The Underbelly of Present Day Beirut:
Beirut is a highly hedonistic society. Pleasure is sought in all that Beiruti’s pursue: in the form of mass consumerism as ladies purchase the hottest fashion trends; men drive around in hummers and SUV’s with tinted windows; witnessed in the extravagant and wild nightlife, with clubs opened far past dawn, teeming with local and international party-goers dancing until 8 in the morning. Even at meal time this hedonistic quality is found at the table: the Lebanese cover any available dining space with more mezzes and entrees than it can hold, enthusiastically encouraging family and strangers to fill up and get their share now. Lavish experiences like these in the nation’s capital make most people leave feeling it is the best city in the world. In fact, rarely do visitors read between the lines of this Lebanese lifestyle of living abundantly and in the now. What often goes unperceived is the implicit message in these hedonistic behaviors: fill up now, because you never know what tomorrow will bring.
Given the traumatic years of war, economic and political instability of the region, it’s no wonder Beirutis are seeking to live in the now and to the maximum. Who can blame them? However, from an outsider’s perspective, the citizens’ situation is grim. For if you look beyond the flashing strobe lights of the clubs, stunningly beautiful people, and the city’s downtown souk, illuminated by every designer store one could wish for, what you will find is a city of people who are afraid to be in the silence of their own voice. That voice is the memory of the past; a past that renders deep-seated wounds from a childhood that only knows violence and the sound of shelling as an evening lullaby.
As a result, many Beirutis (and Lebanese) fill their days with distractions from recognizing the painful past, living in the now, so much so that the hope of future never lives.
What to expect (and not) in the City
Today, a young man who sells me my cell phone minutes whipped out a pistol in the middle of the street and shot me.........with a BB gun. I found out when I looked behind me in pain that he actually was aiming for another young man behind me. Neither of the teenagers took heed to the slight limp they caused in my leg, nor the evil eye glare I gave both in return for their inconsiderate actions. Their BB gun battle resumed in the middle of the street, with taxis going about their business and casualties taken among those pedestrians with the misfortune of passing by the skirmish. Here in Beirut, sights like this one are normal and barely call for a double take by accustomed locals.
Despite the initial shock of the BB hitting my calf at close range, I can’t say I’m shocked to have found the boys mocking the wars of their Fathers. Nor am I surprised when order and structure are also mocked; such as when wailing police sirens are heard on the road, making a visitor believe she is being pulled over, until she realizes that the car next to her has a fake police siren he uses to move more efficiently through traffic.
Even when you try to be a law abiding citizen, it’s senseless. Well-conditioned in the US to obey the law, when I heard an ambulance’s siren wailing while crossing the busiest intersection in Il’Hamra, I gave way to it and waited on the corner. No one else heeded the approaching ambulance; cars did not move to the side and pedestrians continued to cross the street. I didn’t budge on the corner. Finally, the ambulance inched it’s way to where I was standing, unable to move due to halted traffic. The driver saw me standing with my ears plugged, trying to diminish the screeching of the siren. Apparently, he didn’t like that I was displeased and winked at me, and gestured with his left hand, palm up, which in Lebanon means, “What can I do? I’m sorry.” He then proceeded to turn off the siren, once and for all, and motioned for me to cross the street.
"Authentic" Beirut:
Amidst the city and country of contrasts, there is good to be had as well. My favorite times spent in the city were independent excursions exploring Busta, Beirut’s predominately Shia Muslim neighborhood that has yet to change post-civil war. It is one of the few parts of the city that make me feel like I”m actually in Lebanon and not some glass bubble created by Saudi and Western funds. Unfortunately, “downtown” and “Hamra”, where I live, are nothing but artificial worlds totally divorced from the real existence of power cuts and little Palestinian boys digging through garbage heaps.
