Thank Allah it's Friday

Friday is to muslims what sunday is to Christians. They close their shops, school is out and most offices are closed. Rather than have to fight your wau through the crowd in the commercial alleys, you can stroll down them calmly without meeting anyone else. Rather than have to many shops to choose from (shops are arranged by products; all shoe sellers are next to each other, all underwear shops in the same corner, etc), you have to line-up to purchase basic goods sucg as bread. Rather than be assailed by the vivid colors and sparkles of the proposed merchandises you are rebuffed by iron gates on which "Alep: Islamic city 2006" is imprinted.

Nevertheless, despite all these signs of inactivity, the city is not asleep. Simply life has moved to greener spaces. Those with a car take their family to the nearby countryside but most invade one of the city's public parks. Suddenly the usual street animation finds you again. Sitting on a park bench, you'll find yourself surrounded by a host of groups of different composition. Men still dominate the landscape. Young ones, dressed to the nine, stroll down the shaded alley unafraid to hold hands (which does not mean they're homosexuals). Older ones sit down in circles, smoke the narguile (chicha) and sip small cups of coffee spiced with cardamon (delicious!). Many are accompanied by their wife (sometimes wives)and children. While the parents unwind, the children are free to run around and play. Given that most Syrian couples have at least four or five kids, it is not surprising to find some everywhere. Even more so when you realize how free kids are in this country. Most of the time they are left without surveillance and have to fend for themselves. It is nor rare to see an eight year-old flanked with two younger siblings get on the bus to travel between villages or within the city.

Despite some cries coming from a kid who just felt and hit himself on a barbel fence, everyone seems to be enjoying themselves as the sun beams through the trees' leaves. And so am I. I find myself smiling at everyone. Even at all the men that stare at me inquistively and without shame because I'm a western women without a veil.. but that is another story

Word of the Day: Homogeneity

Although the Syrians claim that historically Lebanon has been part of its territory and therefore should still be, accepting such logic would not account for how different both societies are nowadays. Whereas Lebanon strikes by its diversity, Syria, at first sights, shocks by its homogeneity.

There are few mountains right after the border but they quickly disappear to make way for a wide highly cultivated plain with only a couple of small hills in the background. From then on as you head further to the North of the country, you cross a repetitive succession of wheat fields and olive trees plantations. Here and there, a basic one-storey high rectangular house hosts a family of peasants. Unadorned, built with either cement bricks or beige rocksm they blend in with their surroundings. As you get closer to Aleppo, the land becomes a little more arid, loosing its intense chocolate brown color to become something looking more and more like sand. The city itself also surprises by its uniformity. Standing at the top of the Citadelle in the middle of the city, the panorama at your feet is composed of buildings of more or less the same height and in the same greyish color. The only thing that stands out is the decadent mosque that is currently under construction whose walls are still white and which is decorated with green domes. Even the clothes line on the sides or the rooftops seem to be the same from one home to the next, whether in the countryside or in the city. The same succession of sombre clothes with the occasional pink or orange shirt. Those clothes lines are revealing of the local fashion (if you may call it fashion). Men will either wear a colorless djellabah with a keffieh expertly tied around their head or a dress shirt tucked in kaki pants. Most of them sport a thick brown moustache. The women too conform to a simple dress code. Their silhouette, whether corpulent or thin, is hidden under a shapeless dresscoat. Their face made even rounder by their veil. Shockingly, many of them don a black veil that cover their eyes, like a Madonna mourning her son. This sight never fails to remind of the condition of inequality and submission most local women live in. They also bear a strange resemblance to the image of Death, like a scary omen. Their presence can bring uneasiness. You don't want to stare or be disrespectful but at the same time you don't want to ignore it and cast it as normal or to be expected.

This uniformity in the dresscode, the repetitiveness of the landscape, the anonymity in which many women remain gives the impression of a very homogeneous country. One in which most people belong to the same socioeconomic class. There must be some important social cleavages but they are well dissimulated. Men wearing suits, expensive cars and other signs of wealth are few and far between. Either people don't exhibit their wealth as in Lebanon, or I have yet to visit their neighborhoods. One thing is for sure a few days in Aleppo and two weeks in Syria will not be enough to break through Syria's shell.

Things to do while in Lebanon

Eat an ice cream cone in Bcharre while admiring the Qadisha Valley below

Walk aimlessly around Beirut, enter small boutiques, be overjoyed when you find a terrace, order a lemonade or a fresh juice and smile as you watch the city live.

Go house hunting: pay attention to the architecture of the old houses, pick your favourite and daydream about buying it and restoring it.

Collect pictures of the graffitis, tags, and stencils that adorn the city’s walls

Indulge in a chocolate chips cookie from Kitsch

Choose a pleasant, small bar in Gemmayzeh. Enjoy an Almaza (the local beer) while eating the fresh carrot sticks they serve along with drinks. Go there regularly. Quickly you’ll know everyone and feel a little more at home in Beirut. Suggestions of bars: Kayan, Torino or Godot.

Have mezze and seafood at Bab Al-Mina on a sunny Sunday afternoon. The view of the port of Jbeil is unmatched and the clamour of the family meeting for their weekly Sunday get together would bring a grin to anyone’s face.

Take a book to Sanayeh public garden or to the Corniche and pretend to read. When really you’re people watching.

Savour the delicious local fresh fruits and vegetables you just bought at the small corner store.

Have a waffle with maple syrup at Tribeca (in Monot) after a late night out.

Find a group with whom to explore the mountains. The hikes are great, the fresh air a delight and the views always superb.

Stand at the foot of the fence marking the border with Israel.

Read every event poster you might come across. There are a lot of cultural activities, exhibitions and festivals happening each week. It would be a shame to miss one of them.

Explore the entire country. Don’t leave a single region unvisited. Each area is different from the next and deserves to be seen.

Always accept an invitation for tea, who knows which hidden treasure you might stumble upon.

Encounter with the "enemy"

Travelers go to Baalbeck for its impressive ruins – which I am the first to admit, having spent four hours admiring them, are well worth the detour – but few will venture out of the tourist quarters. I must confess, I was a little anxious at the thought of exploring the city. Afterall, the first thing that greets you when you enter it, is a giant billboard honouring Imad Mughniyeh, which doesn’t fail to remind you that Baalbeck is one of the most important Hezbollah area. In fact, the Lebanese army will avoid entering certain sectors of the town and of its surroundings, allowing for illegal activity such as pot growing to flourish. It is with these information in mind that I stepped out of the ruins site and headed for the heart of the city.

Yes, most women were wearing headscarves. Yes, I received a lot of attention and inquisitive looks. Yes, there were a lot of posters of martyrs, and of Nasrallah. But, I never felt unwelcome, hated or out of place. Like anywhere, women pay a lot of attention to their appearance. Their clothes although covering most of their skin revealed their nice silhouette and exuded their feminity. Their eyes, expertly outlined could hypnotize anyone. Few men sported the beard and none held inappropriate comments towards me. Afterall, I was far from being the most alluring women in town. Not only were the local women sexier, but there also was a young Asian tourist sporting a white strapless mini-dress, apparently unaware of the local convention. People were very responsive to my desire to take their pictures and rarely shied away from the camera. Photographing them often lead to an invitation to have tea or narguile with them. I spent an hour amidst a family on the outskirts of the town, wishing I was part of them. They seemed so happy to be with each other and were so genuine in their interest for me. They even begged me to stay the night. It was only upon leaving that I noticed that each girl was wearing a Hezbollah bracelet. Never during our hour-long conversation had I felt that they disregarded me for where I came from. People weren’t shaking their heads when they saw us approaching. Quite the contrary, they always greeted us with a big smile. An ice cream vendor, upon hearing that I was from Canada asked me who the President of my country was. When I answered Stephen Harper, he looked puzzled and said, with the utmost serious: “Well, if I haven’t heard from him, he mustn’t be too bad”. I did not want to correct him.

Most surprising remained the vendors we met upon entering the ruins. Rather than offer us ancient coins like they apparently did a few years ago, most of them approached us brandishing Hezbollah t-shirts, scarves, lighters and then would offer us to look at their coin collection. Apparently, Hezbollah paraphernalia has became one of the most sought after items by tourists becoming something like the Che Guevara frenzy. I wondered how the party heads took this new trend, and whether members of the party appreciated having tourists eagerly look for the latest Hezbollah gadget. When asked, a journalist friend working precisely on a piece about this told me most are quite content with this new twist. Not only does it provide funds but it also helps improve the “branding” of the party.

