Back in Beirut

The biggest drawback of living in a city is the lack of privacy. From my shared apartment to the Corniche (the entertainment-value of which I have described before), there are people everywhere, so there is no space where I can sing along with the music on my mp3-player without getting some funny looks, or requests to stop the noise. Except today. I came back to Lebanon yesterday and I noticed that the city wasn’t as bustling and noisy as I remembered it. Apparently, Beirutis are afraid of the cold (it is –cough– a chilling twelve degrees celcius.) So tonight, when I went to the Corniche for a run, I took my chance: it was dark, the seaside boulevard was almost deserted, and the few people there I could see from far ahead. The cars parked next to the sidewalk with people watching an empty sidewalk all had their windows closed, so I cranked up the volume on my player and burst out in an ABBA-song. Keeping an eye on the kissing couple against the railing and the lonely jogger I came across to lower my voice on time not to scare anyone, I thought I had the situation completely under control.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten about that one little feature that is part and parcel of life in Beirut: an armed soldier on every streetcorner. Not that the Corniche has any corners, but it does have trees. And right when I took a deep breath to scream out ‘SOS! When you’re gone, how can I even try to go on’ I heard loud laughter behind me – and I turned around just in time to see the tip of a machine gun disappear behind a palmtree.

If I could choose…

For today, the homework for English class was to write a few lines on ‘if I could live in any country in the world, I would choose…’. I present you with a random sample of the choices of the 9-year old students of Rawdah HS Elementary school in Southern Beirut:

“…I would choose Spain, because my parents studied there and lived there for 15 years and they speak very good Spanish.”

“…I would choose Denmark, because I have the Danish nationality, and it is a very green and peaceful country.”

“…I would choose Dubai, because my father and my uncles work there, and they cannot travel to Lebanon often.”

“…I would choose London, because the schools are free, there is no pollution because of smart actions of the government, and because the roads are good and very far from the houses so you can have calmness in your living room.”

While the first three choices point mercilessly at the rather saddening exodus of Lebanese people that is going on and has been going on for decades, the last one just makes me nod my head in agreement. I can’t wait to spend some time in a city that does not have honking cars everywhere, all the time…

Da’s nog eens wat anders dan de zwarte herenfiets van Donner

Even dacht ik dat er vandaag toch verkiezingen waren. Maar nee, voor de 7e keer werden ze uitgesteld. Waarom dan toch de weg volledig afgezet werd op sommige plekken? Waarschijnlijk omdat de politici bij elkaar moesten komen om de Grondwet aan te passen. Dit vanwege het feit dat de enige ‘consensus-kandidaat’ (lees: onuitgesproken allemansvriend) op dit moment nog opperbevelhebber van het leger is, en er normaal gesproken 2 jaar tussen een post in het leger en een aanstelling als president moet zitten. Nood wijzigt wet, kennelijk. Maar die wegafzetting, daar gaat het me om. Zoiets wordt uiteraard niet vantevoren aangekondigd, want het gaat er nou net om de bommenleggers te slim af te zijn. Dus, wandelend van mijn ene afspraak naar de andere, mocht ik ineens niet verder. Alle auto’s, bussen, scooters, alles stond stil. De zijstraten werden bewaakt door politieagenten, het grote kruispunt door een bosje soldaten die per legerjeep aangevoerd waren. Vooraan hadden de auto’s het al opgegeven en de motor uitgezet, achteraan stonden ze nog te toeteren.

Daar sta je dan, te staren naar een lege straat. Vier banen breed, geen beweging op te bekennen (weinig voorkomend fenomeen in Beirut). Wachten. Vijf minuten. Tien minuten. Een kwartier. Ineens grijpen de soldaten hun machinegeweren wat steviger vast en heb ik geen bereik meer op mijn mobiele telefoon. Dan komen ze aanscheuren: drie zwarte, glimmende auto’s, getint glas, zwiepende antennes, alledrie hetzelfde model en hetzelfde nummerbord. Ze slingeren om elkaar heen, wisselen van volgorde om te voorkomen dat duidelijk wordt in welke auto de politicus zich bevindt. Piepende banden. Dan zijn ze alweer de hoek om. Nog een paar minuten houden de soldaten het verkeer in bedwang, tot iedereen weer verder mag scheuren. En ik blij dat er wederom niemand bij me in de buurt is opgeblazen...

Ordinary things

I never thought I would get used to things like these, but strangely enough they have become normal: • that when I try to make a phone call and the call doesn’t get through because the network is jammed, my first thought is ‘oh, they probably blew up another politician’ • that every morning when I wake up, I go to the bathroom first to see if there is water to take a shower or flush the toilet (one day out of two) • that there is a guy in a green or grey camouflage suit on almost every streetcorner, a heavy machinegun dangling in his hand, his finger on the trigger • that I hear people on the street greet each other with ‘Hi! How are you? So, when will the war start?’ • that when we hear rattling sounds coming from the hills between our office and the Israeli border, my colleagues shake their heads and say ‘It’s nothing, just some anti-aircraft fire.’ • that I make sure not to use the elevator to my apartment on the 7th floor around 9am, 12pm or 3pm, because these are the times at which the daily 3-hour electricity cut can start • that half of the roads around my house are completely barricaded with concrete blocks at night and turned into zig-zag tracks by day because they are close to one- or another politician’s house • that on my way to work I pass by at least 4 tanks, strategically positioned on major crossroads in Beirut, with a guy on top loosely aiming his machinegun at passing cars • And lastly, that guys start singing when I walk past them.

Sometimes I wonder if I should be worried that these things no longer shock, anger or surprise me….

This is how we do it

It is still not quite autumn, but the rains have started. They come in short, heavy bursts, and if you are indoors the whole day, you may not even notice it has rained. Except for that one little problem, that typically Lebanese problem, that is called the electricity system. As if there weren’t already enough things wrong with it, the rain will break down the last working connection. The wire, hanging loosely over the street, will crackle and sputter, then a big flash – and it’s gone. But, no need to worry: we call uncle Hassan, who comes with his son, a neighbor and ladder to fix the cut ends of the electrical cable.

In The Netherlands, we have laws (called Arbowet) to regulate labor and the circumstances surrounding labor. Workers have to be safe at all times, wear protective clothing, be prevented from making movements that may cause injuries. For example, those working at the check-out in the supermarket are not allowed, by law, to reach further than 30cm to pick up the articles they need to scan, thus hopefully avoiding the risk of straining the arms of the cashier.

Uncle Hassan is not so concerned with these things, and neither are his workers: the yellow piece of old copper-wire and the son standing on the roof of the van holding the ladder are deemed adequate safety-measures. So up went the neighbor, pulling some wires, tugging on the remaining cables to check their sturdiness, preventing any further damage from rain. Done.

When told about the Dutch Arbowet and the 30cm limit reach, the reaction was a smug laugh. “Your country must be so easy to occupy!”