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.