As I left the town after having gone back to the ruins to watch the sunset, I reflected on what I had learnt: Hezbollah partisans (at least not all of them) are no fanatics, staring at every foreigner with knives in their eyes. They can be stylish and welcoming. And they have great business sense.

The Border

There are two kinds of borders. First there are the fluid ones. You can cross these simply by showing your passport and answering a few questions. They serve merely as established demarcation lines between two neighbouring countries. They are often taken for granted. Like the 49th parallel. Then, there are the impenetrable ones. Heavily reinforced and surveyed, they are meant to separate, isolate and antagonize. I have always imagine the latter as a wide strip of bare land flanked by high fences (and sometimes walls), watchtowers and soldiers constantly patrolling it. The border between Lebanon and Israel defies that image.

It is not bare, but splendidly green. Olive trees, cultivated fields, untouched meadows create a magnificent patchwork when seen from atop. The rich brown tint of the earth reveals its fertility. These lush shades of green brutally clash with the parched mountains in the background and serve as a frontier between Lebanon and Syria. Whereas the Middle East is mostly arid, this border region is an oasis, a pot of gold. You are forced to recognize why it has been fought over for decades; some trying to retain while others try to conquer it. Yet it does not justify the massacres that have been committed with those goals in mind.

The countries are not distant from each other, but provocatively close. From the ramparts of Beaufort castle, you can distinguish South Lebanon, the Golan Heights, the Chebaa Farms and the Israeli “golden finger”. When you look towards the latter, you easily discern a small hill circled by seemingly similar houses. It is the Jewish settlement of Metulla. Once you manage to tear yourself away from Beaufort and head to the small town of Kafr Kila, you realize that what separates those two enemies are a fence, a dirt road and another fence. From the foot of the Lebanese barrier, you can spot the Israeli military positions while right behind you a group of locals are discussing. Lebanese and Israelis are within insults reach.

Visiting the “liberated territories” – a reference to the fact that they were occupied by the Israeli army from 1982 to 2000 – and its important sites: Beaufort Castle (mostly known as Chkif Arnoun in Lebanon), the Khiam prison (where the Israeli forces interned and tortured Lebaneses and which they heavily bombed during the summer 2006 to erase the evidence), the Fatima gate (in the border village of Kafr Kila) is poignant. After such a tour the news stories and the textbooks analysis will no longer be abstract. Each time the area is evoked it will be associated with a landscape, people and moments. The silent, capable and patient cab driver which drove us around. Michel, the army guard dressed as a civilian which helped us ease through the permission process and offered us some of the delicious fruits that grow in the military base courtyard named Akidene. The guide at the Khiam prison who told us of the horrors he lived and witnessed while interned there through mimes and who offered me a rose from the bush that grew amidst the rumbles. The Hezbollah flags and posters that adorn every lamppost. The crowd in Kafr Kila surrounding two dead sheep while a man mounted a decorated horse on the other side of the road (we unfortunately could not understand what it all meant). The group of school children running through the underground labyrinths of Beaufort. But mostly, I will remember the luxurious splendour of the border area and the proximity of the enemies. Two reasons why peace may take a while to prevail.

Natural Wonder

I was a child again, kneeling on the seat at the end of the bus and staring outside the back window wide-eyed. I put off blinking, afraid that I would miss something. I wanted to fix every single detail of the scenery in my mind forever. I knew my words would not do it justice, and that my pictures would only show the setting but not the feeling.

With a simple left-turn off the highway from Beirut to Tripoli, you find yourself driving up a beautiful road, your eyes set on the green hills in front of you. The hills quickly become cliffs of all shades of yellow, oranges and beige. They’re adorned by monasteries, caves and spectacular waterfalls. Below is a luxuriant valley, so deep you cannot even see the bottom of it, you can only dream it. In the background are striking snow-capped mountains with small stone houses and orange tile rooftops villages at their feet. It never occurs to you to wonder what is behind those mountains, since what is in front of it is so breathtaking.

I just could not wait to get off the bus, stand atop the cliff and loose myself in the panorama. I did, in Bcharre, one of the main towns of the Valley, home of the famed Lebanese author and artist Khalil Gibran.

The village breeds peacefulness. It makes you want to sit down, savour ice cream cones and fresh strawberries. It makes you smile at everyone you cross paths with and engage in seemingly futile conversations. It makes you laugh at the charming ridicule of the fifties car carcasses locals drive around. With now windows, no mirrors, no roof, and a whole lot of rust it is amazing that they’re still functioning.

Standing on the edge of the cliff trying to count the number of cascades, you are driven to start hiking down, trying to find the bottom of the valley and discover what it hides. I unfortunately could not follow that impulse, my obligations dragging me back to Beirut. I probably won’t have time to go revisit the Qadisha Valley before I have to leave the country. But it’ll be one of my many excuses to come back.

People Watching

Many have mentioned it before me, but I feel the need to emphasize it, strolling down the Corniche in Beirut is like crossing the entire country. Within a few miles, you’ll encounter people of all walks of life: conservative and liberals, Christians and Muslims, young and old, rich and poor. Here is a list of what you may see on a nice and mild late afternoon, as the sun is setting down:

1. Small groups of young men dressed in tight t-shirts and jeans, their hair combed back with a little too much gel in it. Rather than facing the sea, they turn their back to it determined to whistle at every attractive lady that passes by them.

2. Women walking in pairs, exchanging the latest gossips. Sometimes it’ll be two friends, others it’ll be a mother with her 30 year old daughter.

3. Modern couples holding hands, stealing a few kisses from each other.

4. Women dressed in their veils (of all lengths), a man by their side. It is always hard to tell whether he is a cousin, a brother or a husband since few gestures can reveal the nature of their relationship.

5. AUB students, carrying their books, making plans for the night.

6. Bikers most likely discussing the latest trends in motorbikes or telling the story of their latest prouesse.

7. Courageous bathers who’ll jump from the edge of the Corniche into the sea to entertain the many passersby cheering them on.

8. Upper-class women preceded by their maid who is in charge of tending to the needs of their children.

9. Middle-aged men and women who are convinced that mild speed walking can help you shed the few extra pounds

10. More devoted runners, with their top-of-the-line Adidas outfit, their I-Pods and their defined muscles, training.

11. Teenagers rollerblading. There’s even a small permanent jump at one end of the Corniche. So far I’ve seen no one do any trick on it more than just jump.

12. Families who bring their own camping chair (there’s a definite lack of benches along the seawalk; I’ve counted only 4 of them) and sit in a semi-circle to smoke the narguile

13. Street vendors, blackened by the sun and missing a few teeths, offering tea, coffee, fresh juice or corn on the cob.

14. Men in suits, unwinding after a hard day in the office.

15. Old men playing Tric-Trac undisturbed by the surrounding traffic

16. Parked cars, their door open and with people choosing to stay in it rather than go close to the sea.

17. And the odd tourist, marveling at the diversity and liveliness of the Corniche…

My muse

As I got off the small bus in what I thought (and hoped) was the city of Zahle, I suddenly realized that maybe I had be too ambitious. Few people seemed to be heading for the Bekaa valley, and none of those who were, were tourists. It took about an hour and half for the bus to fill up, a condition for our departure (buses here leave when full, not according to a schedule). This meant that I spent an hour and half sitting in an uncomfortable minivan, under the glaring sun and breathing the putrid fumes released by the endless traffic. I was about to give up when the bus finally inched forward, I was ecstatic to leave the chaos of the Cola roundabout behind.

The way to the Bekaa was rather an eventful. It was your traditional Lebanese road: sinuous, full of potholes, and bordered by vulgar concrete houses and shops. You crossed the usual checkpoint, where the soldiers don’t really check anything – they simply look inside the car through the window and nod. You got thrown around the bus as the driver dodges cars ahead or tries to overtake them. Yet, as you get closer to the Bekaa, the scenery changes. For starters, there’s less and less habitations, and more Syrian number plates. The checkpoints become a little more intimidating. The soldiers still only have a brief look inside before nodding, but now, they are protected by enormous tanks. I am no army specialist, but I can ascertain that the destruction potential of those tanks was far superior to that of the ones you encounter in Beirut. I guess that the closeness to the Syrian border requires it. So does the fact that Israelis have used the valley as a flying corridor in previous wars. Geographically, the Bekaa is a highly strategic region. On the way, you can marvel at a 60foot high bridge which was destroyed by the Israelis in summer 2006 in order to cut off the road that led to Syria and thus, prevent arms from pouring in the country… or civilians to escape it. Since, you have to take a nearby deviation. Construction crews are still trying to rebuild the bridge, but once done how long before it gets hit again?

