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!

The Unfair Lightness of Being

So Lebanon has a problem with electricity. Not only are the electric cords so old and rotten that with every bit of rain they break and leave whole neighborhoods in the dark, and not only is illegally tapping public power sources (streetlights and such) and refusal to pay the electricity bills a common occurrence, there also simply isn’t enough electricity. What does that mean, you ask? It means that every day, for a few hours, the electricity goes off. These power-cuts are scheduled on different hours during the week. For example, on Monday, the power cuts from 3 in the afternoon until 6 in the evening. Tuesday, it cuts from noon to 3pm. Wednesday, there is no electricity from 9am until noon, and Thursday from 6am to 9am. On Friday, the cycle starts over again at 3pm. And this is for the lucky ones in Beirut – outside of the capital, the power-cuts can go up to six, seven, eight, in some places even 10 hours a day.

In many places, people buy private generators or subscribe to a big one that provides for the whole neighborhood. Some buildings have a generator just for the elevators, but ours unfortunately doesn’t. Not that I mind a bit of physical exercise, but I do plan my grocery-shopping around the power-cut – I don’t feel the need to carry the 10-liter bottles of potable water all the way up to the 8th floor. And it’s not only the grocery shopping that gets scheduled during electricity hours; the same goes for showers (no hot water!), watching a movie (no TV / computer!) and even cleaning the house (no music!). Luxury problems, true, but inconvenient nonetheless – and I have come to realize it contributes greatly to the feeling of ‘in Lebanon, you can never decide for yourself, it’s always outside forces that determine your life’ that I have heard so many Lebanese people express over the time. It’s not just about wars and major political events; it’s the small, daily stuff that puts you out of control over your own actions.

But back to the electricity, and there not being enough of it. As I said, those of us living in Beirut are lucky, with the minimal power-cut of three hours, thanks to the strange reasoning that ‘tourists come to Beirut so the businesses there need it more than elsewhere’. With the arrival of a new minister for electric affairs, however, this unfairness was going to be addressed: cutting the electricity in Beirut for four hours a day instead of three would presumably free up enough electricity to bring back the power-cuts everywhere else in the country to five or six hours. All fair and well, right? But no, heavy protest ensued, especially from those men in the government with many followers in the city. It was even named an attack on the capital, and a continuation of the siege that happened in May. So the fair and equal distribution of electricity throughout the country never happened, and Beirut is still given preferential treatment with 21 hours of electricity a day.

Obviously, I don’t mind, living in a house on the 8th floor with no generator. But I don’t think we need to brag about it by leaving the streetlights on even during the day…

Getting lost without political guidance

It’s like Spring cleaning, but in October: on order of the Minister of Interior, no more political posters and banners are allowed in Beirut. No longer the 6 meter high face of the dead politician Hariri watching the sun rise on the Corniche, no longer the little green flags with the red and white Amal sign flying across the street from lamppost to lamppost or the Hollywood rendition of their chief. No more red SSNP graffiti, no more light blue Moustaqbal ribbons either. We can actually see walls and trees and traffic signs, now that the stern and smiling faces of innumerable men, dead and alive, no longer decorate (soil) public space. See the difference?

I’m not really sure if it is done to make space for new posters and pictures in the name of the upcoming election campaigns, or to bring a much needed halt to the visual claiming of urban territories by politicians and supporters alike. However, walking around in my neighborhood is no longer an assault on my senses – aside from the honking and screaming, it is almost calm and relaxing, like watching TV without commercials.

