To think that I was warned over and over again that any Lebanese boyfriend I would have would only want me for one thing: my nationality, and a residence permit for my country. And now I'm drinking from that same cup... oh irony!
On Monday, I came back from a vacation in the Netherlands and at my brother’s farm in Serbia to an unpleasant surprise: a problem with my visa for Lebanon. My passport was confiscated, and the next three days I spent in the offices of the Security General, running from room to room, waiting in the hallways, getting questions and stamps and signatures and more questions. All these hours, Walid’s mother was with me, asking around, translating, waiting with me, explaining my situation, repeating over and over again that I was her future daughter in law and she would not let me be kicked out of the country just like that. It took three days for them to give me a decision (get married as soon as possible or leave the country within two months), and it’s still unclear what the problem was. It might be that I didn’t accept an offer from someone within General Security to pay for something I didn’t need a while ago in the visa process, when it was unclear if I should pay for what I did need at that moment. According to a Dutch guy I spoke to during this whole process, that’s exactly where I had gone wrong: I should have gone along with the offer of the Security General employee, because ‘you know how it goes here, they’re all corrupt and you just have to go with it.’ Well no, I don’t know that that’s how it goes here: in my experience, the people at the General Security offices have usually been very clear in stating what the rules and procedures are and what I need to bring or pay for things to get done. When a friend once tried to help me get in through the back door, they politely refused and told me where to go for the regular procedure. This may not be everybody’s experience, but that doesn’t mean that ‘in reality, they are corrupt,’ and I am naïve for thinking otherwise.
Of course I’m not stupid or blind. I know there is plenty of corruption, in Lebanon and elsewhere. But I do not believe that Lebanese people are inherently corrupt, or that things here can never change. That’s why the Dutch guy’s words hit me on another level as well: I find it incredibly condescending to speak this way about Lebanese society, as if people here are incapable of change or improvement. I also find it strange that people who would never even consider offering a policeman in their own country some banknotes to forget about the rest of the fine think nothing of doing so when they are in Lebanon, as if it doesn’t take two for corruption to continue; those in power, and those who want something from them. Yes, there are some people who are corrupt no matter what, but it is my firm belief that most people are mainly corrupt if the situation arises – I mean, why not accept that $100 bill somebody is offering you, if eventually you will have to give him or her the stamp anyway?
And of course I know there are always two things to consider in such situations, and that these two things are not necessarily in agreement at all times: in this case, my own stance against corruption, and the fact that I needed to get something done (a visa to stay in Lebanon) from a possibly corrupt guy. Although not entirely on purpose, I am glad that in this case I did not contribute to corruption, and can do nothing but bear the unfortunate consequences - or convince my fiancé that a Sunni marriage certificate isn’t so bad after all. As the lieutenant signing the final decision said: You know, you should get married soon anyway. You have a very good mother in law!
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!
A few days ago the fifteen year-old sister of a friend told me about her cat, a little white fluffy female. ‘We used to have two,’ she said, ‘but then they got married, so we had to give away her husband because we didn’t want any more baby cats.’
I thought it was cute and typical teenager-like of her to be too shy to mention words like sex or mating in front of her older sister’s friend. Today, however, a grown-up guy asked me about our two cats, and upon hearing that one is female and the other one male, he asked in all seriousness:
‘So have they married yet?’ No they haven’t, because I didn’t know the authority of the Church extends into the animal kingdom... Luckily we’ve had the little guy neutered, otherwise we’d have plenty of kittens born out of wedlock.
Allebei Walid’s grootouders weten niet precies hoe oud ze zijn. Opa is geboren in de periode dat wat nu Libanon heet nog onderdeel was van het Ottomaanse Rijk en houdt het er zelf op dat hij 94 is; oma is een paar jaar jonger. Ze wonen in een gebouw in het centrum van Nabatiyeh, een stadje in Zuid Libanon, met een tuin op de begane grond en hun jongste zoon met zijn familie op de verdieping boven hen. Oma brengt het grootste deel van haar dag door in de keuken, ervoor zorgend dat er altijd wat te eten is voor kinderen en kleinkinderen die langskomen. Opa wandelt voorzichtig door de tuin en geeft de kippen eten, of zit op zijn vaste plek op de bank, voeten op een krukje, om ons over zijn leven te vertellen. Soms gaat het over zijn jeugd, toen ze in een huis woonden met een dak van aangestampte aarde. Als het dak begon te lekken dan wisten ze dat de lente begonnen was: uit de verdwaalde zaadjes in de aarde begonnen wortels te groeien, en die zorgden voor gaatjes in het plafond.
Eergisteren waren we bij de grootoudes in Nabatiyeh en kregen we een les over citrusbomen. Wist je dat je een sinaasappelboom in een citroenboom kan veranderen, en omgekeerd? En in een grapefruit? En omgekeerd? Opa legde uit hoe dat moet: Stel, je wilt graag sinaasappels, maar je tuin staat vol met citroenen. Neem ergens een twijgje van een sinaasappelboom, maak een inkeping in een grote tak van je citroenboom en stop het twijgje erin. Bind het geheel af en wacht tot de volgende bloei: aan die tak zullen sinaasappels groeien!
Oma had ook een sinaasappel-truc die ze graag met ons deelde: een manier om altijd supervers sap bij de hand te hebben. Snij de top van een sinaasappel af, zodat je een cirkel ziet van ongeveer 3 cm doorsnede. Steek met een mes of een scherpe pin een aantal keer in het vruchtvlees, van boven naar beneden (zorg dat de rest van de schil heel blijft). Doe dan het kapje er weer op; klaar om mee te nemen naar school of werk. Op het moment dat je dorst krijgt, zet je de sinaasappel aan je mond en knijp je hem van onderaf leeg. Een paar keer oefenen en dan kun je het zonder knoeien. Verser kan niet!
Kijk nou wat we bij opa en oma in de tuin vonden? Hollandse Zuivelcontrole!
