Qussa

Stories from Afar & Up Close

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This is how we do it

It is still not quite autumn, but the rains have started. They come in short, heavy bursts, and if you are indoors the whole day, you may not even notice it has rained. Except for that one little problem, that typically Lebanese problem, that is called the electricity system. As if there weren’t already enough things wrong with it, the rain will break down the last working connection. The wire, hanging loosely over the street, will crackle and sputter, then a big flash – and it’s gone. But, no need to worry: we call uncle Hassan, who comes with his son, a neighbor and ladder to fix the cut ends of the electrical cable.

Down there Up here

In The Netherlands, we have laws (called Arbowet) to regulate labor and the circumstances surrounding labor. Workers have to be safe at all times, wear protective clothing, be prevented from making movements that may cause injuries. For example, those working at the check-out in the supermarket are not allowed, by law, to reach further than 30cm to pick up the articles they need to scan, thus hopefully avoiding the risk of straining the arms of the cashier.

Uncle Hassan is not so concerned with these things, and neither are his workers: the yellow piece of old copper-wire and the son standing on the roof of the van holding the ladder are deemed adequate safety-measures. So up went the neighbor, pulling some wires, tugging on the remaining cables to check their sturdiness, preventing any further damage from rain. Done.

When told about the Dutch Arbowet and the 30cm limit reach, the reaction was a smug laugh. “Your country must be so easy to occupy!”

The whole thing From behind

“I’m not only perfect, I’m Lebanese too!”

perfect… It's the text on the extra tire and on a bumpersticker I saw in the United States. And it is a philosophy of life. Lebanese people are better at everything: their food is tastier than any other kitchen, they invented the alphabet and are the most highly educated population, the Lebanese women are the most good-looking women in the world, their accent the best-sounding of all Arabic accents, their sea the most beautiful and their snow the most enjoyable.

They are even better at being at war than any other country. During my research last year I came across the funniest phenomenon: people spoke with such pride about their behavior during war that it almost seemed they had wanted it to last a bit longer, just so they could display that fantastic behavior for the whole world to see. They compared themselves to Iraq, and found the Iraqis to be losers. Broken windows? They would fix those things straight after every explosion. People staying away from school or work? They would never let a war stop them from doing what they were supposed to do. And crime? No way, Lebanon was the safest country, nothing ‘illegal’ happened during any of all those wars the country has seen. (That many written sources completely contradicted this image of the absence of chaos during war did nothing to change their utopian views of Lebanon).

And recently, when a huge drugs- and prostitution cartel was rounded up by the French police in Cannes, largely consisting of Lebanese pimps (implicating the son of an important Lebanese politician, I believe), my friends only had one comment: of all the prostitutes that were found, the Lebanese girls had been the most beautiful, the most expensive, the most in demand…

I guess you should take every opportunity you have to boost your confidence if you live in a country as screwed up as this one.

Sunny side up

There are, of course, always things to miss. I might miss my friends in the Netherlands, my family, my beloved. I might miss stroopwafels, liquorice and yellow cheese of the Gouda-variety. I might miss biking everywhere, and peace and calm in the middle of the city. And I do. But right now, most of all, I miss autumn. I miss seeing the world turn yellow, orange, red and brown. I miss the heavy rain announcing the end of summer. It’s the end of October; it’s sunny and 27 °C.

It's getting ridiculous. Or maybe I am just all too used to something far more dramatic than a few splotches of water and a fresh breeze interrupting otherwise sunny, warm days to remind me that seasons exist when flipflops aren’t appropriate footwear…

We would never have just one

I was learning names of fruits and vegetables and I wanted to know the word for 'apricot'. 'Mishmosh', Jamil (who is trying to teach me Arabic) said. Knowing just the slightest bit of Arabic grammar, it sounded like a plural to me, and so I asked again. 'One apricot', I said. He looked at me, puzzled. 'Why would you want to know the word for one apricot? These things are tiny! You would never have just one!' I begged to differ; I am pretty sure I regularly eat just one apricot. To Jamil, this was total insanity: you don't eat one rice, or one lentil, do you? It took me a few minutes to get him to tell me the singular: mishimsheh. When I walked home I stopped at the vegetable-seller to get a zucchini. I picked a nice one, took my wallet out of my purse and looked at the shopkeeper for the price. The man waved with his hand. 'Khalas', he said, 'it's ok.' I motioned that really, I wanted to pay - after all, he has a shop and I am buying my food for dinner. He once again told me no, shook his head and said: 'It's a zucchini. Just one.'