In the analog era there was no CTRL+Z, either

I was waiting in line at the photo-shop on the corner for the girl in front of me to pick up the prints of a roll of film she had brought in earlier. She was probably around twenty years old. The man in the store fished out her order from the stack and opened the envelope. Instead of a pile of prints, however, what came out was an unrolled roll of film – entirely overexposed. Not a single image captured on it.

See, he explained, there was too much light when you took the pictures, and you kept the lens open for too long, so they are overexposed. We weren’t able to print any of them.

The girl didn’t understand. What do you mean? she said, your machines can’t find what’s on the film?

No, he explained patiently, there is nothing ON the film. It’s overexposed. It didn’t capture anything. He held it up against the light for her to see – a completely yellow strip, with a dark spot of something or another on each end.

So… so… the girl asked, is there anyone I can go to who has the machines to retrieve the pictures from a film like this?

The man in the store just couldn’t explain. I think he advised her to use a digital camera again, next time.

Déjà vu

It’s been four summers in Lebanon, this year, and I’m seeing the patterns, the rituals, the routine. I’ve seen the Lebanese expatriates come, party, and go. I’ve seen the international students at AUB getting lost in Hamra in June and looking like they own the place in August. I’ve seen the enormous Saudi cars fill up the streets, and I’m seeing the streets emptying again.

I’m feeling the familiar end-of-August heat – oppressive, with no wind. Without looking at the calendar I know the end of the summer has arrived, when life in Beirut returns to its pre-tourist state. No more emails from strangers saying ‘I’m coming to Lebanon, what should I see?!?’, no more going out every night because inevitably somebody has just arrived or somebody else is leaving, or everybody who’s here on vacation just wants to have a good time.

It’s Ramadan already. Instead of being taken by surprise, I’ve been looking forward to seeing the stages built on sidewalks with strange installations of Dar al Aytam. I’m happy to see the little kiosks around Hamra specifically for Ramadan donations, and the decorative lights in Verdun and on the Corniche. It’s nice to see life going through its cycles. It’s nice if life feels familiar.

Van het kastje naar de muur (en terug)

Aan het loket van de General Security:- Ik ben hier om mijn paspoort op te halen met een verlenging van mijn visum. - Ok, ik zie hier je naam... wacht, er is iets mee, loop maar even om. - Hier ben ik. Is er iets aan de hand? - Nee, er is geen probleem, maar je paspoort is nog niet klaar. Kom over twee weken terug.

Twee weken later: - Ik ben hier om mijn paspoort op te halen met een verlenging van mijn visum. - Ok, ik zie hier je naam... wacht, er is iets mee. - Wat is er aan de hand dan? - Dat kan ik niet zien. Ga naar de computer op de tweede verdieping, daar kunnen ze je meer vertellen. Op de tweede verdieping: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Dan moet je bij de computer zijn. Einde van de gang rechts.

In de computerkamer: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Ok, ik zie hier je naam... hier heb je een nummer. - Waar kan ik heen met dit nummer? - Naar het loket.

Aan het loket van de General Security: - Ik heb hier een nummer om uit te vinden wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Ok, ik zie het... je paspoort ligt in het gebouw in Adlieh, niet hier.

Aan het loket van de General Security in Adlieh: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Heb je een nummer? Ok, dan moet je naar de tweede verdieping.

Op de tweede verdieping: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Wat is je nummer? Ok, hier heb je een nieuw nummer, ga hiermee naar de computer. - Waar is de computer? - Begin van de gang links.

Bij de computer: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Wat is je nummer? Hier heb je een nieuw nummer, ga daarmee naar de vierde verdieping.

Op de vierde verdieping: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - De vierde kamer aan je rechterhand.

In de vierde kamer aan de rechterhand: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Wat is je nummer? Ok, hier heb je een nieuw nummer, ga hiermee naar de kamer voor buitenlanders. - Waar is de kamer voor buitenlanders? - Tweede deur aan de linkerkant.

In de kamer achter de tweede deur aan de linkerkant: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Wat is je nummer? Ok, hier heb je een nieuw nummer, ga hiermee naar de luitenant. - Waar zit de luitenant? - Derde kamer aan je rechterhand.

Bij de luitenant: - Ik ben hier om erachter te komen wat er aan de hand is met de verlenging van mijn visum. - Wat is je nummer? Ok. Ali! Haal dit dossier even! [dossier wordt binnengebracht] - Ah, nu weet ik het weer. Ben je inmiddels getrouwd? - Ik ben inmiddels getrouwd. - Hebben jullie het huwelijk al geregistreerd? - Nee, want ze hebben mijn naam verkeerd gespeld en dat moet eerst veranderd worden. - Succes daarmee... nou, ik geef je twee maanden extra op dit visum. Over 5 dagen kan je je paspoort komen ophalen. - Dankuwel! Waar kan ik het ophalen? - Aan het loket van de General Security.

...

My husband is officially a /

Alternatively titled: My atheist husband is no longer a Sunni. When we got married in Cyprus, our papers said ‘Walid, Lebanese Sunni’ and ‘Nicolien, Dutch None’. Because the Cypriots take all the information from the official documents, and Lebanese official documents automatically state a person’s sect (whether they are religious believers or not is irrelevant), my poor atheist husband will forever have a marriage certificate that classifies him as a Sunni.

(Or Muslim, as it occurs on some papers, as opposed to Shi’a, for whom the Lebanese State does not use the word Muslim, interestingly enough.)

