Where are the women?

First, I followed today’s news on the internet: ‘Roads to Airport and Kuwaiti embassy closed with rubble and burning tires’, ‘protestors smash shop-windows on Corniche Mazraa’, ‘hand-grenade thrown at protestors’. When the reporting became delayed, I went to friends with a TV, to actually see what was going on. Streets blocked by burning tires and garbage containers upside down, the blazing contents giving off thick clouds of black smoke. Throngs of young men on scooters, going this way or that, trying to find out where to go to join the fight. Small groups of soldiers from the Lebanese Army trying to push back the protestors without using force. Sounds of gunshots, images of broken windows, the firemen in t-shirts trying to extinguish cars set on fire. Young men on both sides of the street, screaming, burning each other’s flags. When the mosque sang, they stopped the chanting and the running back and forth to bend down and pray on the sidewalk. Sounds of small grenades and explosions, rattling of gunshots.

For whatever political reasons, the army didn’t crack down on the protestors, nor on the people they encountered so violently. It seemed there was a certain space for these men to express their anger, to contain what apparently can’t be avoided.

I walked towards the areas of unrest, to a friend’s house in Bourj Abi Haidar. The streets were empty, except for small groups of men hanging on street corners, or sitting on doorsteps. Every once in a while there would be a garbage can upside down, or some other construction of scrap metal and junk, with the smoldering rests of fires and tires. Shops were closed, the metal shutters down, and if I remembered to look up, I saw people peeking down between the sunshades on the balconies, keeping themselves inside. Whenever I would see someone going in the opposite direction, I would ask them if there was ‘anything up there’. No, there was nothing and no-one, except for broken bricks blocking the road. It felt, strangely enough, like the aftermath of a big football match, or a large festival; everyone has gone home, all that rests is cleaning up.

And then I saw him. He was casually leaning against the wall, brand-new sunglasses on his nose, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. And he had a Kalashnikov at his waist and a string of ammunition around his neck. There was no doubt about it: this corner of the street was his, and his alone. He was the one to determine what was allowed to pass and what wasn’t. He didn’t hide it, he was just standing there, as if he finally had received what had been his all along.

And then I knew: it’s not another riot. It’s war. On the way back I saw two others had claimed their own corners, typical militia-style: sitting with one leg stretched out behind a small wall, just low enough to shoot over, just high enough to hide behind.

When I came home, the doorbell rang. ‘Lebanese Army. Don’t worry, it’s not your apartment we are after, but we would like to have a look at the streets from your rooftop-terrace.’

Bad advice (or, Parking lot romance - part 2)

for part 1 of this story, click here. So A. had passed his little not to C., and then the waiting began. He didn’t quite know how to proceed. What if she walked by the parking lot without looking at him? What if she would try to talk to him but he would be too busy to reply? He wanted to send her another note, asking her to clarify the details of their relationship, but because he didn’t really know if that would be a good idea, he asked my roommate for advice.

Hadi told him he should play it cool. Don’t be too eager. Let her come to you, if she likes you. Don’t go running after her. A. took the advice and applied it the next time C. walked past. He gave her a barely noticeable nod of the head – so barely noticeable, in fact, that she didn’t see it and thought he was ignoring her. The result? Silence on her side. No note to answer his last one, no smile when they happened to cross each other on the street. The relationship seemed doomed to fail.

A. then decided to ignore Hadi’s advice, and he asked a regular customer of the parking lot to write another note. C. accepted the message: they are speaking to each other again.

Luckily, A. doesn’t blame us for giving him advice that had almost cost him his only hope for a bit of romance. When we moved out of the apartment last week, he came to me and shyly said ‘You know, I will miss you guys. Really, I will miss you.’ I will miss him too. But I’m still within walking distance of the parking lot, so who knows – maybe I’ll go say hi one day, and hang around long enough to hear how the story continues…

You can laugh about it if you want

Generally accepted definition of parallel lines: ‘Two lines on a plane that are always the same distance apart and never intersect’ (or any variation hereof).

Definition of parallel lines (so my friends tell me) in a very, very strict religious school here in Beirut:

‘Two lines on a plane that are always the same distance apart and never intersect, unless God wills it’.

Obviously, in their eyes, God has nothing on mortal mathematicians naming things. That’s his job.

Apartment hunting - sectarian style

The landlord has announced that as from next month, the rent will be raised with 20%. Result: one month to find a new place by knocking on doors, calling numbers in the housing section of the free weekly advertising paper, and using the services of ‘realtors’ – a bunch of old men sitting around in a tiny office, waiting to cash in on their knowledge of the neighborhood and who has empty apartments available. In the office of the old guys, they take our phone number. A good moment for them to get the necessary information: “What’s your name? And last name?” It tells them everything they need to know: Walid’s last name very clearly indicates which area in Beirut the extended family on his father’s side is from, and thus his religion٭. He’s approved; the guys take us on a tour of empty apartments in the area. Once out and about, though, the realtor checks Walid’s last name one more time. “You know, I don’t care, but here they don’t rent to Shi’a.” Interesting. Better not to mention where Walid’s mother is from, then, or where I work.

٭ [In Lebanon, children automatically are given the religion of their father. Since many aspects of society (marriage, divorce, etc.) are only arranged by religious law, it is practically impossible not to have a religion, even when you are a convinced atheist.]

One of the buildings they show us has a promising apartment (a rooftop terrace! a view of the mountains! and of the sea!), so we return later to talk to the concierge. He agrees with us that we shouldn’t deal with these realtors, who, by the way “refuse to find places for Palestinians.” Not that either of us would have to worry about that, but it turns out they are not the only ones with a national preference; the owner of the building has his own criteria for renters: foreigners only please. For once, my blonde hair proves an asset.

And just when we think the national and sectarian assessment is over, the janitor tells us about the neighbor. “He’s an engineer, and he plays in Ziad Rahbani’s band sometimes. He’s Druze, you know, a good guy.”

Parking Lot Romance

It was 7.30am when the doorbell rang. It was A…, one of the boys from the parking next to our building, with a small note in his hand. It read:

I’m always fine, tnx, and how about u how are u 2? how’s ur leg now? & you said you want me 2 ur friend? sure we just friend. by the way I’m C…… how about you what is your name? …

A…. is one of the many Syrian men who work the jobs most Lebanese don’t want to do; usually in construction, or parking cars in the temporary parking lots that are created on demolition sites.

Their situation is, in some ways, similar to that of the maids from Ethiopia, Sri Lanka or the Philippines: they are young and come to Lebanon alone to make some money and then go back home. In the few hours they have off per week (work at the parking lot starts at 7am and ends at 9pm, 7 days a week), they hang out with their compatriots – I don’t think mingling with the Lebanese would be much appreciated, knowing how classist Lebanese society is. The same goes for the maids: they have possibly even less hours off, but on their free afternoon (often Sunday), they can often be seen hanging around the store that sells products from their home-country, or making phone calls from the payphone on the corner.

Now people are people (even when they are considered slaves), and it is no surprise that A… has lost his heart to one of the Philippine girls walking past the parking lot with the groceries every day. The only problem? He doesn’t speak much English, and she doesn’t speak much Arabic. How he had managed to write her the initial note, I don’t know, but he came to us with her answer and asked us to write her a reply.

Hello C……., sorry it took me so long to write back. I’m A….. I would like to see you more often. I think you are very cute. Maybe you can teach me English and I will teach you Arabic.

May romance blossom.