Your God or Mine?

So the talk is about marriage, and whether one should or should not get married to a muslim. I’d say yes, but then again, I am biased; I’m about to get hitched with an atheist Sunni. Not that it matters, we’re both products of mixed marriages (sunni-shi’a for him and catholic-protestant for me), and neither of us are very attached to any of the rituals that came with all these religions. To my Arabic teacher, a devout Sunni muslim without a veil, this is still a bit puzzling. She’s perfectly ok with different grades of religiosity, and mixed marriages are not a problem, but no religion at all? How does that work? I explain that we will do a civil ceremony somewhere, and then have it registered in our respective countries.

‘So your kids,’ she says, ‘what will they be?’ ‘Here in Lebanon they will get their (grand)father’s religion, according to the law’, I answer. ‘And in Holland?’ ‘In Holland they won’t be anything until we register them as something.’ ‘They won’t be Christian?’ ‘Unless we have them baptized they won’t be registered as such, no.’

I’ve had this conversation before, and it usually stops here, because the possibility of being ‘nothing’ is a new concept for many. But my teacher was still curious about something, and carefully asked:

‘How about… what will you tell your children?’ ‘Supposing I will have them, I don’t think I will tell them anything.’ ‘You won’t take them to church?’ ‘I don’t plan on doing so, no. I guess they will pick up enough about religion from their grandparents and the people around them, and when they are older and they want to join a religion, they can do so.’ ‘So you won’t tell them God doesn’t exist? That there is nothing?’ she asks, seemingly a little worried about my unborn, godless children. ‘I don’t think it’s up to me to decide whether he exists or not, so no, I probably won’t be telling them that.’

The answer reassures her. But then a more practical issue comes to her mind.

‘But if you don’t have a religion, who do you refer to when you say ‘nshallah’ [God willing] or ‘ya rabbe’ [oh my God]?’ she asks. I try to avoid these expressions as much as I can, because indeed, who am I referring to? but sometimes there is no other option. My answer is the first one of the day that she can really get behind. ‘All of them.’

Schone Schijn

Wij hebben een intellectueel huis, zeggen onze vrienden. Dat komt omdat we een boekenkast hebben die gemaakt is van bakstenen en oude planken en in de woon/eetkamer staat. Het komt ook omdat onze voordeur vrijwel direct uitkomt op de (open) keuken en de woon/eetkamer. Tel daarbij op dat we geen TV hebben en onze extra kamer gebruiken als slaapkamer voor gasten, en men kan niet anders dan concluderen dat wij toch wel héél eccentriek wonen. In een Libanese woning gaat dat heel anders, zeker als deze woning een upper-class appartement in Beirut is. Het begint al bij binnenkomst in het gebouw: de begane grond is betegeld met marmeren platen en dat marmer loopt door op de trap, tot de trap de hoek omgaat en uit het zicht verdwijnt: dan is graniet of zwart zeil ook goed genoeg. Iedereen neemt immers de lift, dus niemand die het ziet!

Het huis zelf is ingericht volgens ditzelfde principe: één deel voor de gasten, en één deel voor de familie zelf. De hal achter de voordeur behoort uiteraard tot het publieke gedeelte, en is daarom bij voorkeur voorzien van een grote spiegel in een gouden lijst en een groot boeket plastic bloemen. Welke kant je van daaruit opgaat, is afhankelijk van je status: goede vrienden worden toegelaten tot het familiegedeelte, waar men rondloopt in hemd en pyjama, en waar het meubilair oud maar comfortabel is. Hier hangen de vrolijke familiefoto’s, liggen de aandenkens van toen de kinderen nog klein waren, en zijn de kaarsen voor als de electriciteit uitvalt op schoteltjes vastgesmolten.