I had been to the Bekaa before, but I was still stunned by the contrast it offers. Flanked by two very rocky and bare mountain chains, the luxurious green fields seem out of place. Seeing it from above, it looks like Eden. Absolutely flat, only a few miles wide, the valley provides the country with a lot of agricultural produce: fruits and vegetables, wine and pot. I was still admiring the meadows below when the driver signaled for me to get off. I had only one foot on the ground when a cab driver assailed me, offering to take me anywhere: a nearby village, chateau Ksara (a famous Lebanese winery), an hotel or Zahle. Evidently, I was not yet in Zahle. Detesting having to deal with pushy cabbies, I shoed him off hastily and entered an empty mall nearby to recompose. A careful look at the map revealed that although Zahle was an important city in the region, it was a little off the main road. More importantly, I established that I was in El Mallaagga. Although it was reassuring to know where I was, it was of little use. I only had a map of the country, not the Bekaa. I had no way to know which small road led where and what I would find along it. Maybe I had been foolish coming here alone, with the sole aim to wander and take pictures. Although I have been here for over two months, it was the first time that I had the courage to set out of Beirut on my own, and with few directions.

In order not to give in to panic, I decided it would be better for me to start walking and taking photographs. Usually, once I have my camera in hand, I focus on finding scenes, details, peoples that are worth capturing and forget about my worries. The road I chose was heading down towards the valley through a host of small, rustic auto shops. I took few pictures, annoyed with the non-stop honking directed to me. Obviously, I stood out. Not only was I walking in an odd part of town but I was also a young (some would add attractive) women. None of it was really threatening, but I aspired to tranquility; which I found only a few miles later as I turned on a small rural road. Alone, I suddenly found a serenity and an inspiration I had yet to feel in Lebanon.

Each photographer has a unique eye, a style, and subjects of predilections. Each photographer is moved by something different. The Bekaa is my muse. I could not take one step without aiming the camera. From old, decrepit factories and warehouses, to fenced fields or a few oddities, everything seemed to be begging me to be on film. And I hadn’t met the people yet.

Scattered along the small road were desolate tents, made out of cloths found here and there. These serve as homes to the many Syrian field workers. As soon as they saw me, they waved, invited me in their home, and offered me tea or coffee. They were as curious of me, as I was of them. They had no shame to be photographed in all their misery, they actually seemed happy that I did. Not because I could come back and give them the picture, but because someone was paying attention to them. Someone was giving them a mean to reach out to others. I feel honored to have shared an afternoon with them, and I feel a debt towards them.

The extreme agricultural wealth of the region, and the equally extreme poverty of those who extract it, makes for a photogenic contrast. But more importantly, this disparity should not remain. It has to be brought into the light, acknowledge and then dealt with.

They're all criminals...

At least according to a sign that stood just outside a small mountain village which read: “harming the environment is a crime against the nation”. Only a few meters away, carton boxes, colourful wrappers and Pepsi cans adorned the trees that courageously hung on the side of the cliff. Unfortunately, the scene described here, as become a norm rather than an exception. The only difference being that this was the first, and only time that I saw the accusatory sign.

I’ve stopped counting the times when, perched upon a hill marvelling at the view in front of me, my attention is suddenly caught by a piece of [insert name of any trash item here] nearby. As my eyes follow the trail of debris, I quickly realize that I’m standing in an improvised public dump. I’ve witness groups of teenagers whom, once done with their picnic, leave everything behind. And since they all go to the same spots week after week, it does not take long before the area becomes too disgusting to enjoy a leisurely meal. So, after a couple of weeks, they’ll choose another place and go through the same process all over again. I’ve seen people throw trash outside their car window while driving. Cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, papers, you name it. I’ve even been hit by some of those projectiles. I’ve encountered cars parked at the top of a cliff to unload bags after bags of domestic garbage in the valley below.

Every time I feel like running up to them to say something; except I do not know how to yell in Arabic. Every time I feel like picking it up myself; except it would be a rather inconsequent gesture, they’ll just do it again. Every time, I feel bad for the miserable Sukleen (the Beirut garbage collection company) workers who work day and night picking up what others carelessly throw on the pavement. Although I’m thankful for their presence, sometimes I wish they were not because it would force people to notice the impact of their negligence. Most of all, everyday I am appalled by the inclination of Lebanese to soil their own country and destroy its natural assets.

The individuals are not the only one to blame. Even if you always take the time to throw your leftovers in the garbage, there’s no guarantee they’ll be properly treated since there’s no proper waste management infrastructure. Next to Saida, a hideous mountain of juicy, filthy and nauseating waste keeps on growing. Situated right by the sea, it is not rare to hear reports that a part of the mount fell into the water, spreading its refuse into the Mediterranean. A similar hill can be found nearby Beirut, except that one has now been covered with grass. There are a few incinerators, but not enough to meet the increasing demand. Unlike in Canada, there’s no nation-wide recycling program which could help reduce the amount of garbage which requires treatment. I’ve been told that you can find a couple of recycling garbage bins in Beirut for bottles and paper, but they’re rare and spread out. Not only would you have to find them, but you would also need to have the will to sort your waste and then bring them to the proper bins. It takes much more time and resolve than simply putting them in a box outside your door.

Until now, I’ve only talked about the garbage issue, but a lot could be said about other types of pollution. Often, by the end of the day, you can see a dark yellow film above the capital city and its surroundings. It results from car exhaust and industrial releases. Most people here seem unaware of the impact of driving either a massive SUV or an ancient Mercedes, both of which consume an insane amount of gas. Add to that the time that these cars spend stalled in traffic jams and you get a recipe for disaster. And once again, there’s no public infrastructure such as an efficient public transit system to encourage people to leave their car at home and lessen the amount of car on the roads.

In fact, it would appear that one of the main reason why people are so negligent towards the environment stems from their lack of awareness. A friend of mine, who teaches fourth grade in a school just outside Beirut, is currently on a crusade to educate her students about proper garbage management. Her first surprise was to learn that few of them were actually aware that there was a trash problem. When she showed them pictures of the Saida waste mountain or of the debris left on the Jbeil beach, they did not believe her. A few groups are attempting to make individuals and/or the government realize the destructive nature of their behaviour but so far, their efforts have been met with little success. I just hope that they do before the country drowns in its own trash.

Here and There

Going away often allows us to better perceive the place we’ve just left. Coming to Lebanon made me realize how acutely unaware we are if our good fortune. Most flagrant are the material matters we take for granted. Being at the mercy of electricity cuts, enduring cold showers and having no drinking water available directly from the tap showed me that those seemingly basic needs are not accessible to everyone, and that it is possible to do without them. For instance, rather than having an electrical stove, people opt for a gas one. You avoid elevators when possible out of fear of being stuck in one during a cut. You convince yourself of the many benefits of having a cold shower, including better circulation, healthier hair and skin, faster waking up. As you walk up 4 flights of stairs with a 2 bottles of water of 10 litres, you remind yourself of how many calories you are currently loosing. You go to the university’s library, across town, to check your emails. In fact, you plan your entire day around it. Yet, do not be mislead by this description. As I realized when I move apartment, the situation depicted above is not lived by everyone in Lebanon. It is quite possible to find the same comfort here as we enjoy in the West, albeit at a higher price. Apparently, as long as you can pay, Lebanon can offer you all the services you might desire, from central heating to valet parking at a mid-range restaurant or home delivered dry cleaning. Now that I have moved in such a place, I’m slowly starting to go back to my old ways, not thinking twice about where my water comes from nor dreading the next time I’ll have to shower. I have to keep on reliving my first impressions and experiences in the country to remind myself of the luck I have.

