Nonsense

Feels like I'm writing this more for myself than anyone else. Doesn't seem much point to getting down my earliest impressions of this latest bombing for posterity or anything. I guess that's why I'll never make a good reporter. Just feeling a profound absence of sense at the moment, and hoping the act of composing words and sentences may help foster its return. Feeling really exhausted today. I was already run down when I got the news of the bombing, leaving me ill-disposed to process it.

Got back to the apartment to be met by neighbors ready to punch numbers on casualty reports and compare "Where were you?" stories. I just shut down from it all. I couldn't get – I can't get – my head around the discussion. I felt myself at a loss for words. People were expecting me to talk about stuff, but I had nothing to talk about. I was thinking about how happy I am that we had the party for my after-school community service club today, because I got to tell my kids how proud I am of all the work they've done this year, and celebrate with them, and give them certificates of recognition. And because, otherwise, I probably would have gone to the gym earlier and then headed down to my favorite spot on the waterfront to read. A spot which no longer exists.

Nutritionists and health authorities extol the life-extending qualities of regular exercise. I never thought of it saving my life so directly.

And then it feels so funny to have been at the gym. To have been worried about how in shape I am as this was happening. Seems funny to think of the things I had planned for this week -- the mindless little activities and distractions. And some of the plans for my time back in New York. I'm feeling less enthusiastic about the concert I just bought tickets for. Just wondering about how fruitful it is to spend time on some of these things. Or how fitting it will be for me to be celebrating and rocking out with a bunch of hipsters at an outdoor concert. Feels odd to think about.

And there was something about having seen my neighborhood on the TV in flames that set me off or, rather, shut me down. My dad helped me find the words for it when we talked on the phone. He said the experience I described reminded him of a scene in Good Morning Vietnam, in which Robin Williams' character passes a nightclub that was bombed and sees the bodies of people he knew being carried out. The experience changes his perspective on the violence he had been reporting. There's something about seeing these images on television, normally. There's this two-dimensional image, quotes of numbers, strange names and place names. It's all Styrofoam. When I saw the images on the television today, of a place that lives so vividly in my consciousness, with those images contrasting so sharply with mine, something came unlatched for me.

And, then, there's been no end to sirens. They seemed to be whining nonstop for the last 4 hours. Then a parade of protestors sailing by on their scooters down below, honking and chanting. Odd how Lebanon always seems to respond in numbers and noise – reminders that others are still here, even if some are now gone.

None of this seems to be bringing any sense, though. I feel like I'm painting some cubist portrait. No, even less coherent than that. Random slivers or shards of an image, perhaps. Throwing darts, not even at a board, but at a wall. I don't even know if there's a larger image suggested by all of these pieces placed next to each other. My experience? Would that be the title? There's some desire I have to find some coherence to my experience, but it doesn't feel that way. In life, we so quickly grow accustomed to having names we feel correspond to the feelings we experience. When I move outside that circumference of experience, it's really disorienting. But surely, it must have been like that in early childhood.

I don't know how to close, but don't know what to keep writing. I failed in what I'd hoped to do when I began typing. Maybe it's just time for bed. Have to hope that sleep will help in some way. Maybe dreams can step in and make sense when reality fails to.

12:48 AM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

News from the Front

So my stomach flu this week has largely overshadowed concerns about terrorist bombings in my consciousness. I've been holed up at home for three days, not with safety but with stomach concerns. Could have sworn I heard another bomb last night. There have been a lot of fireworks lately, too. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Usually, though, when there are fireworks, they go on for a while, while the explosions last night went three times very loudly and then stopped. I went into my usual response, scanning the night sky from my balcony, looking for a plume of smoke to indicate its location, but saw nothing. As before, I figured I'd have to wait for the news services to catch up to what I heard in person. Stayed up for a while checking a few different online service, but went back to bed when I couldn't find anything after about an hour.

When I was scanning the news pages this morning, to see if they had reports about the bombing, I found news of no bombs - apparently I was wrong about the fireworks - but this article detonated in my head like one.

I have a really tough time taking in news like this. My control issues, fed along the way by existentialist philosophers preaching our infinite responsibility, make it really hard to accept that I am not part of the relief services being provided to these children. It's a sobering perspective on the messages I receive in which people are concerned for my safety in Beirut. I read pieces like this one and wonder at the day to day warfare of life in which these children grow up. And I wonder, if childhood is being spent waging a warfare of poverty and indifference, how can we in the West expect a peaceful Middle East to emerge in our lifetimes?

Of course, our awareness alone will not change anything for these children. Too may have know for too long and have done nothing. In working with children facing challenging circumstances in New York, I was struck, and am continually challenged by something one of my mentors once said. As a group of teacher leaders discussed literacy for middle school students, I said that we should be aware that many students did not have places to read at home. Mary, our instructor, replied that it wasn't enough to be aware; we had to figure out what that meant for us as teachers. What were we going to do about it?

So as an immediate response to "So what now?" I send this article off to you. I'm still working on the larger picture. Feel free to send any thoughts in response or information you may find about ways to get involved.

Here it as, at the Daily Star: http://www.dailystar.com.lb/article.asp?edition_id=1&categ_id=2&article_id=82705

Daiy Star News Article

9:47 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Just Because

I felt the need to put something up here, since it's been quite some time since I've done so. The last entry was easy - lots of people were writing and asking about me, and school was closed for safety, giving me time to write. Since then, my life has been so achingly normal, there just hasn't seemed to be a significant (or available) moment to sit down and put something together. There are, of course, the stories from my trip to Morocco - staying up through the night with Berbers in the desert, speaking across four languages; following behind our cab driver at 200 feet, like a scene from a film noir, during the taxi strike - but those feel a bit too far away at the moment.

