Komt voor de bakker

Om in het uiterste zuiden van Libanon rond te mogen rijden (langs de grens met Israel, waar de UN soldaten de boel ‘bewaken’) moet je als buitenlander een speciale permit hebben. Voor mijn werk moet ik af en toe onze projecten in dat gebied bezoeken, en dus moet ik er één aanvragen. Dat kan elke ochtend van 9 tot 1 bij een kantoor van het leger in Saida, een stad tussen Beirut (waar ik woon) en Tyr (waar ik werk). Het is niet meer dan een stukje papier van 3 bij 3 centimeter met het registratie-nummer van de permit, handgeschreven, maar ik wil geen risico lopen iets verkeerd te doen in een bureacratische procedure: naast paspoort en een oude permit van afgelopen zomer heb ik een uitgebreide brief mee van mijn baas over het hoe en waarom van de aanvraag. Onderweg richting Saida krijg ik een spoedcursus bureaucratische woorden in het Arabisch, beginnend bij wat te zeggen tegen de taxi-chauffeur om op de juiste plaats te geraken, en eindigend met ‘mag ik uw supervisor vragen mijn baas te bellen?’. Je weet maar nooit hoe het loopt.

De taxi-chauffeur heeft niet veel woorden nodig: ‘kazerne’ en een blond hoofd is genoeg. Als hij ontdekt dat ik wat Arabisch spreek, vraagt hij of ik ‘iemand ken’ in de kazerne. Nee, mijn wasta reikt niet zo ver. De zijne wel: hij krabbelt twee namen op een papiertje en drukt me op het hart naar hen te vragen en te zeggen dat ik hem ken.

Dan sta ik aan de slagboom bij de kazerne en probeer aan de soldaat op wacht uit te leggen waar ik voor kom. Eerst maar eens zonder de connecties van de taxi-chauffeur proberen. De soldaat vraagt me een half uurtje te wachten, ik ben te vroeg. Geen probleem, ik had gerekend op lange wachttijden: ik ga met mijn boek naast het wachtershuisje in de zon zitten. Dat lijkt hem een beetje zenuwachtig te maken, en hij belt naar de kazerne voor versterking. De tweede soldaat checkt mijn papieren voor de aanvraag en constateert dat de benodigde kopie van mijn paspoort ontbreekt. Die kan ik 20 meter verderop bij de bakker laten maken.

Even meen ik dat mijn Arabisch toch niet zo goed is als gedacht. De bakker? Of schept hij er genoegen in de buitenlanders voor de gek te houden?

Maar inderdaad: ik wandel naar de bakkerij en behalve twee ovens is er ook een kopiëer-apparaat aanwezig. “Eén mana’ouche en twee kopiën van mijn paspoort, alstublieft.”

De rest van het procedure verloopt net zo simpel, en de wasta van de taxi-chauffeur blijven onaangeroerd: langs de slagboom naar binnen, telefoon afgeven aan het mannetje bij de deur, boven in het kantoor het aanbod van een kopje koffie of thee afslaan, zien hoe brief van de baas, kopie van paspoort en pasfoto aan elkaar geniet worden, en het kleine stukje papier met het oh-zo-belangrijke registratie-nummer in ontvangst nemen. Ik mag zelfs kiezen voor hoe lang ik ‘m wil: een dag, een week of een maand? Ik was op vanalles voorbereid, maar niet dat het zo makkelijk zou gaan...

Apartment hunting - sectarian style

The landlord has announced that as from next month, the rent will be raised with 20%. Result: one month to find a new place by knocking on doors, calling numbers in the housing section of the free weekly advertising paper, and using the services of ‘realtors’ – a bunch of old men sitting around in a tiny office, waiting to cash in on their knowledge of the neighborhood and who has empty apartments available. In the office of the old guys, they take our phone number. A good moment for them to get the necessary information: “What’s your name? And last name?” It tells them everything they need to know: Walid’s last name very clearly indicates which area in Beirut the extended family on his father’s side is from, and thus his religion٭. He’s approved; the guys take us on a tour of empty apartments in the area. Once out and about, though, the realtor checks Walid’s last name one more time. “You know, I don’t care, but here they don’t rent to Shi’a.” Interesting. Better not to mention where Walid’s mother is from, then, or where I work.