Going away does not simply help you appreciate material matters more; it also increases your understanding of other cultures, as well as your own. When I left for Lebanon, I was expecting to find a drastically different lifestyle than the one I grew up in, even after hearing the tales of others who lived or visited the country. Yet, as soon as I got over the initial hump, I started to notice how alike Beirut was of other capitals of this world. A meal at a restaurant amongst friends or a night at a club is as common as it is in the West. You can watch “the Office”, listen to Feist or go see the latest blockbuster. And then, an event, such as the short yet controversial censure of the movie Persepolis, reminds you of the differences between Lebanon and some of its Western counterparts. Given the criticism the movie makes of the Iranian regime, many believe the call for censure emanated out of Iran and carried through Hezbollah to the government. The international attention this story got helped raise the restriction. Even if the film is being played, its success is jeopardized. Some Lebanese have mentioned that they will forego seeing it at the movies because they fear an attack from the disgruntled group. Yet, it is not the first time such a measure is taken. A few years back, “The DaVinci Code” was banned from the country after the church had put considerable pressure on the government to do so. In day-to-day life, scenes of shows or movies broadcasted on tv are cut and expression such as “oh my god” are bleeped out.

Going away is also quite relative. What is here and there? As I left Canada a month ago, it was rather clear; here was Montreal, there was Lebanon, the Middle East the unknown. After having stayed in Beirut for over a month, the line is getting blurrier. As the days go by, I slowly tamed Beirut as the strange becomes familiar. I was made aware of this last weekend, after my trip to Tripoli. My daytrip there was like a second journey. Once again I was shocked by the density, the chaos, the filthiness, the gloom of the city and the misery its people live in. Once again I was amazed by some of the cultural traits of the town. The most impressive of which was the souks. I had already experienced a souk before in Saida, yet nothing equated that of Tripoli. Its maze-like endless crowded pathways, its mixed smells of food, perfumes and human sweat, its sounds added to my fascination. So did the people I encountered in those alleys. Most women wore the headscarf, some men sported the beard, very few spoke a foreign language. For the first time, I felt like I was in the Middle East, the one I had imagined during the past years. I came back to Beirut exhausted. My senses had been assaulted all day, my head constantly processing new information coming from everywhere. Beirut suddenly felt so familiar when compared to the novelty of Tripoli. Here is Montreal, and Beirut. There is Tripoli, and all those cities where I can only spend a few days, not months.

Easter heat

This Easter, I expected to witness intense Christian fervor and devotion. Instead I found a rather unexpected source of regional tourism.

Riding up the mountainous road that leads to Harissa this past Sunday, I encountered few cars. I anxiously wondered whether I had been misadvised. One of my guides indicated that the small town hosted lively and passionate processions and celebrations during this religious holiday. My worries grew even stronger when I arrived at the church’s entrance. There was no soul in sight. Was I too early or too late? Still I made my way around the church, towards the statue of the Virgin Mary I had caught a glimpse at on the way up. Slowly, I started hearing rumors. People were here, at the feet of what is advertised as the “tallest statue of Mary in the Middle East”. The white effigy stood atop a conic pedestal circled by narrow stairs, crowded with devotes wanted to praise and thank the holy lady. All around, black silhouettes contrasted with the white rock. Everywhere women veiled, dressed in black cloths stood in small groups, children running in their skirts. When they walked, the wind would catch in underneath their garbs, making them resemble black birds. Since you couldn’t see their feet, it truly seemed as if they were flying. This sight was rendered poetic both by its aestheticism and its strangeness. Here I was, standing at the feet of the Virgin, on Easter Sunday, surrounded by what seemed like burqas. Surely, this had to be part of some local religious tradition. Perhaps, when mourning the Christ, some followers hide themselves under black cloths and keep their heads down to pay respect to the mother of the deceased before celebrating its resurrection.

For three hours, I walked amidst them, subtly trying to take their portrait attempting to capture the contrast between them, and other Lebanese women, dressed in festive attires, bare backs, shorts skirts and high heels. Yet, despite the appearance, these women, were not the most devout. They were outdone by tiny women from Sri Lanka, India Philippines, etc. who would walk up the dizzying stairs carrying offerings. Once at the top, many of them would bow their head and let their tears wet the feet of their idol. Rather than being annoyed by my camera, they offered themselves to it, exaggerating their expressions of religious zeal. One came up carrying two white doves to be freed at the top. She saw my camera, smiled. Turned her head to the sky, towards the kind face of Mary, and let each dove go, a tear strolling on her cheek. Once done, she looked once more at me, smiling, making sure I had caught her gesture on film.

Having managed to take a few good photographs and dehydrated by hours of standing in the hot sun, I stopped at a small snack bar right outside the gate. When the owner sat down with me, I seized my chance to ask him about the town and its customs; especially when it came to Easter.

What a fool had I been! Not only did I miss the processions which, anyone would know, happen on Good Friday, but the women covered in black cloths were not here to mourn the Christ. They were not even Christians. The owner of the snack bar pointed to the row of tour buses and laughed as he explained that they were Iranian tourists. They flow in every weekend to see the “tallest statue of the Virgin Mary in the Middle East” and admire the view from the mountain. They then proceed to the Jeita Cavern (after, as I witnessed the same day enjoying a lunch at KFC or Dunkin Donuts) and Bourj Hammoud (where they shop for bargains); before heading back to Iran via Syria. I was so eager to witness Christian zeal that I interpreted everything I saw in that sense... or perhaps it was just the effect of the heat and the sun.

Warning

Accused of all evils – abject poverty, religious fundamentalism, radicalism, terrorism, anti-Semitism – Southern Lebanon should be avoided. The Canadian department of Foreign Affairs advises against “all travel to the south of the Litani River, especially the areas near the border with Israel, and to the city of Sidon (also referred to as Saida) and its surroundings”. Accordingly, when I left for Saida, I expected to find myself in the middle of bearded men land with suspicious stares. I made sure not to go alone, to be accompanied by at least one men and I even put my personal alarm in my pocket. If someone was to come to close, I was ready to trigger it, even if its shrieking sound would render me and those around deaf.

Well, days later, I can still enjoy the peaceful sound of the sea. During my daytrip to Saida I never felt threatened or truly out of place. Of course, I was fascinated by the many portraits of Iman Moghniyé that decorate the highway; one of which bares an odd resemblance to the über-commercialized and symbolic rendering of the Che. And yes, I was taken aback by the few barefoot children persistently begging for money. But most of all, I was charmed by the old Souk; its welcoming and lively atmosphere, its small artisan shops, its labyrinth-like streets, its unsanitary displays of meat; the smiles of the shopkeepers, the smells of falafels and loukoums. Under the arched pathways, barely lit even in the middle of the days, I forgot about the warning and enjoyed myself, straying from the group at times to take a picture and venturing in some hidden corners.

I never found the South the Canadian embassy and its homologues warn against. Of course, I only stayed in the more tourist-oriented part of the city. But I’ve learned that the warnings should always be taken with a grain of salt. They should not determine your decision to explore or not an area. Had I listened to them, not only would I have not gone to Saida, but I also would not have embarked on a 2 month stay in the country. They should not be entirely disregarded, since they can prepare you to expect the worst and push you to take a few precautionary measures. And they should be amended: they don’t even warn you about the number one danger in the country: cars.

Bulldozer en toute impunite.

Pour ceux d'entre vous qui comprennent le français, un article de l'Orient le Jour fait état de la destruction continue du patrimoine architectural de Beyrouth. J'ai eu la chance, il a une semaine de pénétrer sur le terrain de la Synagogue auquel l'article fait allusion et d'y prendre plusieurs photos. Je ne pensais pas qu'elles seraient d'actualité. Je compte retourner dans le secteur aujourd'hui pour voir ce qu'il en est. L'article n'est pas tres clair: la synagogue a-t-elle ete détruite ou s'élève-t-elle toujours, témoin d'un passé plus tolérant des diverses confessions et de la haine qui s'est par la suite dechaînée?

http://www.lorient-lejour.com.lb/page.aspx?page=article&id=367525

One day, three anecdotes.

One day, three encounters.
The first, a family of Syrian peasants growing tomatoes and lettuce in primitive warehouses along the coast.
The second, a middle-aged restaurant owner leisurely jogging on the seafront.
The third, an elderly taxi driver precautiously making his way through traffic.

One day, three invitations.
The first, to share tea with father, wife and sons in their rudimentary home, sitting in the only chair they own.
The second, to have a shot of vodka, or rum, or anything I desire.
The third, to be taken home safely.

One day, three offers.
The first, a big bag of tomatoes.
The second, a wedding proposal.
The third, a free ride.

One day, three experiences,
The first, humbling.
The second, awkward and annoying
The third, a relief

One day, three men
The first, welcoming and amusing
The second, ugly and sleazy
The third, charming and pleasant

Two out of three, ain't bad.