The other neighborhood one feels the true “Lebanese spirit” is ironically in the Armenian suburb of Beirut, Burg Hammoud. There, shops have no names and are nothing but literal holes in the wall, old men with sacks meet on the corner to barter their goods and the smell of sizzling sausage on the store front spits draw the children out of their homes and into the streets. Although I visited on a Sunday, when most shops close, to my delight I found the streets filled with family and friends gathering for large, shared meals on apartment verandas.
Closing a chapter in Lebanon:
Apart from professional motives, I came to Lebanon with hopes of seeing this country for what it truly is, this time with the tools of language and cultural immersion to navigate it’s complex layers towards a better picture of reality. I needed to experience Lebanon without the rose tinted glasses through which one inevitably sees it’s rich fertile lands and ostentatiously generous people the first time around. What I’ve discovered during my 6 week stay, is not necessarily something I am happy about and something that has been difficult for me to digest on a personal level.
For me, the best way to describe Lebanon is through the following analogy: experiencing this country is like meeting a man who is stunningly beautiful; you adore everything about this person on a surface level--he is more handsome than words, charming, says all the right things and shows you the best time you’ve had in your life. However, when it comes time to add depth to the relationship, his true character begins to emerge: he is self-centered, inconsiderate of your feelings, hard-headed about making concessions for the well-being of your relationship, and will not commit to you or any other event that threatens his so called “freedom”.
During these last two weeks in Beirut, while contemplating Lebanon’s complexity and having a hard time coming to terms with my discoveries here, the words, “Land of the free and home of the brave” from the American National Anthem continuously popped into my head. Freedom is a paradox here: one is so free they can drive in reverse down the highway while saluting a soldier sitting in his tank with an apathetic look on his face; one is so free, they can get anything in their hands that money has to buy within minutes; one is so free, that when it comes to business, one’s political and sectarian identity is not an issue. Yet, when one attempts to feel hope for a better future, true freedom is nowhere to be found. Job opportunities are scare, garbage litters the sidewalk and sea, police enforcement is a myth and sectarian identity is still the second question after an introduction is made.
After this summer, I believe Lebanon is truly a land of the brave. I know from my own experience riding in servis buses, fearing for my life as the driver weaves through traffic like a ping pong ball played in an arcade. Brave are those who venture to swim in the luring Mediterranean---it’s azure waters seductively lapping the shore in the scorching summer heat, failing to reveal the layers of toxins beneath it’s surface, from which many a child has been rushed to the hospital after an afternoon swim turned ugly. The Lebanese have valor and resilience like no other people in the world; bearing years of economic instability and blood shed, yet returning to their homes, year after year to find life amidst the ashes, adapting to the government’s empty promises for peace and reconstruction and finding stability in family amidst a ground below them that never ceases to tremble.
Robert Fisk’s, “Pity a Nation” best describes this inversion the Lebanese themselves have difficulty explaining: “There are those who praise the courage of its people, their valour amid despair, but it is this very capacity for survival, for eternal renewal, that is Beirut’s tragedy. If the city were allowed to die---if it’s airport closed, its currency destroyed, if its people gave up--then its war would end”. The last thing I want to do is to give a pessimistic report about this fascinating land. For one should discover it’s breath-taking valleys and gorges, towering mountain ranges and charming, biblical towns sprinkled throughout long grasses and pink flowers that spread as far as the eye can see. However, it would be wrong for me not to admit that I sense a deep pain in this country; a pain so deep in people that they refuse to recognize its wounds;emotional trauma so thick that they cannot hold hope for a better future. Instead, pleasure is sought in abundance and immediate gratification as a coping mechanism.
Moving Forward with Lebanon
I will always adore this country, Lebanon, or in Arabic, “white milk”; for it’s warmth and hospitality, for the families in Beirut that I have come to know as extension of my own clan; for the shepherds that still tend to their flocks, high above the crags towards the sacred Cedar trees of Mount Lebanon; for the waiters that leave roses on my table instead of mints with the check, but most significant of all, I will always appreciate the “holy valley”, land of my ancestors, where literally, all life grows.