Niet iedereen wordt zomaar deelgenoot gemaakt van deze kant van het leven. Er dient indruk gemaakt te worden op het bezoek, zelfs als het de overbuurman is die komt vragen of de auto verplaatst kan worden. Met veel ‘ahla wa sahla’s worden de gasten het ‘mooie’ gedeelte van het huis binnengeleid, om plaats te nemen in één van de zitjes bestaande uit bontgedecoreerde banken en brede stoelen met krullend houten poten en armsteunen. In deze kamer staat meestal ook de piano, en zijn de muren opgesierd met geschilderde landschapjes in gouden lijsten en foto’s van de kinderen tijdens de afstudeerceremonie, met diploma in de hand. Het zijn kamers die nauwelijks gebruikt worden, maar waar de schalen constant gevuld zijn met opzichtig verpakte chocolaatjes en de vitrinekast uitpuilt van de zilveren schalen en kandelaars.

[Toen ik dit allemaal nog net helemaal door had, heb ik eens als dank een zware zilveren kandelaar aan de moeder van een vriend kado gedaan, als dank voor de tijd die ik had mogen doorbrengen in hun huis – in het familiegedeelte uiteraard. Het was me opgevallen dat de kaarsen steeds omvielen op de schoteltjes en dacht zo het nuttige met het aangename te verenigen. Niet dus: die kandelaar verdween in de glazen kast in het gastengedeelte, en de kaarsen in het woongedeelte staan nogsteeds op het punt van omvallen.]

Ik blijf het fascinerend vinden dat mensen zoveel geld uitgeven om een kamer in te richten met dikke fluwelen gordijnen, antieke kastjes en geborduurde lampekappen om die vervolgens het grootste deel van de tijd leeg te laten staan, terwijl hun kinderen met zijn tweeën of drieën een kamer delen, witte spaanplaat-bedden een halve meter uit elkaar omdat er niet meer plek is. Wat dan weer een typisch Nederlandse opvatting blijkt te zijn, omdat mijn Libanese vrienden zich regelmatig afvragen waarom bij ons alle kinderen een eigen slaapkamer moeten hebben. Waar is dat nou voor nodig?

This Country Is Too Small And I Have Proof

Incriminating Evidence #1:I was doing research for my master’s thesis on the Lebanese Upper Class. To avoid the notorious snowball-effect (asking only my friends and their friends and the friends of their friends), I decided to approach random customers of upper-class venues. Based on the first conversation I overheard in a coffee / lunchroom, I asked a young man if I could interview him, and he agreed. Turned out? He had gone to primary school with one of my friends, was the former class-mate of a girl I interviewed, and had graduated same university, same major, same year as the sister of another friend.

Incriminating Evidence #2: I had just started working for an NGO in South Lebanon when I accompanied a colleague to a meeting with some other NGOs. A woman with curly hair, one of the participants in the program, was introduced to me as the cousin of another colleague. I know this woman, I thought, and kept thinking this until 30 minutes later she suddenly turned to me and said wait, are you from the Netherlands? At which moment it dawned on me: she was my boyfriend’s aunt, the wife of his uncle.

Incriminating Evidence #3: This past weekend we went to Hermel, all the way up in North Lebanon. The road there is bad, very bad, and it was no surprise that one of our tires deflated to the point where we thought we needed to replace it. So we chose a random car-mechanic out of an endless number of them along the road into the city of Baalbeck (at least an hour and a half away from Beirut). A minute later, another car stopped; also had a problem with the tire. While waiting for the mechanic to look at the wheels, Walid and the driver made small talk, and it wasn’t long before one said I’ve seen you before, I think and the other replied yes, you do look very familiar as well. You can see where this is going: what else than they both frequent Barometre, a tiny pub in our neighborhood in Beirut.

Incriminating Evidence #4: Just before returning to the Netherlands at the end of my research period in 2006, a friend gave me the name and phone number of his cousin, Bilal A., because he lives in Holland. Which city he was living in, he didn’t know. I wasn’t looking for random Lebanese friends everywhere, so I never called the guy. Then, one day, I gave a talk on young Lebanese on the ‘Libanon-Day’ in a café in Utrecht, a city in the middle of the Netherlands. As I was packing up my stuff at the end of the afternoon, a young man approached me, telling me he had been on his way to the city center when he passed by the café and since he was from Lebanon, he couldn’t but walk in. He asked to know my name. I asked his. I laughed as he started saying Bilal A…. When I told him I already had his phone number, he wasn’t even surprised. He knew how small this country is.