Lebanese quirks that make me smile

1. An ad campaign for a flat screen tv where the product is displayed next to a girl with a small chest and with the slogan: "Flat and Proud"
2. The attempts to hide tanks behind camouflage in the middle of the city. Especially when those tanks never change their location. I've been told it might actually be in order to conceal themselves from planes.
3. A mosque covered with Christmas lights.
4. A women reading while driving through Beyrouth's hellish traffic
5. Always being dressed like you're about to go out, even when going skiing
6. AUB students, strolling on the Corniche early morning in their PJs.
7. Cars with melting snowmen on their rooftops in Beirut
8. Highway exits: it's not a ramp, it's a sudden turn. In Safra, it feels like a rollercoaster, your stomach literally jumps.
9. Cats at AUB trying to steal your lunch.
10. An old lady with 2 teeth left, trying to eat a bar of chocolate.

To be continued

Moonlight

(In progress - the poetry of the moment shared here is difficult to reproduce)

A Thousand and One Nights must be the most well-known Oriental story in the West. It forged a myth around the Orient, its black hair and wide-eyed beauties; its colourful, sequined and golden treaded garments; its landscapes of desert and oasis, of mosques and crescent moons.

Last night, my twenty-fifth in Beirut, I found myself in the middle of that myth, unexpectedly or perhaps, I had sought it out, subconsciously. After listening to an Egyptian storyteller, a young women with dark curly hair, dressed in black sequins, her eyes glistening with sparkles declaim a tale set in ancient Baghdad but with a lesson for today (Do not speak of something that does not concern you, you may hear something you do not want to), I stepped out into the street to find a perfect crescent moon shining above the Al-Amine mosque. I had always been a little perturbed by the mosque built by Hariri. Although majestic with its blue dome, its four minarets, its sand-coloured stones and its ancient architecture, it stood in the middle of Beirut deceitful. A modern creation, based on storybooks illustrations; neither the restoration of a previous mosque, nor erected where a mosque had formerly stood. Inauthentic, I never truly stopped to contemplate it and only used it has a marker in the city. But last night, under the moonlight I was spellbound. I made abstraction of the cars passing by, of the cranes nearby, of the city lights and transported myself to the heart of the myth of the Orient. It was postcard perfect.

But this sight was not what almost brought tears to my eyes. Lit by the crescent moon, the carcass of the Intercontinental touched me with its silent symbolism and its screaming reminder of the horrors of war. The giant hole on its side, the crescent moon above the city: the scars of Beirut.

Vancouver - Montreal - Beirut

Granville in Vancouver,St-Laurent in Montreal, Gouraud in Beirut: different cities, same culture of fun. Along the strip, stylized bars each attempting to confer upon themselves a specific personality through carefully selected décor, music and lighting that corresponds to the taste of the type of clientele they seek to attract. There's Torino, a bar so small that with ten people in it, it feels crowded. Set in what must have been a single-car garage, or a house lobby, it can barely hold the people that come to enjoy its snug, informal atmosphere. There's Kayan, which uses barrels for tables, serves vinaigrette-dipped salted carrots and nachos with the best salsa I've tasted and where, in the same night you can enjoy the top 40, Leonard Cohen (a favorite here), a little electronic music and soulful jazz. There's Cloud Nine, which although pleasant remains conservative, predictable. There's the Melting Pot, which just opened, and athough it offers the rare opportunity to sit on a terrasse, is still devoid of character. And then there's the many other bars, which I haven't explored yet. Many look more upscale and pricier. Strolling the strip, stylish individuals each wanting to unwind, and enjoy themselves. There's adolescents playing dress-up, looking twice their age until they flash you a smile, revealing their braces. There's the "sophisticated" girls, in the latest fashions, their recently redone noses covered with a white band-aid, wearing heels that demand respects. There's their suitors, in polo or dress shirts, their hair slicked back sitting with their cellphone, cigarette pack, palm pilot laid out on the table in front of them. There's the trendy artists and intellectual pretending their outfit was just a stroke of luck. There's the young executives, celebrating their latest success or the group of friends celebrating a birthday, both crowds willing to spend loads, ordering four bottles of fine champagne on top of cocktails and shots.

This could be anywhere. Only the hot weather, the language spoken around me and the sight of policemen with their big guns well on display reminded me that I was partying in Beirut, not Vancouver, nor Montreal.

Colour Wars

Francoise has always liked bold colours whether it be on walls, on paintings or on herself. Wherever she goes, she enjoys surprising, standing out, and making people look twice. In a city of grey, of cement, of somberness and of dust, she feels she has a duty to enliven it with a spark of colour. One of her favorite, perhaps due to its unconventionality is orange; bright, cheerful, vivacious orange. A few weeks ago, she found a head-to-toe orange outfit, one that would definitely brighten her grim surroundings and make those she encounter smile. As she walked to the bank, dressed in her sparkling new clothes she received a response she did not expect. Cars honked, people swore, she was being insulted. A few minutes later, after leaving the bank and crossing to another part of the city, she was greeted differently. Cars still honked, people shouted, but this time she was being applauded. Francoise has never left Lebanon, has always dressed boldly. She was well-aware of the political connotation of her preferred colour, but never thought it would brand her as it did a few weeks ago.

As you walk around Beirut, strolling across several neighborhoods, you are assailed by faded flags of all colours, stained murals and torn posters of political personalities each of them a display of allegiance. In some areas a shade dominates, in others they cohabit. In a country, where only a few years ago, the wrong identity could get you killed, the earnestness of Lebanese to display their affiliation is startling. Disturbing too are those homes I've seen with a white cross painted on their doors which offered a disquieting resemblance to the swastikas Nazis used to brand the homes of their victims; except this time, it was the owners of those houses who drew the distinctive Christian sign on their gates.

In Canada, a show of political colours would seem appropriate during an election year. Afterall, for that occasion each streetlight is adorned by a campaign poster of one or the other candidate. In Lebanon, I feel it is provocative, a reckless show of force transforming anyone deliberately holding a flag or inopportunely dressed in a certain colour into an easy target if the situation was to deteriorate.

Speaking as a tourist

I naively thought that with my dark thick hair, my big features, and understated attire, I would be able to go by rather unnoticed in Lebanon, as long as I did not attempt to speak. That was without taking into account that people here are very watchful and attentive. The subtlest detail sells me out. Whether it be my distinctive traveler attire: loose, ample pants; ill-fitting, amorphous shirts; a worn-out scarf fashionably tied around the neck; and an enormous backpack that has been compared to a parachute that never, ever leaves me. If, on top of that, I’m carrying one or both of my cameras by my side, there’s no fooling anyone: I’m a tourist. Nor should I try to pretend otherwise. Embracing it is the promise of a much better stay and the guarantee of a more holistic knowledge of the country. And so, this weekend, I indulged in all things touristy: a visit to Jbeil; a day of skiing at the biggest resort in the country, Faraya; and a tour of the American University of Beirut’s Archeology Museum. I was in turn mesmerized, humbled, amused, astonished, and humbled, again. My perception of the country was once again shaken, redefined, refined.

In fact, I came to appreciate the tourism potential of the country. Jbeil, only a few miles away from Beirut is host to 8,000 years of history having been inhabited by populations from many major civilizations: Neolithic, Phoenician, Roman, Ottoman, Byzantine, Mamluk, French. Within six hectares, you find ruins attributed to each period cited above. Including fortification walls standing side by side, only a few feet apart from each of them; temples of worship dedicated to different gods, revealing rituals, customs of all epochs; Habitations ranging from two feet tall walls to an impenetrable fortress or a early-century European home. Artifacts from this site and others across the region can be found at the AUB museum, which was rethought, renovated, modernized and re-opened in June 2006. Both sites, and the history they unearth, have nothing to envy to some of the most popular tourist attractions of Europe. Nor does it have only ruins to offer. The country is blessed with a setting of teal waves and snow-capped mountains both of which offer different avenues for outdoor activities, with a delicious culinary tradition that we enjoy even abroad; with diverse cultures and customs that beg to be discovered and which artists constantly try to reinvent, remodel.

