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.

Unsolved

It requires some navigation, but there is something I would like to show you. Please click here, go to the bottom of the menu (left), click on ‘wat kunt u doen?’, then on the first link on that page: ‘verstuur een e-card’. Take a look at the map at the bottom of the page. That’s Palestine/Israel.

The red is the amount of land in Palestinian hands (1946 – 2007). The light grey is the amount of land in Jewish/Israeli hands (1946 – 2007).

Lebanon, neighbor to the above, hosts about 200 to 400 thousand Palestinians in various camps around the country. Some people have been living there since 1948. Can you imagine? Living in a refugee camp for 60 years? Life in these camps is not exactly luxurious: high unemployment and poverty rates, militias ruling certain areas (the Lebanese army is not allowed to go inside the camps), housing often consists of random building materials with essential elements (doors, windows) lacking. A friend who works in Bourj el Barajneh, one of the camps, overheard a colleague saying ‘my wife couldn’t go to work today. The roof fell down and it dislodged her shoulder’, in the same tone of voice as if he told her he forgot to pick up the newspaper on his way to the office. Shit happens. That’s life in the camps.

Living in Lebanon it is impossible to forget about the Palestinians. Their presence in Lebanon, and what’s happening to them in their homeland, is a constant factor even outside the news-bulletins. If it’s not in one of the exhibitions, lectures or concerts organized to commemorate the start of the civil war in Lebanon (33 years ago, this April), it’s in the words of Walid’s grandfather who starts many of his stories with ‘when I was young, and the state of Israel didn’t exist, I would walk to [name of a city in Palestine/Israel] to teach there’. And then there is the inevitable response when discussing the news: Sure it’s bad that two soldiers died in Afghanistan. But is anyone concerned with the nine Palestinian children that were killed today?

This is not an accusation. It is merely a reminder of the bizarreness of the situation, a reminder that this should not become ‘normal’. Other people’s thoughts can be found here and here and here.

I didn’t write this because I know what needs to be done (obviously, I don’t). There are many solutions, to as many problems, and none of them will please everyone. I just wrote this because I think it is a situation that requires more attention. And hopefully, if enough people hear about it, somebody will have an idea that works. But I have one suggestion: let’s get rid of the term ‘the Palestinian Problem’ first. The other time somebody thought a certain People constituted a Problem, he called it ‘Judenfrage’, and we all know what happened then.

The sea, and three boys on a bike

“Hey Miss! Want to take our picture?!?” the three boys yelled, and then they raced off, the biggest boy pedaling, the smallest one barely controlling the handlebars.

(Behind me, three red tables with matching chairs and umbrellas were waiting for customers, plastic flower-pieces glued to the tablecloth. A hot afternoon is no time for coffee or arguileh, apparently).

Photo taken on the corniche in Saida, April 8th 2008.

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.”

That's also a way to find someone

Not everyone has cute maids walking past their parking lot every day. And not everyone considers the maid partner-material. Take for example the lady who walked up next to us when we were waiting for Walid to arrive at the airport, Sunday night. She looked me up and down twice and asked Walid’s mom: ‘Foreigner?’

After that, a stream of questions followed. Who were we waiting for? Where was Walid’s mother from? What’s her family name? And finally, when the answers to the previous questions proved satisfactory: does she have a daughter? Because, see, this lady was waiting for her son. And her son, he’s a lawyer in America. And he needs to get married.

What an opportunity, an unmarried lawyer from America!

Walid’s mother had seen it coming, and denied her daughter’s existence. That did nothing to end the lady’s quest; she merely turned around to talk to the two boys next to us. Was that pretty girl she saw them with their sister? Would they mind calling her over?

The girl came and was subjected to a similar interrogation. Where did she live? Family name? What university did she go to? And how old was she? Again, disappointment: the girl was in her early twenties, her son in his late thirties. The lady shook her head and walked off, looking around for another suitable candidate.

I never saw him arriving, this lawyer from America. But I have no doubt she found him a wife.