that I spent most of my Saturday mornings there.



After 2 years, this little paper could finally be discarded



I heard the elevator tell me – as it had been telling me all those Saturdays – for the very last time, “Doors are closing. Going? Down.” I always though it curious that the elevator was the only element in the entire building that spoke English. Even though it was the Ministry of Higher Education.

I saluted the doormen and security guards. They always waved me through, while others visitors had their handbags checked and got patted down. You could always see people think; ‘wow, a foreigner passing like that! She must be somebody way up high to receive that kind of treatment.’ Little did they know. We were, after all, on first name basis.

But I got it, folks! I finally got it! After a two year wait, I have – at last - received my Lebanese equivalency to my Dutch Bachelor’s degree.



The much coveted paper



Someone asked me why I would even need a Lebanese equivalency when I work in a foreign company. The fact is that - even though it is a foreign company - its employees, when hired locally, need to pay into the Lebanese government funds. And so I have been faithfully paying a substantial amount over the past 16 years into a Lebanese retirement fund. The payment into this fund depends upon the degree you have attained, because it is linked to the salary you get. I had, however, no right to claiming this money, ever, since that very diploma, upon which my salary is calculated, was not recognized by the Lebanese government. It needed to receive a Lebanese equivalent.



Well, I can now safely retire. Although chances are that by the time I do retire, the Lebanese government will probably have filed for bankruptcy. And I spent all these Saturdays for nothing. But it sure gave some material to blog about though . . .



If you want to know how it all started, then here is post 1, post 2 , post 3, post 4, post 5, post 6, post 7, post ....... etc etc.

Civil War Relics

A civil war relic; one of the few still standing

You do not see them that often anymore. They’ve become quite rare lately; the civil war buildings. The shell shattered façade sporting the well-known star-rays pattern of exploding RPG’s, They’re bullet ridden, the targeted victims of snipers, or just accidental victims in the cross-fire, and patched up by a criss-cross work of bricks..

The star sprayed pattern, result of a shell impact, and patched up again

 Most of the buildings that were heavily damaged, especially those along the former green line, have been either leveled, or renovated. Bullet holes have been closed up, and a layer of plaster cover whatever traces were left of a sad past. I find it a pity, because with those buildings, all outward traces of the civil war are slowly disappearing. I am sure that most Lebanese are happy about that; many do not see the necessity of constantly being reminded of a dark past. But those born after 1985 do not really have a vivid memory of this sad, yet immensely intriguing past. Just like Vietnam was the first televised war, Beirut was the first televised civil war. 



Beautiful patch work



Here’s a quote from an article that appeared some years ago: ‘Sociologists and historians have observed that many Lebanese have a tendency, at least on the surface, to try to leave the war behind them and simply move on with their lives. The fact that high school history textbooks still fail to address the civil war is just one example of how greater Lebanese society has tried to forget the past.’ (source)

When I just moved to Lebanon, the place was full of these buildings. One particular part was my favorite; the drive along the Green Line, especially that stretch of road between Tayouneh and the Damascus Road, between the christian neighborhood of Ain el Roummeneh, and the muslim populated Shiyah. That was a kilometer long alleyway flanked on both sides by stone skeletons. House after house, building after building, all the cement had been totally eroded away by years and years of bullet hail. Not one single house was intact. In the very beginning there were still the sandbags. Here's a visual of thet Green Line.



The staircase (Definitely not to heaven)

 I never lived through any of the atrocities of the civil war. When I got here, people were war wearied and exhausted, while I came all chipper and bounced of that plane full of energy. Back then, you had to walk from the plane to the terminal, where ceiling tiles and electric wires were hanging overhead. There was no electricity, and the luggage conveyer belt had not been working for many years. A little cart drove by and dumped all the suitcases on the tarmac, right at our feet. Welcome to Beirut. 

The old Barakat building at Sodeco, in a state of constant cultivated disrepair

But I always thought those buildings were beautiful. Perfect memorials, created by the people, not artists. They have something magical. Memories of a not so distant past really.  And so when I saw this building (top one) while driving through Badaro, I 'shot' it. For old times sake.

Some interesting articles on the architecture and urban growth around the Green Line can be found here and here .

On Food and Shatila; a Refugee Camp



Two Dutch culinary journalists in a Palestinian camp



I spent my Saturday in a humbling surrounding; the Palestinian city camp of Shatila. Two Dutch culinary writers/journalist are gathering Palestinian recipes for a cookbook, and were wondering whether the Palestinian Diaspora had generated anything new, as far as food was concerned. And so into the camps it was.

Narrow alleyways

I know that most Lebanese have an ambiguous feeling about the Palestinians in Lebanon. On the one hand they very well realize that these people have been unlucky in an incredible way. They got screwed over and over again, by the Israelis, by the Arabs, by the international community, and – probably the most significant – by their own people. And so here they live, in absolutely deplorable circumstances, with no hope of a way out.