It took me awhile to recognize this aspect of Lebanon, partly because of a personal bias (see previous post), but also partly due to the lack of mise en valeur of the country’s heritage and riches. When I stepped in the tourist information office, hoping to be greeted by an enthusiastic staff eager to exhibit the wonders his country as to offer to a keen tourist, I met with two middle-aged women sitting leisurely on a leather couch, discussing the latest gossips in Arabic and only rarely addressing themselves to me and doing so only to point to one more standardized pamphlet describing in length the remains, or the lavish homes of local personalities. Outdoor activities facilities are few and far between, with most opportunities remaining undeveloped. For instance, when asked about the possibilities to go sea-kayaking, a friend involved in outdoor sports, retorted that I would have to buy my own kayak in order to do so. Faraya, the “most extensive and modern ski resort in Lebanon”, appears to be trapped in the early seventies with only two wooden and rustic snack shacks and its skiers dressed in colorful one piece suits. Historical sites are equally as unexploited. Next to the highway to Tripoli, on top of a rock stands a narrow fortress, which although easily accessible was only recently awarded a guardian to prevent further degradation.

I am not advocating that Faraya be transformed into a mid-east Whistler with 5-stars ottoman inspired hotels and overpriced burgers or that sites such as Byblos which now charge only a dollar per entry be turned into a tourist trap surrounded by tacky souvenir shops. In fact, I enjoyed both visits for their eccentricity. In Faraya, most people can be found in jeans, polo shirts, plaid scarf, city shoes, going up the chairlift to take a few pictures of themselves at the top before going back down in the same fashion as they came up. Those who pushed the experience as far as attempting to ski did so absolutely unprepared, ill-equipped. Where else would you find a young girl learning how to snow-plough in a skirt? In Jbeil, I met with Yazid, a joyous, knowledgeable and likable guide whose family used to own a home where the excavation where started. What is needed is a more concerted effort of promoting tourism in the country both for foreigners and residents. The AUB stands as an example, it highlights without being too exuberant the history of the region. Yet, few know about the museum and its dedicated employees. The problem is mainly with promotion, hype.

Re-staffing the tourist information center would be a good start; then why not explore eco-tourism options...

The widow, the orphan and some chocolate

Words from an astute friend (translated from French) : “Another piece of advice, it can be asphyxiating to visit an unstable country and it’s easy to see only that, to make everything revolve around that. But open your eyes more. Even if we [the Lebanese people] are all covered by scars from the war, we’re not limited to that. Underneath those scars, there’s a culture, a people, artists, a lifestyle. You’d be missing a lot if you let war asphyxiate you like it has…”

This remarque came as I was, a little distraught, questioning the purpose of my trip. After my return from a weekend away from Beirut’s tumultuous ways, I had started dreading the morning, wanting to stay in bed all day rather than face the city, its sight and its people. At night, before falling asleep, I would take resolutions such as deciding to use my old black and white camera, over the digital one in hopes that it would help me focus more on photography and take better pictures. Although those vows helped me get through each day, they did not alleviate my perturbed mind. I was bound to explode, which I did, a few hours after my run-in with the police officer.

Taking the time to reflect, and seeking advice from others, I came to a conclusion close to the one expressed above. I had let myself be asphyxiated by the tragic stories of the country. To the point that whenever I experienced something delightful, calm, or even western, it felt unauthentic. Having been so moved by the scenes of desolation, I held them as the Truth; whereas those of revival, of affluence were betrayals. I resented going home and watching an American film or eating a meal that was not purely Lebanese. No wonder I was suffocating.

More than anything, I had forgotten how I use to perceive Lebanon: as everything and its opposite. I forgot that Beirut, was both a tale of adversity and one of renaissance. Moreover, holding the former as the only Truth would dress a prejudiced portrait of the country. And so, I took one more resolution, which proved to be the right one; to enjoy Beirut, and its modern, bourgeois, sometimes westernized ways. I sat in a coffee shop recommended by my guidebook called Tribeca that seemed straight out of the New York neighborhood of the same name and ate a Mediterranean meal while reading the vogue. I ate decadent chocolate while watching an American “girl movie”. I walked into “Paul” a patisserie (or “Maison de Qualité” as they like to call themselves) like you find in France and enjoyed a treat. And, more importantly, I did not feel guilty about it (other than for what it might do to my figure and wallet).

Only indulging in those pleasures that Beirut incessantly offers, would be blinding. Only thinking about the widow and the orphan, would be partisan. And so, it remains up to me, to find the proper balance between both.

Caught!

This morning, armed with my camera and the firm resolution to capture as many moments on film, I ran down the four flights of stairs from my apartment and open the iron gate to let my feet guide me along the sunlit streets.

My eyes were on target, finding amidst the debris and the cement walls scenes that deserved to be immortalized. An old lady, wrapped in black, selling lettuce on the sidewalk. A father and a son, both mechanics, waiting patiently for the client to come. A comical group of taxi drivers taking a break in the sun, laughing. Two young workers, sitting by a painted mural sun-tanning. An old man, a small pick in hand, trying to rub off the posters that were plastered on the walls of his property. Each time I hesitantly asked “mumkeen saweer”, they took a long look at me, smiled, and lent their faces to my camera.

On a corner, I found a visibly abandoned house with wide windows, large balconies, imposing arches. The sun was casting a subtle, yet enchanting light on it, through the leaves of plants who had grown, unhindered, around the walls. I had already captured a few shots of the residence when I saw a police officer, dress in is blue camo uniform, his large, intimidating gun on his side, from the corner of my eye. I thought, naively, that he was passing by, on his way to or back from duty. He stopped when he reached me; asked me what I was doing; demanded that I step aside; wanted to have a look at my camera, inspected my passport. For half an hour, I stood, vulnerable, next to him while he called his superiors, conversed with a friend of him nearby, went through every single page of my passport. Finally, in a broken English, he explained that I was in a “secret” zone, that I needed a permission to take pictures, that nothing would happen to me, he just needed to hear his superior tell him to let me go. Which he did, minutes later, apologizing for the inconvenience. “Sorry for Lebanon”, he said.

It was not just him that had been doing a little zeal, it was the entire country, tensed, that suspected everyone. For the past few days, I’ve heard many, half jokingly, comment that we were statistically due for the next bomb. Some are just waiting for the war to explode, as they believe it is inescapable, the only way out of the impasse in which the country fell.

Blue shoes

(Adapted from a personal story that was kindly shared with me. Thank you for your honesty and your trust).

It might have been in the middle of the night or day, at dawn or as the sun set. She must have been four or five, too young to understand, too old to forget completely. Outside, the bombs were raining down on Beirut, indifferent to the age, gender, occupations of those it struck. Inside, her and her siblings had been gathered by their mother, crammed in a corner of the house, their mother acting as a shield. They remained in that position, listening to the ominous echoes of bombs, guns and cries, feeling their home tremble. The little girl, coiled in her mother’s arms, was starring at her feet. She noticed that one of them rested shoeless, the other wrapped in a small blue runner. Outside, bombs were raining down on Beirut, unmoved by the little girl’s distress.

At the first lull, the mother stood up and started busying herself around the house, collecting a few things. It was time to leave, find shelter elsewhere, further from the treacherous city. The little girl could not flee without her shoe. She stepped on the balcony, seeing what she sought. As her hand seized the shoe, as her mother snatched her arm, a bomb fell a few feet away. A hole now stood almost where the shoe had been. It was time to leave, find shelter elsewhere, far from where bombs fall on girls looking for their missing blue shoe.

Far away, in the mountains

IMG_0025
Originally uploaded by laurence.butetroch

So far, I have only written about Beirut and its wild manners, but only a few miles away, rests a much more peaceful place. In order to get to Laqlouq, you need to cross Beirut's northern suburbs. Although, 35 years ago, Jounieh and the surrounding communities were small villages amidst green fields, they've been transformed into dense cities. So dense in fact, that it is hard to distinguish between them and the capital city. This urbanisation of the outskirts of Beirut is a consequence of the war. The maronite community, fearing the violence in the streets of Beirut, escaped to the Northern mountains. Due to their hastiness, buildings sprouted without any care for urban planning or aesthetic. Only the churches were given some attention to details. They stand everywhere, mostly atop a mountain, with a view of the sea and the homes of their devotees. Along the roads, almost every miles, you will find small chapels, built by followers who saw their wishes come true. This is their way to thank their God for his compassion.

You'll find these chapels even far from the main roads or cities, in the middle of a treck through the mountain tops. It is in the snowcapped mountains that you can find some peace and quiet, somewhere like the commune of Laqlouq. After a very winding roads and spectacular views of the valley below, you find yourself, feet strapped into snowhoes, ready to explore the mountain side of Lebanon. Even at 1700 meters of altitude you find homes, villas, orchards, villages. However, in the winter, they are absolutely deserted, accessibility and heating being a major hindrance. You also come across unfinished houses; their construction interrupted by the winter, or the decision of their owners not to complete it. The sights of the surrounding summits through those open walls being somewhat mystical.

