On pride and ignoring me

When you’ve lived in a country for quite a while, there comes a point at which you think you pretty much know it. You’ve learned how to behave, what is considered polite and what offensive, you know what you can talk about with strangers and what is better left unasked, you even use the right expressions when someone is recovering from sickness, is getting married or has a new haircut.If, like me, you are an anthropologist, you have also come up with theories as to why some things are rude and others appreciated; you have figured out the cultural conventions, taboos and ‘implicit social knowledge’ that guide people and societies.

But then, all of a sudden, something happens that turns all this upside down. Something that, on first sight, goes completely against what you would expect, considering your experience with the people of that society. Like today.

As so many nights before, I went for a run on the Corniche. Now today, it wasn’t exactly cold – on the contrary, it was superb weather, considering the near-freezing temperatures of the past days (or even weeks), and so the sea-side boulevard was packed. There were all the usual suspects: children on little bicycles and skeelers, old men eating beans and corn, drinking coffee on the benches, entire families going for a stroll, young guys hanging around the parked cars with the stereo on 10, lovey-dovey couples sneaking a kiss against the railing. It wasn’t easy finding space to run, so I was swerving around the slowly advancing pedestrians, trying not to step on dogs or kicking over arguilehs on the way.

Suddenly, a little kid appeared from behind his father who was walking towards me. I side-stepped to avoid the boy, hitting the side of a hole where a palm-tree used to be and fell smack! on my face. Both my hands and my knees were chafed, some drops of blood started to form, and my mp3-player had flown out of my hands on to the pavement. As I was lying there, feeling like a stupid 4-year old, everybody averted their eyes and looked away. Where normally people can’t stop staring when I run by, now it was as if I didn’t exist. Not even so much as a ‘are you ok?’ from the father of the boy.

I got back up and walked the rest of the way home, trying to find an explanation. I have gotten to know the Lebanese people as being extremely helpful, especially to strangers. They go out of their way to help you when you are lost, hungry or generally in need of something. Yet right there, lying on the sidewalk – nothing.

As I am sitting here with band-aids on my knees, I still don’t understand. I surely hope that turning away from me was done to save my pride – after all, if you ignore it, it hasn’t really happened. Otherwise it’s time for a major overhaul of my Lebanese code of conduct…

It would be funny...

… if it weren’t so damn tragic. Today is the last day of the current president’s term. This means that if the current government (pro-Western) and the opposition (pro-non-Western) do not agree on a new guy, by midnight tonight Lebanon will not have a president. Unless, of course, the current president illegally extends his term (yet again), or appoints a military government. The thing with these two ‘solutions’ is that the government and their supporters will not accept that. If the president does nothing, the power is automatically transferred to the prime minister, who can then elect a new guy together with his ministers. The thing with this 'solution' is that the opposition and their supporters will not accept that.

(And here we haven’t even mentioned all the solutions that are unacceptable for the Arab League, Syria, France, Iran or the United States, because apparently they all have to agree on a new Lebanese president too.)

Sietske thinks a power vacuum that will occur because of a lack of president might not be such a bad thing. She writes:

Personally I don’t think this would be a great loss; it would make the current government illegal, and thus we are a country run illegally. This would suit the Lebanese spirit just fine. You may argue over the ‘run’ fact’. I don’t think Lebanese are easily ‘run’. We thrive on ‘lack of rules’ and so no president won’t be that big of a deal. We (the Lebanese) will just keep the show running, president or no president, government or no government. We probably do better without. Let’s see.

I beg to differ. Everyone I know is either ignoring politics entirely (the ostrich-approach: head in the sand and hope it will all go away) or completely stressed out. The Lebanese population pretends to thrive on chaos and hardship, but there is no country in the world where anti-depressants and tranquilizers are standard fare in every household and often available from the pharmacy even without a doctor’s prescription.

As I wrote before, many Lebanese even boast about how good they are during war, how they ‘hold on’ and withstand the crisis, but, as May Kahalé, press secretary and advisor to then-president of the Republic of Lebanon, phrased it: ‘Ironically, I believe this solidarity among the Lebanese people prolonged the war because we proved too adaptable. To survive, we accommodated ourselves too adeptly to each twist and turn that the war took.’ If only for once they would accept that they cannot deal with all the chaos and instability, they might finally stand up against their war-lording politicians and demand some real ‘running’ of the country.

