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.

Five minutes of fame

The last time I flew to Lebanon, in December last year, I was seated next to two Southern Lebanese men who were living in Switzerland. As usual, to conversation went from what do you do in Lebanon to what do you think of Lebanon to wow, you’re almost Lebanese! When they discovered I had spent most of the July War in 2006 in Lebanon, one of them took a closer look and said: ‘I think I know you. Have you been on TV?’ I laughed. Yeah, of course, I’m a famous international TV-personality. Ehm, what? I said. I don’t think so. ‘Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen you on Manar, it was something with Imad Moghnieh.’ Then I remembered. Last year I visited an exhibition about Imad Moghnieh, organized by Hezbollah, and had been asked a couple of questions by a camera crew of Al Manar, the TV channel operated by Hezbollah. They said it was for a documentary about the exhibition, but apparently it had been on TV. And this man, all the way in Switzerland, had seen me and now recognized me. I was famous in South Lebanon and its Diaspora!

And it doesn’t stop there. My post about the helpful Zghartans has been picked up by local news site, and they are now wondering who is this woman?

It seems my Lebanese star is still rising… and all Zghartans are welcome for a cup of coffee!

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.

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!

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.’