Few Lebanese can be found in the mountains, skiing or hiking. Most of them, who come in groups, remain at the small resort at the bottom, rent ski-doos and go around in circles all day, showing off. In order to get bragging rights, they even go as far as making snowmans on their cars. They hope that if they drive down the road carefully, they'll be able to show friends and neighbours where they've been. This makes for quite a comical scene.

First Images

IMG_0044
Originally uploaded by laurence.butetroch

I've uploaded a few pictures on flickr of my first week in Beirut. Click on the picture to see more. You may have to create a flickr account and add me as a friend in order to see all my pictures.

J'ai finalement publier des photos de ma première semaine a Beyrouthsur flickr. Juste cliquez sur la photo pour en voir plus. Vous aurez peut-être a vous créer un compte pour avoir accès à toutes mes photos. Si c'est le cas, suivez les instructions et ensuite ajoutez moi dans vos contacts.

Lebanese nights

A small tucked-in restaurant, so hidden in fact that you need to know of it in order to notice it, Walibat is the perfect place to be introduced to the Lebanese nightlife. We arrive at 9:30 for dinner. For hours, my stomach has been begging for food and expecting an evening of Mezze, I didn't give in. In order to avoid standing in the lobby by the wooden bar, reservations are required. Always crowded, Walibat has all the ingredients to be popular: an eccentric owner with big hair and big ego, a welcoming atmosphere of dimmed lights and simple decorations, and great traditional food and entertainment. After a few bites, or a few sips, the music starts. Soon everyone is dancing between the tables, singing along to those anthems they've heard so many times in their childhood. Shy at first, there was no possibility to resist the enthralling rythms. My roommate and her friends, took it upon themselves to teach me how to dance "elegantly". I discovered muscles, mostly in my back, that were to ache the next day. Yet, quickly I forgot my timidity and followed the beat, albeit a little awkwardly. The Lebanese folk dance resembles the Irish one, but without upper body stiffness and always accompanied with flirtacious looks, coy smiles and genuine laughter. Even the conversations in arabic of those around me added to the melody. I took a guilty little pleasure in imagining the stories, the gossips friends were telling each other. For an instant, my mind slipped, thinking of the city, the country beyond these walls: I thought that if a bomb were to explode nearby, none of those in the room would notice, the music being so loud and the spirits so high. An evening like this helps you escape the anguish and the desolation in which the country is slowly sinking.

Rush Hour: the reality show.

Remember the board game "rush hour"? The one where you had to a poor driver in his red car get out of the traffic jam. I'm convinced Beirut inspired it. Every corner is an iron jungle, with cars lining up bumper-to-bumper, bumper-to-head, bumper-to-side, side-to-side, heading in all directions. Every driver is fiercely attempting to gain any inch of pavement he can get; his hands constantly busying themselves shifting gears, honking and abruptly turning the wheel; his feet constantly going from gas to break, break to gas. Any other apparatus in the car is trivial. For instance, flashers are unused, making it anyone's guess as to where the next car intends to go. Traffic lights are few, sometimes they are replaced by young policemen, sweating in their blue army uniform. Even if present, lights and policemen remain a suggestion (except for a few key intersections). In fact, there is only one road rule in Lebanon: "do what you must"; even if it means crossing oncoming traffic, pulling a sudden u-turn, backing up on the highway or even driving up a one-way street in the wrong direction. As a pedestrian, you must force your way through , head high, walking quickly and exploiting the slightest gap between cars. You will make it to the other side, Inch Allah!

This chaotic traffic is part of the excitement of Beirut, reminding anyone that despite all, the city is still alive, albeit maybe a little unruly and dangerous.

A Political Landscape

Even if the Lebanese history books are devoid of references to the civil war, halting their account in 1965 due to the impossibility pf writing a story that all parties involved can accept, it is impossible to entirely forget it. The war has shaped not only contemporary Lebanese politics, but more strickingly the landscape. Those traces are, as you will have noticed by my constant references to them, what shocks me the most in Beirut. They are a constant reminder of the tragic history of the country.

Every street corner is dominated by a building with holes for windows. gun shot impacts for decorations and waild vegetation for inhabitants. Most impressive is the yellow house near Sodeco square that I cross when going to Universite St-Joseph where I'll be taking Arabic classes. In better days, the house must have been one of those luxurious villas inspired by both the European and the Middle Eastern architecture with arched windows, spacious rooms, high ceilings and yellow-painted walls. Nowadays, many of the columns that gave it it's distinctive cachet are suspended from the ceiling, hanging by a thread. It's a miracle that the building is still standing. Recently, the house has been surrounded by workers. Rumors circulate about the possibility of either restoration or reinforcement, sponsored by the City of Paris. The latter would be intended to make that house a war memorial. Another powerful reminder of the civil war is the Holiday Inn hotel which towers the skyline. Given that this building was at the border between East and West Beirut, it was the scene of some of the most intense fighting between the militias. It has since remained untouched, spreading its dark shadow on the city. Whether or not these buildings are left decayed and abandonned intentionally is up for debate. A Lebanese law states that no private property can be seized by the government, even if its owners are long gone. It is up to them, and their descendant, to decide whether they want to keep their home in hopes of better days or sell it.

When given the chance, previous administrations, especially that of late Rafiq Hariri, have spent much time and money trying to improve the image of Beirut. In the center of the city lies Solidere neighborhood. Meant to be highly symbolical of rebirth it stands out amidst the war ruins. Almost entirely destroyed during the civil war, every remains of the area straddling the Green Line in the city center was bulldozed and leveled to make way for luxurious fountains, pompous roundabouts, fancy appartments and offices, hip clubs and gourmet restaurants. Despite its on paper appeal, Solidere is deserted. Too expensive for Beirutis, it is also seen by many of them as a betrayal, as bad government spending (especially that access to water, electricity, heating, education, healthcare and social security are major daily concerns) and as a destruction of the country's heritage. For a tourist, Solided could be a paradise amidst all the scenes of poverty and destruction that makes us so uneasy. However, its emptiness, its lack of authenticity and its constrast with the rest of the city makes the area to surreal to enjoy. At any moment we expect all the buildings to fall, be removed like a movie set, revealing the ugliness that is war's legacy. Yet, some still believe that Solidere is a model and holds the key to Beirut's revival as the Monte Carlo of the Middle East, a place of relaxation, leisure and decadence.

Soon, when the rain stops, I hope to take pictures doing justice to this landscape. A lanscape where every building is political, is historical. Whether it be an abandoned house that tells the tale of a family that had to fled the country in haste or sophisticated complexes which represent, without doubt, the desire to forget, and move on.

First impressions

24 hours spent in Beirut. 24 hours of wondering why I'm here. 24 hours of feeling out of place. 24 hours of hoping I had someone next to me to tell me that everything is going to be ok. All this because the city is very different than everything I expected. Although I have read about the destruction caused by the civil war, I forgot that it ended only 15 years ago. And in a third world country, 15 years is not enough to erase the traces left by shelling, killing and bombing. Everywhere, there are buildings carrying the marks of the war. A wall covered with gun holes, a house decayed by years of abandonment. So many people have fled during the war that everywhere homes are left to rot. War has also left a tradition of guns and tanks. Just a the corner of the house in which I live, a tank and 3 soldiers are posted. My roommate tells me it's to protect a deputy that leaves in our neighborhood. For me, it is scary to think that a deputy needs that sort of protection. Evidently, such an environment is at the opposite of everything I've seen before and the choc is huge. Even if my house is relatively clean and nice, we are still victim of hot water shortages and electricity cut. This, this is the reality of Lebanon. It will take a lot of time for me to get use to it. Much more than 24 hours. I hope that soon, I'll be able to see some beauty in Beirut without also loosing my sensibility for the decay in which this city and its people find themselves.

A case of the traveler's cold feet

There comes a time, in every adventurer’s life, when there are no more errands to run, the bags are packed, and there’s nothing to do but wait. And, as we all know, while we wait, our mind goes wild; imagining the scariest scenarios, drawing up so many “what if..”. What if, while I’m on the plane going over Kosovo, war breaks out in Lebanon? What if, the apartment I’ve rented is a scam? What if I’m unable to muster the courage to step out of the house every morning? What if I can’t take a single decent picture? The list goes on and on, and gets much more creative and terrifying. No wonder then, that the traveler starts doubting oneself. Afterall, why the need to leave your loved ones and trouble them? Why the desire to march towards the unknown?

