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.
vendredi 29 février 2008
mercredi 27 février 2008
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.
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.
mardi 26 février 2008
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.
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.
lundi 25 février 2008
Far away, in the mountains
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.
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
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.
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.
dimanche 24 février 2008
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.
jeudi 21 février 2008
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.
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.
mardi 19 février 2008
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.
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.
lundi 18 février 2008
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.
vendredi 15 février 2008
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:
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.
_____________________________________________________
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 :
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.
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.
_____________________________________________________
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.
jeudi 14 février 2008
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.
_____________________________________________________
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.
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.
_____________________________________________________
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.
lundi 11 février 2008
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:
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:
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._______________________________________________
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.
Inscription à :
Commentaires (Atom)