٭ [In Lebanon, children automatically are given the religion of their father. Since many aspects of society (marriage, divorce, etc.) are only arranged by religious law, it is practically impossible not to have a religion, even when you are a convinced atheist.]

One of the buildings they show us has a promising apartment (a rooftop terrace! a view of the mountains! and of the sea!), so we return later to talk to the concierge. He agrees with us that we shouldn’t deal with these realtors, who, by the way “refuse to find places for Palestinians.” Not that either of us would have to worry about that, but it turns out they are not the only ones with a national preference; the owner of the building has his own criteria for renters: foreigners only please. For once, my blonde hair proves an asset.

And just when we think the national and sectarian assessment is over, the janitor tells us about the neighbor. “He’s an engineer, and he plays in Ziad Rahbani’s band sometimes. He’s Druze, you know, a good guy.”

That's also a way to find someone

Not everyone has cute maids walking past their parking lot every day. And not everyone considers the maid partner-material. Take for example the lady who walked up next to us when we were waiting for Walid to arrive at the airport, Sunday night. She looked me up and down twice and asked Walid’s mom: ‘Foreigner?’

After that, a stream of questions followed. Who were we waiting for? Where was Walid’s mother from? What’s her family name? And finally, when the answers to the previous questions proved satisfactory: does she have a daughter? Because, see, this lady was waiting for her son. And her son, he’s a lawyer in America. And he needs to get married.

What an opportunity, an unmarried lawyer from America!

Walid’s mother had seen it coming, and denied her daughter’s existence. That did nothing to end the lady’s quest; she merely turned around to talk to the two boys next to us. Was that pretty girl she saw them with their sister? Would they mind calling her over?

The girl came and was subjected to a similar interrogation. Where did she live? Family name? What university did she go to? And how old was she? Again, disappointment: the girl was in her early twenties, her son in his late thirties. The lady shook her head and walked off, looking around for another suitable candidate.

I never saw him arriving, this lawyer from America. But I have no doubt she found him a wife.

Parking Lot Romance

It was 7.30am when the doorbell rang. It was A…, one of the boys from the parking next to our building, with a small note in his hand. It read:

I’m always fine, tnx, and how about u how are u 2? how’s ur leg now? & you said you want me 2 ur friend? sure we just friend. by the way I’m C…… how about you what is your name? …

A…. is one of the many Syrian men who work the jobs most Lebanese don’t want to do; usually in construction, or parking cars in the temporary parking lots that are created on demolition sites.

Their situation is, in some ways, similar to that of the maids from Ethiopia, Sri Lanka or the Philippines: they are young and come to Lebanon alone to make some money and then go back home. In the few hours they have off per week (work at the parking lot starts at 7am and ends at 9pm, 7 days a week), they hang out with their compatriots – I don’t think mingling with the Lebanese would be much appreciated, knowing how classist Lebanese society is. The same goes for the maids: they have possibly even less hours off, but on their free afternoon (often Sunday), they can often be seen hanging around the store that sells products from their home-country, or making phone calls from the payphone on the corner.

Now people are people (even when they are considered slaves), and it is no surprise that A… has lost his heart to one of the Philippine girls walking past the parking lot with the groceries every day. The only problem? He doesn’t speak much English, and she doesn’t speak much Arabic. How he had managed to write her the initial note, I don’t know, but he came to us with her answer and asked us to write her a reply.

Hello C……., sorry it took me so long to write back. I’m A….. I would like to see you more often. I think you are very cute. Maybe you can teach me English and I will teach you Arabic.

May romance blossom.

Season's Greetings - last week's worth

Thursday - the Prophet’s Birthday: call all Muslim friends to congratulate them. First check if the Sunnis and Shi’a agree on this date since the Shi’a are always a little later with those things. Friday - Mother’s Day: call all my friend’s mothers who have ever said ‘I am your mother in Lebanon’, plus all my female friends who have children, to congratulate them. Not my own mother, though, because where she lives, Mother’s Day is in May.

Sunday - Easter: call all my Christian friends to congratulate them. Oh wait, no, only my Catholic/Maronite friends, the Orthodox celebrate it three weeks later.

Happy days for everyone. And a big egg from the streets of Damascus (Syria).