But then, a friend comes along, wishing you to have a safe flight, to have a great time and reminding you of how resourceful you are and why you’ve chosen to go on this journey. Something a little like this:

You inspire me Laurence. Your drive, your excellence, your professionalism, your perseverance and determination. your PASSION. It's incredible, and contagious. Gets me excited to get out of school and actually do something.

Thank you to all of those who sent me their best wishes. It is always great to hear how much we are cared for, and that others believe in us, especially at a time where we have the urge to put on some warm socks and stay at home to watch the snow fall.

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Il arrive un moment, dans la vie de chaque aventurier, où il n’y a plus de courses à faire, où les valises sont prêtes et où tout ce qu’il reste à faire et d’attendre. Et, il est bien connu, lorsque nous attendons, notre imagination se met en branle; inventant les scénarios les plus affolants, construisant tant de « et si ». Et si, pendant que mon avion survole le Kosovo, la guerre éclate au Liban? Et si l’appartement que j’ai loué ce révèle un taudis? Et si je n’ai pas le courage de sortir de la maison à chaque matin? Et si je suis incapable de prendre une seule photo qui en vaille le coup? La liste se poursuit sans relâche, les intrigues devenant de plus en plus créatives et terrifiantes. Il n’est pas surprenant, donc, que le voyageur se met à douter. Pourquoi quitter famille et amis et leur causer tant de soucis? Pourquoi vouloir à tout pris s’avancer vers l’inconnu?

Et puis vient un ami qui nous souhaite un bon vol, d’avoir du plaisir et qui nous rappelle à quel point on est débrouillard et pourquoi nous avons décidé d’entreprendre ce voyage. Quelque chose qui sonne un peu comme ceci :

Le peu de temps que je t’ai connu m'a convaincu que tu sauras comment profiter pleinement du Liban, et tu sauras le connaître sous ces vrais valeurs. Ta sensibilité t’aidera a creuser tout ce que tu verras de superficiel autour de toi, pour avoir les vrais réponses.

Alors merci à tous ceux qui m’ont envoyé leurs meilleurs vœux. Il est toujours plaisant de savoir à quel point on est apprécié et que d’autres croient en nous; surtout lorsque notre plus grande envie et d’enfiler des bas chauds et de regarder la neige tomber.

Quite the Valentine..

It took me weeks to hand over my credit card number to my travel agent so she could book my flight to Lebanon. The situation in the country being highly volatile, I wanted to wait until the last minute to decide whether or not I would embark on this ambitious journey. By the beginning of February, after carefully monitoring the pulse of the country, I was set on taking off on the 14th, until a friend of mine reminded me what that day symbolized.

Unlike for most in North America, in Lebanon, February 14 is no longer a day to celebrate love but rather a day that is synonymous with hostility and schism. In 2005, Rafik Hariri, Lebanon’s then prime minister, often credited with the country’s reconstruction after the civil war, was killed by a car bomb. Because many believed this assassination was orchestrated by Syria, it sparked a anti-Syrian movement that demanded the end of Syrian involvement in Lebanese politics. Thus, the rampant division between pro and anti Syrian groups was brought to the surface; a split that has significantly contributed to the current political deadlock. Three years later, Lebanese were set to take the streets again to commemorate the death of Hariri and show their support for a united Lebanon. Although the gathering was meant to be peaceful, it could have led to violent clashes or at least seriously disturb traffic. Following the advice of my friend I delayed my trip by 2 days.

Friends are not always right (although they have the best intentions in mind), but this time I was glad I listened. Not only did the commemoration attract tens of thousands of supporters (a million according to the organizers) but only a few miles away , Hezbollah and its followers, described as pro-Syrian, were congregating to mourn one of their leader killed by a car bomb a few days earlier. It does not take an International Relations degree to understand how “explosive” (to cite the BBC) this situation was.

Although, as expected, traffic was considerably delayed, there was no reported violence and I sighted with relief, so did many Lebanese. Knowing that such a highly charged day, with rivals assembled in incredibly large groups to honour their martyrs and only a few steps apart, could go on “peacefully” revives a little hope for the political future of the country. It may be long before all can agree, but for now, it seems like factional violence can be avoided. It may not be love, but at least, this Valentine’s day, Lebanon did not break up.

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Il m’a fallu des semaines pour finaliser l’achat de mon billet d’avion pour le Liban. La situation dans laquelle est plongée le pays étant très instable, je voulais attendre jusqu’à la dernière minute avant d’aller de l’avant avec mon voyage plutôt ambitieux. Au début du mois de février, après avoir surveiller les nouvelles Libanaise avec une attention particulière, j’étais prête à prendre mon envol le 14. Une copine, s’exclamant en apprenant la date choisie, me recommanda de déplacer mon vol de quelques jours.

Contrairement à la plupart des Américains du Nord, le 14 février, pour les Libanais, ne symbolise pas l’amours, mais plutôt la discorde et l’animosité. En 2005, Rafik Hariri, un ancien premier ministre Libanais reconnu pour avoir activement participer à la reconstruction du pays suite à la guerre civile, a été victime d’un attentat. Puisque plusieurs accusaient la Syrie d’être l’auteure de l’assassinat, un mouvement anti-Syrien est né exigeant la fin de l’ingérence Syrienne dans la vie politique Libanaise. Ainsi, les divisions rampantes entre les groupes s’associant au voisin du Nord tel le Hezbollah et ceux s’opposant à sa présence au pays firent surface; un schisme qui contribue grandement à la présente impasse politique. Trois ans plus tard, les Libanais allaient encore une fois déferler dans les rues pour commémorer l’assassinat d’Hariri et afficher leur soutien pour un pays unifier. Bien que le ralliement se voulait pacifique, les risques de débordements étaient importants, d’où la suggestion de repousser mon envol.

Il arrive que nos amis n’aient pas raison (même s’ils ont les meilleures intentions du monde), mais pour une fois, je suis heureuse d’avoir suivi le conseil qui m’a été donné. Non seulement le rassemblement à la mémoire du premier ministre défunt a attiré des milliers de Libanais (un million selon les organisateurs), mais à quelques kilomètres de là, le Hezbollah commémorait la mort d’un des siens, tué quelques jours plus tôt. Il n’est pas nécessaire de détenir un diplôme en relations internationales pour reconnaître le potentiel « explosif » de cette situation.

Bien que, tel que prédit, le trafic fut considérablement dérangé, les médias et les portes-paroles des partis ne rapportent aucune violence. Savoir que même lors d’une journée aussi chargée émotivement et où des groupes rivaux sont rassemblés en grands nombres, séparés par seulement quelques pas, tout se déroule sans accrochages fait renaître un peu d’espoir. Il risque de s’écouler bien du temps avant que tous s’entendent, mais il semble que la violence entre milices peut être éviter. Il ne s’agit pas d’amour, mais au moins, en ce jour de St-Valentin, le Liban ne s’est pas séparé.

The cocktail presentation

When at a cocktail, you often need to describe what you do for a living (or because of my young age, what you aspire to) within a minute or two. Here is what I came up with and what I've recently had to recite to many of those I met who questionned my decision to leave for the Middle East this month:

Lately, my project of traveling the world camera in hand, ready to shoot, has triggered many exclamations. Sometimes I've been called crazy, foolish, imprudent. Other times, I've been called courageous, determined, inspired. All have been right. More importantly, I'm passionate. Passionate about current events, about photography and about how photography can show us why this world needs to change. It is with this in mind that I lift the camera to my eyes, focus, and shoot.

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Dans un party, il est nécessaire d'être capable de décrire notre occupation en l'espace d'une minute ou deux. Voici ce que j'ai pondu et récité (à deux mots près) à ceux qui me questionnaient sur les raisons de mon voyage imminent:

Ces derniers temps, mon projet de voyager à travers le monde, caméra en main, prête à appuyer sur le déclencheur, fait jaser. Certains me croient folle, insouciante, naïve. D'autres me disent audacieuse, déterminée, inspirée. Tous ont raison. Mais, surtout, je suis passionée Passionée pour l'actualité internationale, pour la photographie. Enchantée par le pouvoir qu'a la photographie de nous montrer pourquoi le monde doit changer. C'est dans cet état d'esprit que je porte la caméra à mes yeux, fais la mise au point et shoot.