Aarbot Qozhayat:

“You don’t have enough cash for the bus, Sir? Malesh--not a problem, get on anyway.” This haphazard, yet compassionate “system” is what best characterizes Lebanon. There is no such thing as a final, “No, you can’t”; you just need to state your case, change the question or ask someone else. Luckily, with the help of a few Lebanese, I managed to navigate the maze of streets and crowds and found a signless area of the neighborhood in Beirut designated the “bus stop”. Without asking locals, one would never find public transportation to Northern Lebanon.

THE JOURNEY: Smashed between two Lebanese army soldiers in the front of the bus, sweating bullets, the journey North to Bcharre took two hours more than expected; the traffic in Beirut on Fridays is unbearable as everyone is traveling to their villages to enjoy fresh air and nature. After a 3 hour journey, Mihled, my surrogate brother from the Aarbot Qozhayat, picked me up in his car and we arrived to the quaint two mile stretch that make up our mountainside village.

UPON ARRIVAL: My eyes were greeted by the fertility of the land. You name it and it grows in this land: apple, pear, plum, apricot, fig, lemon, almond, and walnut trees create shade under which the children play games and old men smoke their cigarettes and hashish until sunset; grape vines overtake window sills and garage ceilings, making houses appear to be extensions of nature itself, offering families plump green grapes as they walk through the door; backyards consist of multiple plots filled with thriving corn and tomato plants, holding up cucumber and green bean vines that snake up their stalks; strawberry, rasberry and blackberry bushes are raided by small, stained hands and tiny birds, angering the farmer who did not rise early enough to reap his harvest. The air smells like zhattar spice and I can hear running water from almost anywhere in the village. It rushes down in falls or come up at roadside springs.

MY "FAMILY": Mesmerization was interrupted by screams and clapping hands of the villagers awaiting my arrival. My surrogate family in the village (Mihled’s parents and his 5 brothers and sisters) greeted me in their home as if I were their long lost daughter. It had been two years since my first visit to the Aarbot in search of my grandfather’s baptismal certificate and documented family name. I grew very close with the family throughout this emotional process of discovering my roots and now, reunited, we were ready to celebrate.

Marina, the mother, is the best cook I know. Like all the villagers, every ingredient she uses comes from the land beside her. The milk is freshly squeezed from the goats, the eggs are gathered from the chickens that morning, and she even dries her own peppers and grinds them into hot pepper flakes to prepare the spicier Lebanese dishes. When I arrived, the table was covered with food, the Arak glasses were filled with the deceivingly harmless liquid and the music was blasting on their terrace overlooking the deep gorge that is the Holy valley.

"LODGING":George and Mihled arranged for me to sleep in St. Anthony’s Monastery, a group of monks’ residence that is built into the Mountainside and nearly inaccessible, it is so hidden. This Monastery and other cave hermitages were used by various religious communities fleeing persecution in the early centuries of this era. Today, the monks live off of the land completely and even invite all members and visitors of the church to a beautiful Sunday morning brunch in their dining quarters. This was also the site of Lebanon’s first printing press dating from 1871, imported in the 16th century

CULTURE OF THE VILLAGE: Besides that the Holy Valley is a primeval paradise, what makes the village so special, is it’s inhabitants. The village still embodies small community values: raising children with family and friends, taking care of the elders’ well being, and sharing one’s harvest with neighbors. One common phrase that is said every time as a welcome and goodbye greeting to all, is, “Baddak she?” Do you need/want anything?

Generosity is so ingrained in the culture that I was very unsuccessful refusing the constant invitations to dine, drink coffee, and take bags of freshly picked fruits and vegetables home to Beirut with me. In the US, I am usually able to win these types of confrontations with my stubborn nature. Here, I am weak compared to the insistence of the villagers.

CULTURAL LESSON: In fact, so determined was I to win at least one of these generosity battles that I trampled a cultural norm without realizing it’s implications. George and I went to eat in one of Ehden’s (a big village about 3 miles North of Aarbot Qozhayat) restaurants. When he ordered the bill, I snatched it out of the waiter’s hands before George could get to it. As I would in the US, I paid the sum and handed it back to the waiter. When I looked at George to ask him if he was ready to go, he looked very angry. He then went over to the waiter and sternly said to him, “Next time I ask you for the bill, you give it to me.” The waiter looked down at his feet and apologized.