But politics are part and parcel of daily life in Lebanon, so even the simple act of removing political posters and murals has some practical repercussions: A friend who just moved to the neighborhood told everyone who wanted to visit her ‘just keep going straight on that road until you see the wall with the big Haraket Amal sign painted on it, then turn left.’ After the cleaning she promptly got lost herself, not recognizing that bright white wall on the corner of her street…

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So now we can call to Palestine. Until yesterday, if you wanted to talk to someone in the Occupied Territories, you’d have to call from Lebanon to Jordan, and Jordan would connect you to Gaza, Ramallah or the West Bank. It was the first decision of the new minister of telecommunications of the brand new Lebanese government, to open the lines with some of our Southern neighbors. We still can’t make phone-calls to Israel, though. But Israel can call us. They did, during the war of July 2006, to tell us that we were playing with fire by allowing Hassan Nasrallah to ‘play around in our country’, and that we would burn for it. Not that we didn’t notice already. Apparently they are still doing the telephonic anti-propaganda, because a few days ago Walid’s grandfather picked up the receiver and heard a voice explaining to him in perfect Arabic that really, it’s time to get rid of Hezbollah. The old man, not knowing it was a recording on the other end of the line, gave them a piece of his mind: he would decide who to support and who not.

So what if we could call Israel? Would anyone there listen to political advice from this side of the border?

Zittenblijvers

Ik las het op de BBC website, woensdagochtend, maar kon het niet geloven totdat ik mijn collega’s hoorde juichen en klappen: ‘Accoord bereikt in Libanese crisis’. Mijn collega’s waren niet alleen in hun euforie: bij aankomst op het busstation in Beiroet werd ik onthaald met een hartelijk “has du es gehört? Qatar has unser Konflikt beended!” door de pompstationhouder die maar niet kan onthouden dat Dutch niet hetzelfde is als Deutsch, en de buschauffeur riep elke paar minuten “Sleiman wordt president! Sleiman is mijn oom! MIJN OOM WORDT PRESIDENT!”, gevolgd door een waslijst aan zaken die nu beter zouden worden, inclusief een lagere benzineprijs. Dus zover is het gekomen: voor één keer heeft geen enkele politicus zich uit het overleg teruggetrokken, stampvoetend dat hij zijn zin niet krijgt; voor één keer is er doorgepraat en doorgeonderhandeld tot er een vorm van overeensteming bereikt is; voor één keer hebben de politici gewerkt aan waar ze voor aangenomen zijn: oplossingen zoeken voor wat er mis is in Libanon – en heel het land loopt juichend op straat. Velen zijn ervan overtuigd dat dit het einde is van alle problemen, dat de economie zich snel zal herstellen nu de tenten van de sit-in in Downtown zijn verdwenen, dat niemand meer zal vechten en niemand meer opgeblazen zal worden, met auto en al.

Het doet me denken aan een email die ik ooit kreeg, een verhaal over een studente die een brief stuurde aan haar ouders:

‘Hier een verslag van mijn eerste jaar aan de universiteit. Sinds een paar maanden ga ik niet meer naar college. Ik heb een jongen ontmoet, hij werkt op het pompstation om zijn schulden af te betalen (schulden van gokken en drinken). Ik ben zwanger van hem en werk nu in de kantine van een groot bedrijf om in ons onderhoud te voorzien. ...

... Nee hoor, bovenstaande is niet waar. Het nieuws is dat ik het afgelopen semester alleen maar onvoldoendes heb gehaald, maar dat klinkt jullie nu waarschijnlijk als muziek in de oren!’

En zo ook in Libanon. Het feit dat ze de kiesdistricten zó ingedeeld hebben dat je nu al weet dat jouw stem maar half zoveel telt als die van het andere deel van de stad, lijkt misschien niet zo heel belangrijk als dat betekent dat de schietende mannen onder je balkon weggaan. Dat het hele akkoord (inclusief de formatie van een zo mooi klinkende ‘Overheid van Nationale Eenheid’) de religieuze/sektarische scheidslijnen alleen maar verder verdiept, is ook iets van later zorg. De stilte van het uitblijven van schoten, granaten en autobommen, en daarmee de illusie van vrede en economische voorspoed, klinkt dan inderdaad als muziek in de oren. Voor even. Tot je je realiseert dat een ‘voldoende’ voor inzet nogsteeds een dikke onvoldoende als resultaat kan betekenen.