Marriage proposal (type 2)

I’m seated third row in a mini-van to Sour (Tyr), on my way to work in South Lebanon. Behind me a veiled grandmother with what could be her daughter or granddaughter, a girl in her twenties; behind them another young woman, also veiled. I hear the girl on the last row ask the old woman if she knows how to get from the last bus-stop to the NGO I work for (which is very well-known and enjoys a huge support among the mainly Shi’ite inhabitants of the region). I turn around and say in my best Arabic: - "I know how to get there, I have to go there too." The grandmother turns to me, with prying eyes: - “What are you going to do there?” - “I work there.” - “Oooohh! You work there?!? What do you do?” - “I make their website and take pictures of the projects." She claps her hands excitedly, for a while all we do is smiling at each other. Then she asks me: - “Are you married?” - “Yes, I am.” She seems a little disappointed, but then cheers up. - “Oh. It doesn’t matter! Do you want to marry my son?” The granddaughter shakes her head, points at her grandmother and says in English: - “She’s funny.”

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!”

'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!”