Have you heard the plane?

Today, I was reminded of this story: It was the summer of 2001 in Kampala, the capital of Uganda. Yoweri Museveni had just been re-elected president of the republic, for the 4th time, and I was lucky enough to be present for the inaugural festivities. On an old airstrip, a rectangular empty space somewhere in the city, a stage was set up for the dignitaries: many leaders of African states, European ambassadors, several princes from Zimbabwe – even Muammar al Qadhafi came to present his well-wishes. On the rest of the field the ordinary Ugandans had gathered to watch the show, and I had joined them. I might very well have been the only white person among them. First there were speeches. Then more speeches. From where I was on the field, the stage was hardly visible, and most people were busier eating, drinking, making music and dancing than they were listening to the VIPs blabbering on stage. They had come for one thing, and one thing only: the air-show. It had been announced that the Ugandan air force would give acte de présence with the fastest machines of their fleet. And indeed, when the speeches were finally done and the formalities concluded, the sky began to rumble.

First there was one jet. Then another. They flew in opposite directions, leaving streaks of white clouds against the blue sky. They turned, quickly, roaring and thundering low over the people’s heads… An old man next to me was staring with his mouth opened wide. After a grand total of 6 rounds over the audience, the planes took off. The old man turned, took my hand and shook it wildly. With a look of pride in his eyes he said: 'now THAT’S technology!'

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This Saturday, November 22nd, it is Independence Day in Lebanon. This means that Downtown is already partly blocked off in order to clean it of bombs because many politicians eligible for explosion will be gathered there for the military parade. It also means that the entire air fleet of the Lebanese military has been flying over Beirut the past few days: all 14 helicopters (8 big ones, 6 small ones) and no less than two Hawker Hunters.

Those Hawker Hunters are no joke. They were produced in the 1950s and purchased by the Lebanese president in 1958, only to be used a few times before rusting away or being sold to a museum. However, it seems that two of them have had a thorough check up and will be performing on Independence Day, for which they are currently practicing. The noise is unmistakable, rumbling like a coughing old man. My friends keep asking ‘have you heard the plane?’, proud like the old man in Uganda, because normally we hear nothing but the thundering noise of Israeli jets – usually the only jets in the Lebanese airspace. However, they often follow the question with ‘I hope it won’t try to break the sound-barrier, because it will probably break down into a thousand pieces if it does’. Apparently they don’t quite share the old man’s faith in technology. Either way, I wish everyone a happy Independence Day!

Archaic?

My friend visiting me from the Netherlands and I were sitting in the back of the minivan going around Beirut. It was dark and raining outside, and we were the only ones left on the bus – we were getting close to the final destination. The van stopped to pick up another passenger. It was a young woman opening the sliding door, folding her umbrella and taking a seat on the first bench. The bus continued its way, the door still open. She’s not closing the door! my friend whispered to me. No of course not, I replied no longer surprised at the scene in front of us, women here don’t close the door. They wait for the men to do that. As we were the only other passengers on the van, there were clearly no men to close the door for her. So who’s going to close the door now? my friend asked, while the girl turned to close the small window next to her, still looking where those annoying gusts of wind and rain came from. No one, it will eventually close when we go downhill and the bus hits the brakes, I said. The door indeed remained open until a few minutes later we stopped at a crossroad.

It is something I can’t get used to, this weak attitude of many Lebanese women, and my Dutch friend’s astonished reaction was a nice reassurance that I am not alone in my disdain for the dependency it displays. Why would any girl need to pass the water bottle to her male friend to open it, when she has proven she can easily do so herself when he is not around? Why does he need to carry her bags, when she is the one who wants to take the stuff with her? I simply don’t understand what’s nice about seeing other people carrying my groceries to the car, or having to stand aside while some men are struggling to load my cupboard onto a truck – clearly in need of an extra hand, but unable to accept help from a woman.

Sietske seems surprised that the bank offers her a credit card and then requires her to bring her husband to sign with her. I say: in a country where women refuse to open or close their own doors, it only makes sense that they are not allowed to open or close their own accounts either.