Walking out the restaurant, not realizing I had stirred up trouble, I told George the meal was nothing compared to all he and his family had done for me. He looked at me with a serious expression and said, “You are in not in America anymore. Here, women do not pay anything...EVER. You really embarrassed me and my family back there.” Of course, once I explained my pure intention, he forgave me, but I felt very bad: one, for the lack of consideration I had for the cultural norm, but also because I so badly wanted to give back to him all that he had given me and I had failed to do so in a way that he could appreciate. This incident led me to find a new way to show appreciation without public display: gifts! I bought a big tray of baklava and other sweets to their home as a gesture of appreciation.

REACHING ROOT: This visit put to rest a deep yearning and internal seeking I've had nagging my heart strings for years. Leaving the village on Sunday afternoon, I realized the reality of my roots in the Aarbot Qozhayat: currently, there may not be any members of the Hunnah Egnatus family left, but without a doubt, my soul resides in this warm, agricultural village. However, I know that my calling is not to live here for an extended period of time, but rather, as is the nature of soul, this tranquil refuge will always live in my heart and I will retreat to it when I need a reminder of my own essence and the simplicity of my ancestors. My roots are firmly planted and from here, I will be able to stretch my limbs as tall and mighty as life permits.

More pictures of Sidon and Fatima's family.

Pic #2, #5 The feast at Fatima's family home.

Pic #1 Fatima's Uncle and cousins from one of our long car ride look out points.

Pic #3 My good Lebanese friends from Detroit and Ohio (?!) Fatima and Diana.

pic #4 Heaven.

Excursion to the Chouf Mountains and Southern Lebanon

This past weekend I had a chance to explore beyond Beirut’s borders. I discovered a needed breath from the city in the Chouf mountains on Saturday and the warmth of family life in the charming Southern surroundings of Sidon (see email).

Chouf Mountains and small town Batloon (North Central Lebanon):

Rising early morning Saturday to meet a colleague and her family from the Waldorf school of North Carolina, I was told I’d be picked up in a silver Mercedes. Not realizing the oodles of silver Mercedes parked in the street and driving by in multiples, I had a hard time finding the family’s driver. Once together, our early morning departure hour was pushed forward due to numerous family visits along the way towards our destination. At the grandmother’s house alone, I spent a few hours chatting away with my colleague’s husband, a successful pediatrician in the States who closed up shop to start an eco-village in Chapel Hill. That morning, we spoke in three different languages between him, the grandmother and children, while we munched on the chocolate covered almonds that she insisted I tried and listened to tales of when Israel bombed Beirut. The balcony railing still wears the scars of the shrapnel that exploded from a bomb that detinated in her front yard.

Once on the road, it took another couple of hours to find our destination. Every time we stopped for directions, we were told, “Go upwards” in Lebanese; nothing more detailed. So up we climbed from the foot covered in banana plantations, until we reached what looked like the edge of the earth. Crawling up the spine of the Chouf, we could literally see the deep Bekkaa valley which drops into rib cage formations. Olive trees dominate, giving the terrain a biblical appearance.

Perched at one of these picturesque ledges were two old men selling fresh pears, apricots and plums and smoking hookah pipes. We simply had to say the family’s last name whom we sought and one of the old man’s eyes lit up like kindling as he pointed enthusiastically to a palace nestled above our heads.

Before heading there, we were asked the ever-frequent question, “Where are you from in Lebanon?”. A simple question meaning so much more in this country. Here it determines, “Are you a Christian, Druse or Muslim?”, “With whom does your loyalty lie?” and “For what are you fighting politically?”. More clever than to take a polarized political view, my American-Lebanese friend responded, “I am from the side that will fix this country”. The old man chuckled, bearing his missing teeth, patted him on the back and handed us both small pears.

The house of my colleague’s friends is beautifully designed. The high arch frames, massive doors and ivy vine covered windows, perfectly outlined the lustrous silhouette of the Chouf Mountains on the veranda. Relentless screams of joy and outrage from the six children playing in the living room took me back to my own childhood with three vocal sisters.