Excursion to the other side

“BE-sides: Lebanon through the eyes of young photographers” is the exhibition we are on our way to visiting. Because the organization of the exhibition wants to increase communication and contact between different communities in Lebanon and they want to support the area hit hardest by last year’s war, they have chosen a location in Dahyeh – the largely Shi’a suburb south of Beirut. It’s in a place called Hangar, which is, according to the website, ‘close to such-and-such amusement park and next to a certain mosque’. Neither the driver, nor the co-pilot or my fellow-backseat passenger had ever been to Dahyeh, having grown up in the mainly Christian areas north of Beirut. It’s not the first time I am accompanying Lebanese Christians on their first visit to a Muslim part of the city, but although I am familiar with Dahyeh (an extremely densely populated area where the streets are always full of people), I had tried to attend a lecture in the ‘Hangar’ once before but never managed to find the place.

The girls have forgotten the route description in the office. They shrug it off, sure that we will easily find it. “The website said the place is next to a mosque”, my fellow backseat passenger tries to be helpful. I know we’re in for a long ride: Everything in Dahyeh is next to a mosque.

Once we get to the main road towards the suburbs, the tension starts rising; stereotypes about the Shi’a and Hezbollah are told with nervous giggles, our driver Maria swerves from one lane to another because she is afraid to miss the exit. I direct them to the general area where I know the Hangar should be and leave it up to them to ask for the exact location. It takes us three wrong turns and a hair-raising 20 meters backwards on the fast lane to get to the amusement park. It’s the wrong one.

Then, Lina remembers the name of the right park, and again we ask for directions. Maria gets more and more jittery, closing her window even before the guy has finished his last sentence. So once more we have to stop and ask. The friendly coffee-seller tells us to go back; “the other park is much nicer!” but we’re speeding off again. The sun has set, the streets of Dahyeh are dark, very dark – nothing but the yellow glow of the light-bulbs on the street-vendors carts and the neon signs on the storefronts.

Maria needs a smoke. Driving through Dahyeh with the windows open, dance-music blasting on the speakers; would this be the kind of ‘contact’ between different communities that the organization had in mind?

Finally we find the place in a tiny alley underneath, indeed, the mosque, behind a long white wall. Just as we step through the metal gate and Maria sighs “I could definitely use a drink right now…”, we find ourselves face to face with the local sheikh. Typical brown robe and a black turban – a descendant of the prophet, on top of that! Yet as at any gallery-opening, wine is served, and Maria gets her fill. Only when she leaves the Hangar to buy some cigarettes does a friendly neighbor tell her to empty the cup – it won’t be appreciated if she passes under the mosque with alcohol in her hands.*

On our way back, a more-than-slightly intoxicated Maria can no longer hide her nervousness, and when once again she thinks we are lost she panics and yells at a boy sitting in front of his cellphone-shop: “Where is the main road?!? How do I get to Ashrafiyeh [the Christian part of Beirut]?!? Tell me!! I need to go to Ashrafiyeh!!!” Lina and I can’t stop laughing. The guy ignores the fear in her voice and just waves towards the end of the road. “There, then left.” Another cigarette and then, finally, “we are out of there”.

---------- *Makes me think of one of my friends who used to live in Dahyeh and regularly had her friends over for a bit of alcoholic entertainment on the balcony. Only after the bombardments of last summer, when their building was completely destroyed, did they find out that one of Nasrallah’s apartments had been right across the street…

Mannetjes (het busstation in Syrië)

Het Midden Oosten is niet echt een populaire vakantiebestemming dit jaar. Dubai mag dan hot zijn, verder is het meer angstaanjagend dan exotisch met oorlog in Irak, boze aanvalspraat richting Iran, bomaanslagen in Pakistan, bezetting en verzet in Palestina/Israel en dreiging van burgeroorlog (of civil strife – ‘burgerlijke onrust’ zoals ze het hier optimistisch noemen) in Libanon. Op de dappersten (of domsten) na, zijn er dus maar weinig toeristen te bekennen.

Zo ook in Syrië. In het land zelf gebeurt misschien niet zoveel*, maar een reputatie als epicenter van de ‘As van het Kwaad’ is bepaald niet bevorderlijk voor de reizigersstroom. Vandaar dat ik me vanmorgen twee uur lang op het busstation van Damascus moest vermaken tot de taxichauffeur de vereiste 4 medepassagiers had gevonden en we naar Beirut konden racen. Gelukkig is er op een busstation in Syrië altijd wel wat te beleven.

Elke auto die het terrein van de wachtende taxis oprijdt wordt belaagd door zeker 10 hoopvolle taxichauffeurs. ‘Amman?’ ‘Beirut?’ ‘Saida?’ ‘Shtoura?’ Als de beduusde passagier zijn of haar bestemming heeft genoemd, begint het grote gevecht om de bagage. Hoewel er een semi-officiële volgorde is waarin de auto’s opvullen en vertrekken, zijn er toch altijd slimmerds die er met de bagage vandoor gaan en op die manier de passagier proberen te dwingen met hun auto mee te rijden. De chauffeur die als eerste aan de beurt is pikt dat natuurlijk niet, rent erachter aan, ontfutselt de passagier’s reisdocument en krijgt derhalve zijn rechtmatige reiziger onder zijn hoede. De hele meute rondhangende mannen die op het opstootje afkomen als vliegen op stroop voorzien de weerloze reiziger luidruchtig van advies en maken zo de chaos compleet.