This country will forever hold my gratitude as a dear friend. For it has allowed me to dig my feet in the earth a bit deeper and stretch my limbs a bit taller. I walk with greater knowledge of who I am because of it. But now knowing the country’s true nature and complex layers, I no longer point a questioning finger at my descendants for having had abandoned it in search of a more promising future; nor will I ever commit my future's existence to it. I can only hope to use my new found language skills and understanding of Lebanon's complexities to help bring about positive change for the Lebanese through education and opportunity for growth.
Given the traumatic years of war, economic and political instability of the region, it’s no wonder Beirutis are seeking to live in the now and to the maximum. Who can blame them? However, from an outsider’s perspective, the citizens’ situation is grim. For if you look beyond the flashing strobe lights of the clubs, stunningly beautiful people, and the city’s downtown souk, illuminated by every designer store one could wish for, what you will find is a city of people who are afraid to be in the silence of their own voice. That voice is the memory of the past; a past that renders deep-seated wounds from a childhood that only knows violence and the sound of shelling as an evening lullaby.
As a result, many Beirutis (and Lebanese) fill their days with distractions from recognizing the painful past, living in the now, so much so that the hope of future never lives.
What to expect (and not) in the City
Today, a young man who sells me my cell phone minutes whipped out a pistol in the middle of the street and shot me.........with a BB gun. I found out when I looked behind me in pain that he actually was aiming for another young man behind me. Neither of the teenagers took heed to the slight limp they caused in my leg, nor the evil eye glare I gave both in return for their inconsiderate actions. Their BB gun battle resumed in the middle of the street, with taxis going about their business and casualties taken among those pedestrians with the misfortune of passing by the skirmish. Here in Beirut, sights like this one are normal and barely call for a double take by accustomed locals.
Despite the initial shock of the BB hitting my calf at close range, I can’t say I’m shocked to have found the boys mocking the wars of their Fathers. Nor am I surprised when order and structure are also mocked; such as when wailing police sirens are heard on the road, making a visitor believe she is being pulled over, until she realizes that the car next to her has a fake police siren he uses to move more efficiently through traffic.
Even when you try to be a law abiding citizen, it’s senseless. Well-conditioned in the US to obey the law, when I heard an ambulance’s siren wailing while crossing the busiest intersection in Il’Hamra, I gave way to it and waited on the corner. No one else heeded the approaching ambulance; cars did not move to the side and pedestrians continued to cross the street. I didn’t budge on the corner. Finally, the ambulance inched it’s way to where I was standing, unable to move due to halted traffic. The driver saw me standing with my ears plugged, trying to diminish the screeching of the siren. Apparently, he didn’t like that I was displeased and winked at me, and gestured with his left hand, palm up, which in Lebanon means, “What can I do? I’m sorry.” He then proceeded to turn off the siren, once and for all, and motioned for me to cross the street.
"Authentic" Beirut:
Amidst the city and country of contrasts, there is good to be had as well. My favorite times spent in the city were independent excursions exploring Busta, Beirut’s predominately Shia Muslim neighborhood that has yet to change post-civil war. It is one of the few parts of the city that make me feel like I”m actually in Lebanon and not some glass bubble created by Saudi and Western funds. Unfortunately, “downtown” and “Hamra”, where I live, are nothing but artificial worlds totally divorced from the real existence of power cuts and little Palestinian boys digging through garbage heaps.
The other neighborhood one feels the true “Lebanese spirit” is ironically in the Armenian suburb of Beirut, Burg Hammoud. There, shops have no names and are nothing but literal holes in the wall, old men with sacks meet on the corner to barter their goods and the smell of sizzling sausage on the store front spits draw the children out of their homes and into the streets. Although I visited on a Sunday, when most shops close, to my delight I found the streets filled with family and friends gathering for large, shared meals on apartment verandas.