After lunch, my colleague and I took the children to an enormous castle overlooking all of the valley. It was constructed by a man who was, as the story goes, reprimanded by his teacher when he took his imagination beyond the guidelines of a school project, designing his future home as a castle. Refusing to believe his fantasies could not become reality, he set out to build his ostentatious dream as an adult. The castle still stands on top of the mountain and is a tourist attraction for everyone who drives the winding roads of the Chouf.

Saida ands it’s village life:

Traveling to Southern Lebanon by service bus alone was quite the adventure on many levels. For one, I learned about the public transportation “system”. The bus station consists of double parked buses in an abandoned lot and groups of men shouting repeatedly the destination names of their buses. If you are lucky enough to hear your destination called or are found by the drivers themselves (who are not shy about approaching you), you simply hop in the oversized van. Departure time? As soon as the driver fills every seat in the van with passengers. Surprisingly, this system works. Only waiting 10 minutes or so, our 12 passenger service van took off in the direction of Saida.

Along the way, between an old man giving a sermon to politely nodding passengers and the passengers we dropped off and picked up in the middle of the highway, there was never a dull moment. Remembering what my Muslim friend advised about traveling alone as a woman, I kept my hands folded in my lap. According to him, this is a sign of a woman’s religious reverence. The miracle of the service bus is that it arrives at your destination in relatively good time (in this case 1 hour)and for only two thousand lebanese lyrah, or less than $1.50, no matter where you go in the country. The disadvantage is you never truly know what or who you will find along the way.

Once in Saida, I walked the historic port consumed by fishermen’s motorboats and nets, still speckled with the day’s early morning catch. I got lost in the action packed souks between the towering, 8th century city walls. For the most part, the people were quite pleasant except for a man on a hot pink bicycle who relentlessly followed me until I yelled him away in Arabic, telling him, “Halas, yella!”, or “Enough, go!”. Around noon, I met my friend, Fatima, whose family is from Sidon, for breakfast with two other friends of ours visiting for the weekend. From there, we headed to her town just North in the mountains to meet all of her relatives.

Spending time with her extended clan was the most revealing about the area and culture of the South. In the village culture of Lebanon, it is very standard for family’s to treat their guests as royalty. You would have thought an entire army was coming over from the amount of food Fatima’s Aunt placed before us on her olive tree surrounded patio overlooking the horizon. There were mountains of grape leaves rolled tight and oozing lemon juice; skewer after skewer of three types of kabobs and grilled vegetables of every type; tabbouli we helped prepare with Fatima’s grandmother; hummus and baba ganous dripping with puddles of olive oil and mounds of fresh garlic;kibbe nai (raw meat) dressed with parsley, tomato and onion; fruit platters showcasing all of the surrounding trees’ harvest, including raw almonds....and the list goes on!

After three and a half hours of lounging around this beautiful meal, socializing in my broken Lebanese and shooting rocks with pellet guns with Fatima’s war veteran Uncle, Mahmoud, we decided to take a “short” visit to a “nearby” mountain before departing for Beirut. Mahmoud’s predicted 10 minute excursion turned into a 4 hour car tour of the South’s mountain villages. Six of us stuffed into his car like a jar of pickles, side by side, singing along to Farouz and breathing in the fresh air and rich country landscape.

Beirut Flavor---the Charming and not so....

Random details to love about Beirut:

(cont'd..)

When you order a $1.50 small ice-cream, they ask for a number of flavors that they will eagerly allow to over-take the cone. Just when you think the cone is too top heavy, they roll the vanilla, nutmeg, chocolate, hazelnut mountain in crushed pistachio nuts and serve it with a spoon. Now that is an ice-cream cone.

On Sunday, the streets are deserted. According to my program director, “when there is silence, there is a wedding in Lebanon”.

There is much enthusiasm for food. I now know why my father at times, stands while he eagerly devouring his meal.

Contrary to the Spanish women’s constant discussion of weight and how to avoid over-eating, the Lebanese women show great joy in eating. By contrast to Spanish men, the men seemingly relish in watching their women eat passionately.

