Hussein's Koninkrijk

Het is Hussein’s kleine koninkrijk, zijn mini-bus. Lang en gespierd, met kort zwart haar en een perfect geknipt sikje, staat hij naast de bus te wachten op zijn passagiers. Hussein neemt niet zomaar iedereen mee naar Sour (Zuid Libanon), net zomin als hij zomaar overal onderweg stopt om mensen uit te laten stappen. Andere mini-bussen rijden over de kustweg, elkaar aftroevend in snelheid en roekeloosheid om maar zoveel mogelijk passagiers uit de dorpen langs de route mee te kunnen nemen, maar Hussein heeft dat niet nodig. Hussein heeft zijn vaste klanten, hij hoeft onderweg niet uit het raam te hangen, zijn bestemming roepend om nog net die ene extra reiziger op te pikken. Hussein’s bus weerspiegelt zijn zelfverzekerde houding. Andere mini-bussen zijn oud, gebutst, en gedeukt aan alle kanten – de verf afgebladderd, stoelbekleding meer af- dan aanwezig, ramen die niet open of dicht kunnen en kapotte ruitenwissers, spiegels en hoofdsteunen. Aan Hussein’s felrode bus is geen mankementje te ontdekken, er is geen deukje in te ontwaren. De zwartleren bekleding is glanzend schoon, er zijn geen kruisjes, zwaardjes of beschermende stenen oogjes die aan de achteruitkijkspiegel bungelen, zelfs het dashboard is minimalistisch leeg. Twee clips en aan bakje houden de bankbiljetten en munten op orde en de radio wordt bediend met een afstandsbediening.

De brede stoep waarvandaan de minibussen uit Beiroet vertrekken is, als elke dag, een grote chaos. Hussein steekt boven de menigte uit, dus hij ziet me al van verre aankomen en wenkt me de bus in. “Komen je collega’s ook vandaag?” vraagt hij. “Dan wachten we nog even.” Andere chauffeurs schreeuwen tegen hem dat hij moet vertrekken, zijn bus is bijna vol! De rest van de passagiers kan hij onderweg wel oppikken! Maar Hussein reageert niet eens. Als de laatste vaste klant de schuifdeur achter zich heeft dichtgetrokken vertrekken we in volle vaart. Eenmaal op de snelweg komen de Celine Dion cd’s uit het dashboardkastje, waar ze rustig lagen te wachten bovenop de Koran, tussen de Pussy Cat Dolls en Arabische techno.

Hussein werpt een tevreden blik in de achteruitkijkspiegel. 140km per uur, en hij heeft zijn schaapjes op het droge.

'tis the Season...

... of political instability; people are leaving the country with no plans to come back. On a trip to the bank and the laundromat (together no more than 5 blocks away from my house), I came across no less than 4 cars for sale.

And if you think there is any other explanation for the onset of this car-sale-season, consider this one... (Translation, by Walid: "Jaajaa is out, Aoun is back, Sanioura has become greedy, Lahoud is staying, I am leaving, and the car is for sale." - the 4 mentioned are Lebanese politicians.)

Marriage Proposal (type 1)

I am in the backseat of a service (shared taxi). The last passenger has just gotten out and we are stuck in traffic. The driver turns around and says, in his best English:- “Where you from?” - “I’m from The Netherlands, from Holland…. From Amsterdam.” - “You visit here in Lebanon?” - “No, I live here. I live in Beirut.” - “Aaaaahh! You like Lebanon?” - “Definitely. I love it.” The driver then tries to look at my ring finger, but traffic starts moving so he has to turn around to keep at least one eye on the road. - “You married?” Time for a little lie. - “Yes, I am.” - “He is from Holland? Yes?” - “No, he is Lebanese.” - “Ahh! Very good. You have children?” - “No. …I mean, not yet.” - “Ok later, inshallah.” - “Yes. Inshallah.” Silence returns to the car. Then a sudden turn of the driver, who asks me in Arabic, with twinkling eyes: - “Do you have any problems with your husband?” - “No; no problems. Why?” - “Well, if you do, just come to me. I will marry you!”