Unless we get married again, because then his papers will say ‘Walid, Lebanese /’: yesterday, he officially removed his sect from his papers. He will no longer be forced to identify as something he doesn’t believe in, that his father didn’t even believe in, passed on to him along paternal lines just because the Lebanese State refuses to make a civil law for things that can also be arranged by religious decrees.

Until recently, it was impossible to have any papers that did not state one’s sect/religion, until the former Minister of Interior Ziad Baroud decided that it was permitted to have it taken off (and replaced by a “/” sign). This despite the legal problems that will probably occur when the people who have removed their sect want to get married in Lebanon, or be buried in Lebanon, or other such personal matters which are up until now only arranged by religious institutions and then recognized by the State. The Minister didn’t have time to print official applications, but he made the required text available to all Mokhtars (a Mokhtar is the person you have to go to in Lebanon to identify yourself in order to do any and all governmental procedures – usually a guy with an office on a street-corner close to your house, or, as with one of my friends, in the back of a gas-station), thus opening up the possibility to keep one’s religion separate from the State.

Jamil, a friend of ours, was the first to do it. Whether he believes or not, he doesn’t think religion has any place on official documents, so he went through the remarkably short procedure and had his sect removed – despite his mother’s fears that this was his first step on his way to becoming Shi’a (quite possibly her biggest nightmare).

Because Walid’s Mokhtar didn’t want to participate in the procedure (giving excuse after excuse about the lack of official applications), he went to Jamil’s Mokhtar, who gladly obliged and wrote the required yada yada yada on a paper, cheered on by two men who were waiting and thought that everybody should have their sect removed.

Not so in the Ministry of Interior. On his way to the office to get the last required signature and be forever de-sunni-fied, a friendly government worker tried to warn Walid of the dangers involved in carrying out this operation. ‘You will not be allowed to marry in a religious court!’ he pleaded, his hand on Walid’s arm. ‘I’m already married, in a civil ceremony’, was the answer. ‘But you won’t be able to be buried in a Muslim cemetery when you die!’ the distressed employee tried one more time, just before he opened the door. It couldn’t change Walid’s mind; he went in and had his paper signed.

I’m proud to say that my husband is now officially a “/”.

Pulling out the big guns

Coming back from Damascus, I was once dropped off at the highway just before Beirut and needed to take another bus to get back home in Hamra. I got on a mini-van which happened to be empty and was supposedly going my way. Unfortunately, the driver changed his plans upon seeing me, and took a left turn where I knew we should be going right. I asked him where we were going, and he said he ‘just wanted to pick something up at home, I didn’t mind now did I? We could have a cup of tea together?’But yes, I did mind, so I opened the door of the van and when he saw I wasn’t kidding, he slowed down and I jumped out.

***

Last year I was living on one end of an L-shaped building. On the other end, new apartments were still under construction. Communication with the construction workers was usually courteous and friendly, until one day they employed a guy who just couldn’t stop staring into our apartment. Whether my roommate and I were in our respective bedrooms or in the living room, his eyes were constantly following us. One day I couldn't take it anymore, so I went over to the work-site and told him in no uncertain terms (in limited Arabic, yes, but with easy-enough to understand hand gestures) that I had had enough of his non-stop looking into our house. Luckily, the other workers followed me and yelled at him what the hell he thought he was doing, and before I was back in my apartment they had sent him away and never employed him again.

***

A few days ago, I was home alone in my pajamas, when I heard voices on our rooftop-terrace. To my surprise, I found the janitor of the building right outside our open balcony-doors, showing the living room to a prospective tenant. When he noticed me, he backed away, but a minute later the doorbell rang. It was the manager of the building: if I could please move over and show the tenant our house. This time in French, I was a bit more eloquent: Did he think it was ok to sneak into my house like that? What if I was in the bathroom? Or walking around in my underwear? Just to name a few scenarios. He saw nothing wrong with it, after all the prospective tenant was an American woman – just like you! But neither am I American, nor is the janitor, who was also there standing on the terrace of my house with the tenant, a woman (and neither of which are really the point, ultimately), so I slammed the door in his face.

This morning, the manager wanted to speak to Walid about the inappropriate behavior of his wife, what with me denying them entrance to my own house and objecting to the janitor breaking in by way of the terrace. Walid asked him what he would do if a stranger would enter his house when his wife was home alone, and when the manager didn’t know what to answer, the assembled neighbors were there to help him out: shoot him, of course! ***

A while ago, a foreign friend of mine living in Beirut for the summer wanted to take a bus home, but accidentally got on the wrong line. A friendly passenger advised her to stay put until the end of the line, when the bus would turn around and go back to where it came from. Sensible advice, except that the bus, with my friend as the only passenger left, did not turn back – the driver took some back-roads until he got to the highway, parked the bus on the side of the road, and sat down next to my friend, to ask if she was married, after which he proceeded to grope her. She screamed and pushed him off of her, but having learned never to get out of a vehicle on the side of a highway she still needed to stay with him until he decided to drive again and get back to the inhabited part of the city.

We have so far identified which type of bus is was (the beige one), and which line (the 4), and there are apparently only 4 or 5 drivers on this line so it won’t be long until we’ve singled out which driver it was, but we’re as yet undecided what to do with him. Sending in a big friend acting as her husband, although probably an effective scare, will only reinforce the idea that what he did would have been ok if she were not married, so we need something else. These are obviously issues that need attention on a much wider scale, but until then we have to deal with it on a case by case basis. Anybody any ideas?