Mission Colonialism : Accomplished

So you’re an Arab in an Arabic country, and you’re going to a bookstore to find something to read. Because you are in an Arabic country, you might expect to find authors like Naguib Mahfouz, Rashid el Daif, Taha Hussein, Tayeb Saleh, and Abdelrahman Munif under the header of literature. This expectation, however, is wrong.

In the ‘literature’ section, you will find James Joyce, Kafka and Mark Twain. Your literature, by local writers who write in your language, is tucked away in a corner under the header ‘Arabic / Ethnic literature.’ Because, you know, Western is always the default.

So many times when it could have gone wrong

If I hadn’t been ditched by someone, I wouldn’t have felt the need to do something interesting with my lifeIf I hadn’t felt the need to do something interesting with my life, I wouldn’t have gone to the international bureau of the University of Amsterdam to ask about programs in the Middle East If I hadn’t gone to the international bureau of the University of Amsterdam to ask about programs in the Middle East, I wouldn’t have seen the last call for applications for New York University If I hadn’t seen the last call for applications for New York University, I wouldn’t have applied to the Africana Studies program If I hadn’t applied to the Africana Studies program at NYU, I wouldn’t have met Professor Khan If I hadn’t met Professor Khan, I wouldn’t have stayed an extra semester at NYU If I hadn’t stayed an extra semester at NYU, I wouldn’t have moved in with my Lebanese friend If I hadn’t moved in with my Lebanese friend, I wouldn’t have been invited to spend the summer of 2005 in Lebanon If I hadn’t been invited to spend the summer of 2005 in Lebanon, I wouldn’t have done the research for my masters in Anthropology in Beirut in 2006 If I hadn’t done the research for my masters in Anthropology in Beirut in 2006, I wouldn’t have lived through a war with Israel If I hadn’t lived through a war with Israel, my Israeli friend in Amsterdam wouldn’t have felt guilty for what I lived through If my Israeli friend in Amsterdam wouldn’t have felt guilty about what I had lived through, she wouldn’t have invited me and her fellow PhD-student from Lebanon who lived through the same thing for lunch If she hadn’t invited me and her fellow PhD-student for lunch, we wouldn’t have organized a falafel-dinner together If we hadn’t organized a falafel dinner together…

Let's say I'm glad we did. Happy two-year anniversary, my love.

How many Zghartans does it take...

Monday evening I was leisurely driving around on the small roads in Koura, an area in North Lebanon, when I noticed a sign that said ‘Zgharta 4km’. Zgharta is a Christian town with a colorful history, and it has the reputation to be rough but extremely hospitable, with a population that has a soft spot for weapons of all types and sizes. I have wanted to visit Zgharta since I first came to Lebanon, yet somehow it never happened, and it had taken on almost mythical proportions from all the stories I heard about it. So here was my chance – and even though the sun was setting, I decided to take the right turn rather than continue my way back. Full of anticipation I drove on. I saw another sign: ‘Zgharta 1500m’. Almost there! And just as I was getting excited seeing the first houses left and right of the road, I hit a speed-bump and heard a noise that no car is supposed to make. I parked on the side of the road and was immediately notified by a boy walking in my direction that the problem was with the left front tire: it was completely flat. There I was, just outside of Zgharta, with nothing left to do but to fix the wheel, then turn around and head back.

But how to change the tire if you don’t even know where the spare is? I asked the guy if he knew a garage close-by. Yes he did, he actually worked in one, but it was closed now – he was on his way home. However, he quickly spotted the spare tire underneath the car, and asked me for the car jack. While we were searching inside and outside, a girl passed by and upon seeing my situation, she immediately took my phone to call her father and brother who also happened to work in a garage. In no time, the brother arrived on his scooter. The girl kept asking me questions about where I was from and what I was doing in Lebanon, while the two boys searched in vain for the car jack.

Then a taxi-driver stopped to offer help. Fortunately, he had a car jack. Unfortunately, it needed a little iron stick to make it work, which he didn’t have. No worries, though, because soon another car pulled over, and that driver did have a screwdriver to make the jack work. It took all men present to lift up the car and put the jack underneath, while the girl was still trying to find out whether I was married and if I had any kids.

In no time, the broken wheel was taken off, replaced by the spare tire, and the car lowered to the road. Everything was fine (nothing like this!). Before I could even say thanks both cars drove off, and shortly after that the two boys disappeared on the scooter. The girl offered me coffee, then let me turn around and carefully find my way home. Zgharta will have to wait for another day, but I am glad to have met its people!

Bonus shot: the view from Balamand towards the sea; North Lebanon.