In Lebanese, one wishes you a “good meal” by toasting to your health, making it plural--”two healths!”. Your response to their well wishes is, [and to] “your heart”.

Ketchup is to Americans as Garlic sauce is to the Lebanese.

Most Arabic names have meanings. Some examples include, “Abdullah”, meaning slave of God, or “Naghma”, meaning melody.

My room in the morning hours. The rising sun pours through my Arabic red curtains, creating walls that look like glowing embers all around me.

Among a group of friends (Syrian and Lebanese), generosity is so prevalent it becomes a competition---who can treat others first? Splitting the bill is only common among students, for example.

Watching the planes come in from around the world at sunset on the sea-walk facing the Meditteranean.

A way to silence or hush someone in the imperative in Lebanese can be, “Eat Biscuits”.

I am now teaching the Syrian grocers (in my favorite shop where it all began) how to speak Spanish. We exchange one phrase every day.

In Arabic, there is a word for to vanquish that means to literally, “Break the eyes of the opponent”.

When you buy hummus, they automatically throw in a side of mint, fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, spicy peppers, sweet onion and olives; inextricable to the hummus order.

As quoted by my Arabic teacher, “The only thing reliable and accurate in Lebanon are the exact times the electricity cuts in and out every day--every three hours.”

My lunch today--freshly prepared hummus with pine nuts, lubban with lemon and mint and perfectly ripe apricots--all for under 6 US dollars.

Juice markets on every corner--with carrot juice as the first option (my fave)!

Hookah anytime, day or night, and any location is acceptable.

Perfect strangers (like older women and gentlemen) calling you habibtee, or, my dear one, to address you on the streets.

The call to prayer, five times a day, serves as a reminder to give thanks and pray to God.

The expressive nature of the Arabic language: For example, psychology in Arabic is translated, Science of the soul.

Ground dates--spread it on toast for breakfast, enjoy it after dinner or eat it alone during afternoon coffee--either way, it’s simply delightful!

When you say shukran, or thank you, to the Lebanese, they respond, “Welcome”, instead of, “Your welcome”.

In Arabic, although there is a separate noun for teacher and student, the verb to teach and to learn are the same.

The Lebanese continuously tell me I have a young face for my age, looking 22 and 23 years old. This is a large contrast to the Spaniards estimates that my face reflects the upper 30’s.....eh’hem.

Walking down the middle of the street at all hours of the day/night is considered normal and very “Lebanese”.

It is common and more than acceptable for men to greet other men with kisses on both cheeks and many hugs.

Instead of fast food chains that normally pepper college campuses, LAU and AUB are surrounded by multiple chains of beauty salons. Both men and women can choose from a long menu of aesthetic treatments.

Not quite charming...

Those who have little or no moral will talk you in circles in attempts to distract you from calculating the exact price they have named for you--beware of the mindless banter.

The internet in my apartment building breaks down at least three times a week.

No one bats an eye when the electricity goes out and all conversations resume in the dark without mention to it.

Seemingly innocent, like the elderly men in Spain, the Lebanese male elders sit in the street on stools, smoking hookah or nothing at all, commenting on the women that pass by. For women that meet their approval, they state in a not so subtle way, “Tayyib!”, or in Lebanese, good/delicious.

The taxis continue to honk at you even while you are running, as if you will halt in your tracks right then and get in their cab.

Beirutis honk their horns as much as they talk--incessantly. It’s as if they need their voices to be heard at all times, wherever they find themselves.

Motos driving against traffic and on sidewalks.

No police to enforce traffic and street rules; chaos reigns.

Army tanks parked on street corners. The soldiers sitting atop always look so bored with life.

Young boys playing Beirut. This consists of pointing plastic guns at one another and shouting, “Bang, Bang, your dead!”

The dreadful task of crossing the street. Cross with confidence and don’t turn back. It is a contest between car and human--who will accelerate faster?

In Arabic, one must distinguish between their paternal and maternal aunts. There are four different terms to do so. For example, if I want to address my mom’s sister, I have to say, “Ya, Maternal Aunt blank...”.

4-7 year old boys, using their charm and almond shaped eyes to try and sell gum (relentlessly) to anyone who will pay them attention.