Treat your country as you would treat your mother

In Lebanon, politicians do not talk with each other, they talk to each other. They usually deliver their messages to the leaders of the opposite camp through press-conferences, speeches at rallies and demonstrations, or even interviews or mediators – I often imagine how silent it must be during their meetings, seen that they only start venting their plans and opinions to journalists after the parliamentary sessions are over. This time, Sleiman Franjieh (a Maronite Christian leader who supports the Opposition) called on his fellow Maronite leaders to 'stop using Bkirki, the highest Maronite religious authority, as a platform for politicians to deliver statements'.

Geagea (a Maronite leader who supports the Government) let it be known that 'Franjieh should be respectful towards Bkirki and treat it like it is his mother'.

Enmity between Franjieh and Geagea dates back to the civil war, when Geagea's militia killed Franjieh's family, and it is there that Franjieh found his answer: ‘If Geagea had left my mother alive, I would have known how to treat her well.’

In Dutch we say: Zo, die zit.

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.

Just because I am blonde...

Message to all Lebanese men: Just because I am blonde, this does not mean that…

- I appreciate it when you drive up next to me when I’m walking on the street and ask me to go for a drink - I will say yes to the above proposal - I want to go home with you and meet your wife(!?!) - I want to sleep with you - I don’t have enough knowledge of Arabic to understand it when you call me a whore - I am a whore

Message to all Lebanese:

Just because I am blonde (and tall, and obviously a foreigner), this does not mean that…

- I will pay 3000 Lebanese liras to go from one side of town to another by shared taxi, instead of the regular 1500 - I do not know what hommos, tabbouleh and fattoush are - I need tourist-commentary on every landmark we pass by on our way to the South – a trip I make at least 3 times a week - I need you to communicate for me when in a taxi, post office or store - I am Christian and you can talk bullshit to me about Muslims - I will reply when you say ‘Guten Morgen’ or anything else in German

Thank you for your cooperation.

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.

Lebanese lies

One of the most annoying things of living in Lebanon as a foreigner is that when you meet people for the first time, they will either try to convince you that you are crazy for wanting to live here, of they will try to ‘sell’ their country to you (neither of which has worked with me, just yet). Being crazy refers to the fact that, according to many Lebanese people, living here means you have to put up with Lebanese people, which can be a bit of a challenge. It also means you can be hit by a car at any moment or die because a passing politician is blown up right next to you. Those who try the positive approach usually come up with lame stereotypes such as ‘It’s a great place to live because we all speak 3 languages; English, French and Arabic. For example, we say ‘hi, kifak, ça va?’ To be honest, in more than 12 months in Lebanon, I’ve heard this phrase exactly once. Other than that, mixing words from 3 languages doesn’t mean you speak 3 languages, as far as I know – unless we would consider Dutch people tri-lingual because they use words like ‘shit’, ‘sorry’, and ‘überhaupt’ in their everyday speech. But I digress.

The other thing people like to boast about is the fact that one can ‘ski in the mountains and swim in the sea’ in the same day. Again, I have only heard once of people who did this (and they only did it to prove this claim is true). Usually, it is either too cold to swim, or there is not enough snow to ski. Yesterday it may have been possible though – judging from Sietske’s pictures, the weather was quite warm in Beirut, whereas we were up in the Cedars (around 2000m. above sea level), and this was our view:

For me, the temperatures up there felt like practicing for tomorrow: return to The Netherlands, for a few weeks. What's left for me now is to wish everyone Adha Karim, Merry Christmas, and a wonderful 2008. Until then!