On the other hand, many Lebanese feel that that situation they are in is partially due to their own doing. Well, maybe not themselves, but their leaders. Poor policy making, siding with the ‘wrong’ people at the ‘wrong’ time, corruption and betrayal within their own ranks have not helped their cause much. 

Electricity wires, TV cables, generator  lines,  laundry lines and plastic ropes to keep it all together

But if you ignore that, ambiguous feelings and all, and spend a day in a camp, any of the 16 camps in Lebanon, you come out with a feeling that this is just not right. Most people have no idea whatsoever what the conditions in these camps are like. Including the Lebanese. I remember that one day I did not have a translator, and my husband said he’d do the honors. I told him what camp to drive to. He had no idea where it was or how to get in. “You mean you’ve never been here?” I said.  “I have never been in any of the camps,” he replied, and he didn't think any of his friends had either.  He was 39 then. 39 years, and had never ever been inside a Palestinian camp.

This alleyway is 'realtively speaking'  wide, but look at the balconeys touching overhead.

People were not meant to live this way. Surviving this way with no glimmer of hope, in a place that is narrow, dark, damp, musty and above all, absolutely overcrowded. I’ve written about this particular camp before.

Shatila was never intended to be a camp, and it was never intended to house over 10,000 people. But there they live, and they do not have any other place to go to, so they really live on top of each other. There is no sign that says “Welcome to Shatila’, there is no fence or gate to indicate you have entered. It is one very poor neighborhood blending into another. One is filled with poor Lebanese, the next one with poor Palestinians. And even those blend.

There are some roads in Shatila that will allow cars to pass through, but the majority of the infrastructure consists of narrow alleyways, crooked, like a labyrinth. It is dim, because sunlight does not reach that deep, and the wind does not blow here either. There is a stale smell of humans, refuse and food. Most of the alleyways are less than a meter wide. On both sides iron doors in the wall give access to dark rooms, where people sit on white plastic garden chairs and sleep on mattresses on the floor. I am not making this up, I’ve just come from there. You feel like in a time machine; like you are walking through a medieval town. The Middle Ages revisited. They wouldn’t be able to produce a more authentic set in Hollywood than this one.

Peas and carrots with rice is on the menu today at Um Younes's house

And yet, after the initial distrust, after all, what on Earth could 3 female foreigners possible want with their food, things got going. We were taken on a tour through the entire camp, in search for women who could enlighten us on traditional Palestinian dishes, and the recipes that creates them. It took some time before figuring out who to look for. It had to be ladies that still remembered Palestine, and were cooking already when in Palestine. That proved to be impossible.  We’re at a fourth generation of Palestinians in this country now.  If you’re looking at ladies who had been cooking in Palestine, they would now be in their advanced nineties. With the conditions they live in, that’s turned out to be impossible. The ladies we found all were taught by their mothers while in the camp. 

This is a game I used to play at school in recess

And over time, the two kitchens, the Lebanese and Palestinian, have fused. Or rather, the Palestinian kitchen here has been infiltrated by the Lebanese. There isn’t much difference when it comes to ingredients to start with. This is logical of course, as you work with the products that are available. And so it was a search for regional differences, little ways of preparing a dish differently.

In the end, we sat in heated discussion, between women and men equally, on how a certain dish had to be prepared, and whether that was the Palestinian, Lebanese, Syrian, Jordanian or Ottoman way. This region is all about fusion.  

No cars in the camp, just scooters.

And then, when you look around in their houses, 3 small rooms at the most, to an entire family,  or walk through the narrow alleyways, no sunlight, no breeze, electricity wires and laundry lines hanging overhead, and remember the history of this partciular camp (who does not remember Sabra & Shatila?), you wonder; how come they are so nice to us? Why are we being received so warmly and with open arms? Why would this guy, on his day off, go through all this effort to drag us all around this camp, and help us with our search to the authentic Palestinian Disapora cuisine? Why would they bother? Are they going to benefit from this cookbook? Are they even going to benefit from answering us one single question? Yet they went out of their way to enable us to do our work. For which we get paid, and they don’t.

The only thing I can hope for is that, with more publicity regarding the situation they’re in, somehow, little by little, more people will feel inclined to think of their side of the coin, rather than only the Israeli one (for Europeans and Americans, that is), and then maybe, maybe, one day, when Obama makes a statement like ‘ back to the borders of 1967’, people (again, Europeans and Americans) will think, ‘Of course. What other way would there be?’ And then once we have reached that point, we can start lobbying for the Right of Return.

PS. What dish did we come out with as being purely Palestinian? Makloub. Prepared especially on feats days, often by the men.