It’s always 300 meters away

A Dutch friend of mine is doing research here in Beirut about the events of May 2008, and is trying to get an idea of how many fighters were out on the streets in Ras Beirut. She has interviewed quite a few journalists, academics and politicians, and from their words she has concluded that there must have been anywhere between 1 and 1000 armed men on the streets. Anywhere between 1 and 1000. A useful estimate, no?

Not very useful indeed. It’s the one generalization I do not hesitate to make about the Lebanese I know (and, by extension, the Lebanese I don’t know): they have no estimating-skills whatsoever. I understand quite well the desperation of my friend’s mother, director at a secondary school in Beirut, who wanted to hire a teacher just to teach her students how to estimate. ‘Numbers, time, distance, amounts – they have no clue! They think it will take them 10 minutes to drive 40 kilometers; they will tell you it’s only a 5 minute walk from here to Hamra even though it’s 2 kilometers away, and if any political party tells them that they gathered 1.5 million supporters in a certain square or tent, they will only criticize the number because they don’t like the party, not based on the logic that 1.5 million people could never fit in that tent or on that square!'

I have, by now, stopped asking my Lebanese friends what they think something will cost. Fixing a tire? One will say 20 dollars, one will say 50.000 lira, when in reality it once costs between 5.000 and 10.000 LL. How long does it take to get from Hamra to Jal el Dib? The standard answer is 10 minutes… it usually takes me 40 to 45 minutes. I worked all the way in Tyre, South Lebanon, and I can’t recount the number of times I’ve had to refute the idea that it would take me at least 2.5 hours to get there – and another 2.5 to get back (it’s about 80kms).

It becomes especially funny if, when asking for directions, there are no restaurants or gas stations to mark the point after which to go left or right. The person telling you where to turn will try to be helpful and will give you an indication of how long it will take you to get there. And it doesn’t matter how close or far it is, the estimate is inevitably inaccurate, sometimes laughably so. As another Dutch friend living here says: ‘It doesn’t matter whether you have to turn left after 100 meters or 2 kilometers – they will always say it’s 300 meters.’

Identity-crisis, live at ABC

It’s not easy for kids in Lebanon these days – so many languages, so many nationalities per person! Yesterday morning, as we were having a late breakfast in ABC-mall in Ashrafiyeh, we were joined at the big table by a family of four; mother, father and two sons of around 4 years old. They seemed to be Lebanese, mostly speaking French, while the mother tried a sentence or two in Arabic with the kids. One of the boys kept staring at me until he decided he needed some answers and turned to his parents.

‘Mom, dad, which country are we from?’ ‘We live in France, and we are from Lebanon.’ ‘Oh.’ He turned back to me. ‘And you, where are you from?’ ‘I am from The Netherlands,’ I answered. ‘To the North of France,’ clarified his dad.

The boy, still wondering about the complexities of different countries of origin and nationalities, brought the discussion on their side of the table to their friend Gael, whose mother was said to be French. She also, it was mentioned, has blue eyes, and eventually one of the sons asked:

‘So when we go back to France, will we have blue eyes as well?’ As if the whole confusion of correlation between language, residence and descent wasn’t enough yet...

Land van Babel

Ik had een afspraak op een school in een dorpje ten Noorden van Beiroet, in de bergen. Zoals gebruikelijk was ik ruim op tijd vertrokken omdat ik niet precies wist waar de school was, en ik zo rustig de weg zou kunnen vragen – een slimmere strategie dan te proberen je locatie op de kaart te vinden of vantevoren een routebeschrijving te vragen, want dan raak je sowieso de weg kwijt. Ik ben eraan gewend, de weg vragen. Meestal probeer ik het eerst in het Arabisch, en als dat geen resultaat oplevert ga ik over op Frans (in de overwegend Christelijke gebieden) of Engels (in de overwegend Moslim-gebieden). Mijn avonturen vonden dit keer plaats rond Bikfaya, ook bekend als het Christelijk hart-land, dus het zou wel Frans worden.

De eerste wegwijzer was een vrouw op leeftijd die langs de kant van de weg wandelde met een boodschappentas. Ze zag mij al van verre aankomen en glimlachte vriendelijk toen ik stopte en het raampje open draaide. Haar gezicht betrok toen ik in het Arabisch vroeg of ze wist waar die-en-die school was. ‘Geen idee,’ zei ze in het Frans, ‘ik ben hier ook pas net aangekomen.’ Met vinnige passen liep ze door.

Een eindje verderop vond ik een benzine-station. Ik tankte, en besloot meteen maar in het Frans te beginnen met mijn vraag over de juiste afslag. De medewerker van het pompstation keek me verschrikt aan, stamelde ‘ik spreek geen Engels!’ en rende weg om zijn baas te halen. Die wist me in een mix van Frans, Engels en Duits een eind in de goede richting te helpen.

Tot de laatste splitsing in de weg – moest ik links of rechts? Ik wilde niet het risico lopen weer verkeerd te rijden, dus ik parkeerde de auto en ging een stomerij binnen voor advies. ‘Spreekt U Arabisch of Frans?’ vroeg ik, voordat ik uberhaupt over de weg zou beginnen. ‘Engels, graag’ zei de man met een vriendelijke glimlach.

Het zal je niet verbazen dat de school drietalig bleek te zijn.

So many mothers

On the occasion of Mother’s Day, today in Lebanon. Although I was born and raised by one amazing woman, in the Netherlands, in the past 29 years I’ve had so many more mothers, all over the world… There was an Alsacienne, the mother who made me feel at home in my French host-family when I went to school in Paris and who taught me a gazillion tricks to save water; there was the Kenyan nurse who appointed herself my African mother, who let me stay at her house when the friend I came to visit was away from the hospital for a few days and who taught me how to eat with my hands; and there was the South African lady who called me her daughter and taught me about racism and occupation.

When I went to Lebanon, again I found myself in the welcome embrace of so many wonderful women, all being a mother for me in one way or another. They made me feel at home by treating me as one of their children, which meant I was taken up in the stream of endless comments about when to get married and to whom (what’s his background? where is he from?) and an equally endless stream of amazing food, always with enough leftovers to take home and feed me for another week. It also meant late-night conversations about what to do in life, shelter during the war, career advice and unexpected birthday cakes, and so much more.

However, having a Lebanese mother (or several) comes with a heavy responsibility, and I knew this from my Lebanese friends and their mothers: those who live abroad are expected to call their mother often, very often, and those who live in Lebanon are supposed to pop by regularly to say hello and eat some of the delicious food that is inevitably waiting. I, on the other hand, am used to one, long, weekly phone call with my parents in the Netherlands, and would feel incredibly obtrusive for passing by more than once every two or three weeks. And that’s where I continuously fail as a ‘Lebanese daughter’, and get messages from my friends along the lines of “my mom is disappointed in you, you don’t call often enough” and “you should pass by my parents some day soon, they would love to see you. No really, I mean it. SOON.”

Dear Lebanese mothers: I apologize for my modest Dutch behavior; I will try to pass by more often.

Happy Mother’s Day to you all!

Feminism, Southern Lebanese Shi’a style

Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah, the highest Shi’a authority in Lebanon, has issued a new fatwa. Often concerned with equality between men and women, this time he spoke out on the issue of domestic violence: his newest fatwa 'supports the right of a woman to defend herself against any act of violence, whether social or physical.' Quite literally, he said that any woman has the right to beat up her husband if the husband physically abuses her.

Now if that’s not typical Southern Lebanese resistance, I don’t know what is…

An interesting interview with Fadlallah can be found here. (Hat-tip to Abu Muqawama)