What will it be like when the ship is sinking?

Sietske asked ‘how do you know when the ship is sinking?’When do you know the country is descending into war?

Maybe when you ask for the prices of membership at a new gym, and their promotional talk starts with “Fitness First is proud to be the only gym in Lebanon with the guarantee that we will always be open; explosions, unrest – we might have special opening hours, but we will never be closed!”

Or maybe when a friend replies to your complaint that it is hard to find a job with “Don’t worry, there will be a war soon, and you will work as a reporter.”

Walid, who is in Amsterdam and reads the news every night as soon as the newspapers publish their content online, is almost certain that the presidential elections will be a breaking point and that a regional war is looming on the horizon. The USA and Iran (aside from Afghanistan and Iraq, let’s not forget), Syria and Israel (which is already busy on the Palestinian front), different parties inside Lebanon backed by different powers outside of the country… the tensions are running high and violent conflict is likely. Yet I told Walid he is reading too many newspapers, scaring himself needlessly.

I remember the feeling: in January of this year, while I was quietly writing my thesis in Amsterdam, riots broke out at the Arab University of Beirut. There was nothing I could do but watch CNN, seeing the neighborhood I had lived next to turn into a scene of rock-throwing, car-window smashing groups of men, shot at by snipers on several balconies, ultimately dispersed by the army. Although it wouldn’t do anything to change the situation, I checked the news every few minutes, paralyzed on the couch, unable to concentrate on writing. And the anchorwoman kept asking the reporter: “Do you think this is the start of a new civil war?”

Until the moment my plane landed in Beirut, at the beginning of this summer, I constantly told myself that the situation could change at any time, thus preventing me from coming here. Like Walid, I read the news daily, searching for clues as to when the war would start – there was no doubt in my mind that it would, it was only a matter of ‘before or after my arrival’. It didn’t happen. There has been an attack on the Spanish UN convoy in South Lebanon, there was a war in the Palestinian camp Nahr el Bared in the North, and an assassination of a politician, but nothing has turned the country into yet another Middle Eastern battleground.

This is not to say it won’t happen. Yet when reading the news, war can become an abstract phenomenon, something that is decided upon by the powers that be, something detached from the countries it takes place in. It looses its day to day reality of people living a life despite the fear, the threats, the anticipations, the paranoia; the damage, suffering and death. When I think of Iraq, I try to think of all those people going to school, to work, to the market, and I wonder how they deal with their fear, I try to imagine how, for them, war is their life, not an abstract issue on a page of the newspaper.

Then I often end up trying to imagine what that life would be like here, if there would be a war. Will it be like the stories I heard and read from the war of 1975-1990, with fights between militias in certain areas (the radio announcing which streets are safe), snipers shooting everyone moving within target-range, random checkpoints of militias and people being kidnapped for ransom? Or will it be more like what we hear from Iraq, with suicide bombers and car bombs in markets and other public places? Which areas will be affected most, where (if so) will the fighting take place? My neighborhood, Hamra, is a mixed neighborhood and politically not very outspoken – will it remain semi-neutral and thus livable? How will I live it, providing I stay here and stay alive?

It is strange and unsettling to ask myself these questions, but sadly enough it is unavoidable.

(This beautiful, handwritten note in the local supermarket says: To our customers: Veelmann has been 30 years, let's celebrate they come from peaceful country Germany. The note appeared last year, a few days after the end of the war, and is still there...)

Sunny side up

There are, of course, always things to miss. I might miss my friends in the Netherlands, my family, my beloved. I might miss stroopwafels, liquorice and yellow cheese of the Gouda-variety. I might miss biking everywhere, and peace and calm in the middle of the city. And I do. But right now, most of all, I miss autumn. I miss seeing the world turn yellow, orange, red and brown. I miss the heavy rain announcing the end of summer. It’s the end of October; it’s sunny and 27 °C.

It's getting ridiculous. Or maybe I am just all too used to something far more dramatic than a few splotches of water and a fresh breeze interrupting otherwise sunny, warm days to remind me that seasons exist when flipflops aren’t appropriate footwear…