Er zijn maar weinig vrouwen op het busstation. Er zijn taxichauffeurs, politieagenten, mannetjes die tafelkleedjes en tweedehands schoenen verkopen, mannetjes die de volgorde van de wachtende wagens in de gaten houden (meestal met een stok in de hand om opstandige chauffeurs op de vingers te tikken), overheidsbeambten die de uitrij-belasting registreren en innen, en mannetjes die niks anders te doen hebben dan overal commentaar op leveren. Erg zachtzinnig gaat het er niet aan toe – een vriendschappelijke schouderklop gaat niet zelden over in een schreeuwpartij die soms tot luid gelach, en soms tot rake klappen leidt.

Als de zaken slecht gaan betekent dat weliswaar lange wachttijden op het station, maar de wanhoop van de chauffeur maakt ook dat hij graag je verzoek inwilligt als dat hem een extra passagier oplevert. Zo kwam het dat de vader van mijn mede-reizigster zijn dochter alleen met ons mee wilde stuurde als ze tussen de twee andere dames op de achterbank zou komen te zitten. Nu is het hier gebruikelijk dat de mannelijke passagiers (met z’n tweeën!) op de voorstoel zitten en de vrouwelijke op de achterbank, maar als de mannen in kwestie ieder zo’n 90 kilo lijken te wegen, wordt er wat geschoven in de bezetting zodat de chauffeur in elk geval ruimte heeft zijn stuur te draaien. Niet in dit geval. De vader bleef naast de auto staan tot hij zeker wist dat zijn dochter veilig midden op de achterbank zat. En zo kwam het dat wij alle ruimte hadden, en de mannen voorin met hun zweterige armen strak tegen elkaar aan zaten te schurken.

*(behalve een Israelische aanval op een ‘nucleaire installatie’, naar verluid gebouwd met hulp van Noord Korea, in het noordoosten van het land.)

On a Su-Shi Diet

“You are fasting? Ah, for the day. No? For the whole month? Why would you do that? Next thing we know we will see you wearing a veil!” Yes, I am fasting during the whole month of Ramadan. No, I am not becoming Muslim. I am merely practicing what Anthropologists like to call participant observation. You do what the people around you do, to experience what they experience and thus, hopefully, come to a better understanding of why people think what they think and do what they do. As many people around me are fasting, I decided to join them and not eat and drink from sunrise to sunset for one whole month (in Lebanon, this is from around 4.45am until 7pm – apparently, in The Netherlands sunset isn’t until 8.30pm… pfff!).

The first day was a big shock. I had decided to wake up at 4.30am to drink enough water for the whole day. Big mistake: as I laid back down, my belly was playing storm-on-sea and there was no way I would sleep again. At noon, my brain started to fade, and at 6pm I had trouble looking straight. Dinner, at my beloved’s parents’ place, was a relief. The opening bite was the traditional date followed by a sweet drink, and then the equally traditional lentil-soup and fattoush (a Lebanese salad) which went down faster than a fish down a waterfall. Glasses and glasses of water to quench the thirst, regretted half an hour later as I sat on the couch to digest, feeling I was about to explode.

Fasting has become less hard over the days. The hour at which the fatigue sets in gradually moves to later in the afternoon, and I occasionally manage to think about something else than food or drinking. The good part are the iftars – the dinner to break the fast after sunset. Here goes: the more the merrier, and eating alone during Ramadan is not done, so I am, like last year, invited to many a home-cooked meal. But I don’t mind eating my iftar alone. There is a certain magic to preparing the meal without so much as licking my fingers to taste what I am cooking, setting the table on the balcony, and then, with so many people on the balconies around me, waiting for the mosque to start singing; the sign that dinner can be consumed. The only problem is which mosque to follow: Sunnis start eating when the mosque is done singing, but Shia generally wait another 20 minutes or so, just to be sure that the sun has gone down completely.

On the balconies across the street I see two families – one on the 5th, one on the 2nd floor. The grandfather on the 5th floor usually sits down at the table long before sunset, and he is joined quickly by his family members as the call to prayer ends. Silence, interspersed by the clicking knifes and forks on the plates, ensues. I am guessing they are Sunni. It takes another quarter of an hour for the grandmother to emerge on the 2nd floor, with a big bowl of soup in her hands. Their dedication to fast until the last moment implies they are Shia. Me? I have started eating somewhere in between the two. I am on a Su-Shi diet.