Closing a chapter in Lebanon:
Apart from professional motives, I came to Lebanon with hopes of seeing this country for what it truly is, this time with the tools of language and cultural immersion to navigate it’s complex layers towards a better picture of reality. I needed to experience Lebanon without the rose tinted glasses through which one inevitably sees it’s rich fertile lands and ostentatiously generous people the first time around. What I’ve discovered during my 6 week stay, is not necessarily something I am happy about and something that has been difficult for me to digest on a personal level.
For me, the best way to describe Lebanon is through the following analogy: experiencing this country is like meeting a man who is stunningly beautiful; you adore everything about this person on a surface level--he is more handsome than words, charming, says all the right things and shows you the best time you’ve had in your life. However, when it comes time to add depth to the relationship, his true character begins to emerge: he is self-centered, inconsiderate of your feelings, hard-headed about making concessions for the well-being of your relationship, and will not commit to you or any other event that threatens his so called “freedom”.
During these last two weeks in Beirut, while contemplating Lebanon’s complexity and having a hard time coming to terms with my discoveries here, the words, “Land of the free and home of the brave” from the American National Anthem continuously popped into my head. Freedom is a paradox here: one is so free they can drive in reverse down the highway while saluting a soldier sitting in his tank with an apathetic look on his face; one is so free, they can get anything in their hands that money has to buy within minutes; one is so free, that when it comes to business, one’s political and sectarian identity is not an issue. Yet, when one attempts to feel hope for a better future, true freedom is nowhere to be found. Job opportunities are scare, garbage litters the sidewalk and sea, police enforcement is a myth and sectarian identity is still the second question after an introduction is made.
After this summer, I believe Lebanon is truly a land of the brave. I know from my own experience riding in servis buses, fearing for my life as the driver weaves through traffic like a ping pong ball played in an arcade. Brave are those who venture to swim in the luring Mediterranean---it’s azure waters seductively lapping the shore in the scorching summer heat, failing to reveal the layers of toxins beneath it’s surface, from which many a child has been rushed to the hospital after an afternoon swim turned ugly. The Lebanese have valor and resilience like no other people in the world; bearing years of economic instability and blood shed, yet returning to their homes, year after year to find life amidst the ashes, adapting to the government’s empty promises for peace and reconstruction and finding stability in family amidst a ground below them that never ceases to tremble.
Robert Fisk’s, “Pity a Nation” best describes this inversion the Lebanese themselves have difficulty explaining: “There are those who praise the courage of its people, their valour amid despair, but it is this very capacity for survival, for eternal renewal, that is Beirut’s tragedy. If the city were allowed to die---if it’s airport closed, its currency destroyed, if its people gave up--then its war would end”. The last thing I want to do is to give a pessimistic report about this fascinating land. For one should discover it’s breath-taking valleys and gorges, towering mountain ranges and charming, biblical towns sprinkled throughout long grasses and pink flowers that spread as far as the eye can see. However, it would be wrong for me not to admit that I sense a deep pain in this country; a pain so deep in people that they refuse to recognize its wounds;emotional trauma so thick that they cannot hold hope for a better future. Instead, pleasure is sought in abundance and immediate gratification as a coping mechanism.
Moving Forward with Lebanon
I will always adore this country, Lebanon, or in Arabic, “white milk”; for it’s warmth and hospitality, for the families in Beirut that I have come to know as extension of my own clan; for the shepherds that still tend to their flocks, high above the crags towards the sacred Cedar trees of Mount Lebanon; for the waiters that leave roses on my table instead of mints with the check, but most significant of all, I will always appreciate the “holy valley”, land of my ancestors, where literally, all life grows.
This country will forever hold my gratitude as a dear friend. For it has allowed me to dig my feet in the earth a bit deeper and stretch my limbs a bit taller. I walk with greater knowledge of who I am because of it. But now knowing the country’s true nature and complex layers, I no longer point a questioning finger at my descendants for having had abandoned it in search of a more promising future; nor will I ever commit my future's existence to it. I can only hope to use my new found language skills and understanding of Lebanon's complexities to help bring about positive change for the Lebanese through education and opportunity for growth.