In which the taxi-driver is looking for some pedagogical entertainment

It was a rainy night, and we were in the back of a service (shared taxi), chatting with the driver about the progress of the different teams in the Lebanese basketball championship – or rather, we were being updated about their progress, because neither Walid nor I know much about the subject. Before we reached the end of the street, the driver picked up a teenage boy who wanted to go to Qoreitem, a few minutes away. I’ll take you there, said our chauffeur, as the boy slouched down in the front seat, chewing candy, but I have to drop them off at the Corniche first. The boy was not pleased. But I’m in a hurry! We weren’t, so we told the driver it would be ok to drop him off first before continuing to our destination. In return, the boy offered us candy, in that typically uninterested-teenager-way.

So… Qoreitem, ey? The driver said jokingly to the boy. Why, do you have a meeting with Hariri? Pfff… Hariri has a meeting with me! answered the boy, playing with his phone. Hariri has a meeting with him… mumbled the driver, so what’s your name? My name? the boy looked up. Why? Just want to know, what’s your name? Antoun. Why? Why is that my name? Yes, why? Well, said the boy, confused, I guess my parents felt like it. Hahaha! the taxi-driver smiled at us, I ask him his name and then I ask him why! Hahaha!

The boy’s phone rang. No, I’m on my way already; I’m next to Yamaha now, he said in English. I’ll be there soon. He was still slumped in his seat, continuously chewing his sweets. Yamaha, Honda, Nissan, the driver muttered. Like he speaks French or English or Japanese or whatever.

When the taxi-driver wanted to drop him off and take a right turn, the teenager motioned with his hand that he should move forward on the main road. Another 5 meters farther he had arrived at his destination. He looked down at the driver’s packet of cigarettes, decided that they weren’t it, then turned around and asked Walid: Do you have any Marlboro Red? Unsuccessful, he got out of the car and walked off.

Too bad, said the driver, I wish you had let me drop you off first. I wait the whole day for boys like this! These youth nowadays…. I would have taken him all around Beirut, and then some. That’ll teach him! The other day I was hit by a scooter going against traffic, and the boy started yelling at me. Well, I picked him up, stuffed him in my trunk and drove him around for a while. I guess he learned when to apologize!

With that, we arrived at our destination, where the driver refused payment. We had fun! he said. We sure did.

Elk nadeel...

Ok, laten we wel wezen: Libanon mag zich dan laten voorstaan op een glamoureus nachtleven, een reputatie als ‘het Parijs van het Midden Oosten’, en een overdaad aan dure auto’s and nog duurdere feesten en partijen, in het dagelijks leven blijft het een ontwikkelingsland, en dat betekent dat heel veel dingen heel vaak niet werken. Soms is dat vermoeiend, en dan moet ik de grote Nederlandse voetbalfilosoof aanhalen om niet in vloeken uit te barsten: • Het mobiele telefoonnetwerk is gammel en werkt alleen als het daar zelf zin in heeft, net als de internetverbinding (attachments van meer dan 0.5Mb? Vergeet het maar). Altijd een perfect excuus bij de hand dus, als je een belangrijk telefoontje of email vergeten bent. Ja ik probeerde je dat rapport te mailen, maar hij verstuurde ‘m niet... • Elke dag een paar uur geen electriciteit, dus geen lift naar de 8e verdieping. Geeft niet, traplopen is goed voor de gezondheid! • Vanwege datzelfde gebrek aan electriciteit zitten we regelmatig een avond in het donker. Goed voor onze relatie; kaarslicht is romantisch, toch? • Openbaar vervoer is niet geregeld door de overheid, maar door elkaar beconcurrerende buschauffeurs, die bij te weinig passagiers de route naar eigen inzicht aanpassen. Is ook leuk, kom ik weer eens in een andere buurt. En dat laatste stuk naar huis lopen betekent dat ik vandaag weer niet naar de sportschool hoef. • Als je wel een auto hebt en bij ons in de buurt moet parkeren, moet je elke twee uur naar beneden om geld in de parkeerautomaat te gooien – dagkaarten en parkeervergunningen voor buurtbewoners bestaan niet. Dat geeft je elke twee uur de gelegendheid om dankbaar te zijn voor het feit dat Libanon opstoot in de vaart der volkeren... al was het maar alleen met dit parkeerbeleid. • Als het regent zuigen de muren van het huis zich vol, en als we ze aanraken stroomt het water aan de binnenkant naar beneden. Lekker avontuurlijk, toch, net als in een tent... leuk, elke dag kamperen! • Isolatie van huizen is onbekend, dus in de winter is het KOUD en in de zomer is het BLOED HEET. Ben een echt natuurmens geworden, helemaal in touch with the seasons.

Eigenlijk niks te klagen dus!