It never becomes normal, either way

I don't know if I shouldn't be used to it by now: the beautiful sunset on the Corniche (yes, I was there again), and the fact that right after I took this picture two soldiers with their weapons ready in front of them demanded to see what I was taking pictures of. Well, of the view:

Even though I see it almost every night, I never get bored of it. And remember I told you about the famous Lebanese Lie, the idea that in this country, one can ski and swim on the same day? Well, this night I was proven wrong: to my right, I saw the mountains covered in snow, and to my left, I saw a couple of old men taking a dive in the sea. Not sure if they had been skiing in the morning of course, but they could have been...

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…

Stormy days

Yesterday we said goodbye to the Iraqi women who came to our NGO to learn about post-war reconstruction. I looked out the window and saw a dark sky, grey clouds gathering just before a massive downpour of rain would hit the land. I sighed and remarked: ‘such sad weather on a last day.’ ‘It’s not sad weather’ said my boss, raising his voice for the first time since I know him, ‘it’s a sad human condition we are in in this country!’

The sad human condition we are in is our own fault, says my boss. It is also unsurprising. If everybody (and I mean literally everybody) has a gun or two in the house, ‘just in case’, flying bullets might be a problem much less significant than the distrust that permeates every pore of this society. When I was doing my research, a year and a half ago, people showed me their guns that were hidden under their pillows or in bedside tables. These days, they have moved into pockets and onto the streets. Ready to be used.

No wonder everybody sleeps with one eye open. The events of Sunday-night (demonstrations against the horrible electricity situation turned into riots in which protesters clashed with the army, tires were burned and 8 people died from flying bullets and a grenade thrown into the crowd) show how volatile the ‘situation’ is. The symbolism of Sunday’s events – they took place in the same place as the attack on a bus full of Palestinians which sparked the civil war in 1975 – hasn’t escaped anyone. I don’t even hear any predictions anymore, nor the usual ‘let’s hope tomorrow will be calm’. As Robert Fisk asks: Could it be civil war already?

I prefer natural storms. Strong wind is good for the mind.

Verknald

G*dvrr…. Weer iemand opgeblazen. De afgelopen dagen deden geruchten de ronde dat, na Libanese politici, journalisten en (medewerkers van) ambassades, nu willekeurige buitenlanders het doelwit van aanslagen zouden worden, maar dit keer was het een hooggeplaatste medewerker van de Binnenlandse Veiligheidsdiensten en een aantal passanten.

Shit.

Het blijft een vreemd fenomeen, dat een radeloos gevoel van machteloosheid met zich mee brengt. Wanneer houdt dit nou eens op? Wie heeft het gedaan? En maakt dat eigenlijk wel uit?

Sommigen geven het nieuws een plaats door er direct over te schrijven, terwijl iedereen wel weet dat de reguliere media allang over het aantal doden bericht hebben. Anderen bellen, smsen, mailen met mensen die ze kennen die wonen of werken in de buurt van de explosie. Iedereen veilig? Wel gehoord, niet gewond. Gelukkig.

De gedachten schieten naar mijn eigen leven – kom ik ooit in die buurt? De plannen voor de komende dagen, moet daar iets aan veranderd worden? Zal wel niet. We gaan gewoon door. Kan ik er wat aan doen dat het land de vernieling in draait?

Predictions

My last post was apparently dripping with irritation, somehow giving off the impression I have totally had it here. Fact of the matter is: I feel finally calm and happy enough to write it down, instead of wanting to spit in the face of the next man who opens his car window. But it seems that I am the only one who is calm and happy. The rest of the country is going crazy with the uncertainty and political dead-end-rhetoric, with the economy going down the drain and consequently the prices of things like gas and bread going up. As I have noticed since I first came here, the Lebanese solution to all this is not to complain to those who might be able to change things, or to change things themselves, but to predict when it is going to go absolutely and completely wrong.

I got acquainted with this phenomenon during the war of Summer 2006. If I would tell people where I was staying, they would inevitably come up with ‘knowledge’ that the bridge next to our house would be bombed. That night. They thought they could predict with absolute accuracy when it would be hit.

Then the war was over, and the real predictions began. “You have to leave the country NOW, Nicolien, because civil war will start at the end of this week!” my friends would tell me, in all sincerity. Ever since, I have been bombarded with warnings: Friday there will be a big explosion. Or Don’t leave your house this week, there will be demonstrations and everything will go wrong. Or In two weeks Hezbollah will take over the country. The most recent warnings concern tomorrow, Jan. 24th: the opposition will take to the streets (again) and hence, the country will explode.

Now you won’t hear me say that there won’t be more demonstrations, riots, explosions, fights, or even civil war. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I will do what I always do on Thursdays: I will go to work, make a visit to the supermarket and go for a run on the Corniche. Maybe I will even get to sing a bit, if everybody will stay home to watch the news.