Mostly, I've been thinking about fear lately. There have been some serious behavior issues in the school this year (not perhaps by Brooklyn standards, mind you). Hearing these stories weekly (thankfully, they haven't confronted me in my classroom), getting the news of yet another mass murder in an American school, and reading reporter Robert Fisk's perspective on the West's treatment of the Middle East, have left me thinking a great deal about fear.

Working in this new context has given me a different perspective on some of the practices that seemed commonplace to me before. I'm seeing teachers' roles differently. I see how often fear is used in educational settings to promote compliance - the threats, the screaming, attempts at public humiliation, even physical acts of aggression. I wonder how many more Columbines or Virginia Techs will be required before we confront this as a society.

I think this change in my perspective was fomented in part by a new practice I started this year. For many years, my colleague here at ACS, Amy, has been leading Morning Meetings: open discussion time everyday, for which students set the agenda. Watching her classes' meetings, I was inspired to adopt the practice myself. What has resulted is an insight into young adolescents unlike any I've previously experienced. And the amount of fear an anxiety it has revealed to me is at times heartbreaking. Of course, we all know middle school sucks. Perhaps we distance ourselves from it as soon as we complete it, though, because I feel newly educated by these children each day.

Listening to their fears about their country, the world, each other, their parents, their teachers, I'm left wondering at how we seem to push fear on each other. Then I read more of Robert Fisk's "The Great War for Civilisation" and I see how this fear spreads through a whole society, leaving us more anxious and ready to lash out, drawing us towards - and often over - the brink of conflict. I hope for these children that the fear spreading through the rival factions in this country will not draw it over the brink of conflict yet again. I hope for these children that the fear in Americans doesn't lead to further rationalizations of the destructive, murderous force of warfare. I hope they can learn to let go of their own fear, which is currently breeding the playground wars between shi'a and sunni, March 14th, March 8th, etc., etc., etc., at our school.

Many of the Lebanese people ask me why I came. Wasn't I afraid? It's funny, I never was. The only fear I remember was that I would not be able to go. Maybe it was some late adolescent or early-onset midlife crisis yearning for adventure. Maybe I figured that as an American, if I was killed by American-made ordinance, there might be something fitting. Though, honestly, I have not yet feared for my own safety. Since I took the job, I've never feared that it would take my life. My greatest fears seem to be on behalf of my students, because I hear their fears everyday.

I hope you are all well and unafraid
Joe

10:07 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Why Hezbollah and Hippie Both Begin with “H”

Several people have asked me recently if I'm OK, being that I'm living in Beirut, and what's more, an American living in Beirut. Well, I'm not vain enough to think that anyone other than my immediate family is possibly losing any sleep over the matter, but the questions led me to the following conclusions that I thought would be interesting to share. And, if there are people who need reassuring, and this reassures you, all the better.

I've recently begun to liken Beirut in 2007 to New York, D.C., or any large American city in the late 60's. This analogy first came from a conversation with my parents in which I described my experience visiting the tent city downtown. My description reminded my dad of the families camped out in Washington, as part of the Civil Rights movement during the summer of '68 when he was working as a cop in D.C. My mom remembered 1971, when my uncle Mike was camped out on the Mall in D.C. with other vets, and she walked past National Guardsmen on her way to classes at the University of Maryland. They both also recalled the various student-led protests of those years that turned riotous. Kent State, the DNC in '68, the RNC in '72.

So, my comparison has grown from this conversation. While I and many of my liberal peers look back on the 60's with a sort of rosy-eyed reverence, we do so having been born nearly ten years after these events ended, feeling like the 60's were a time when the left felt like it could finally make some progress (and did, particularly with the Civil Rights amendments). But we just didn't live through it. The distance of history allows us to have this rosy-eyed perspective: happy little hippie families strumming guitars and railing against the excesses of an unjust government.

The fact is, many of the people involved in the protests of the "peace" movement really were hoping to bring the government down, not just reform it. SDS was building bombs in Greenwich Village (among other places, I'm sure), while student demonstrations quickly flared up from protests into "clashes," into out and out riots. The Black Panthers were one of the groups stockpiling arms, looking to foment a physical revolution, not just a change of leadership and legislation under the existing system. While, yes, families were camped out in D.C., protesting for Civil Rights.

And when I look at Beirut today, I see a lot of similarities. The country is coming out of a war that reached up to Beirut just a few months ago. The tent city downtown is filled largely with families, not ranting, gun-toting fanatics. Most of these people are looking to reform the excesses of a government, which has received a great deal of foreign aid money, but has distributed little of it outside Beirut. Families suffering the inequality of poverty are coming to the capital to make their voice heard.

The riots CNN broadcast yesterday grew from a student argument at a University. Yes, a lot of property was trashed. Yes, in the end, the military had to be called in. But there were fewer casualties than Kent State.

And yes, there are those within this movement who feel that violence is an acceptable means to change the government. Like SDS and the Black Panthers, they want to see the current system brought down. By force, if necessary. Like the members of those two groups in America, they are largely disenfranchised young men.

And there is definitely an Anti-American sentiment among many of them. Just as there was an anti-veteran sentiment among many members of those groups in America. This is where most people express a concern for me. There's no question that some people here dislike America's government, and extend that to all Americans, like many people in the 60's disliked American's government, and extended that to veterans. In either case, the validity of that extension is suspect. On the matter of my own safety: I concede, I'm not a terribly astute student of history; however, I feel like if members of those insurrectionist groups in America had a policy of tracking down and beating or killing veterans, I would have heard of it somehow. True, there were many instances in which vets suffered deplorable public abuse, but as far as I know, people were not going out of their way to burn crosses on their front lawns. That was only happening to Black families (interestingly, by people who largely supported the governmental system that was in place at the time).

In the same way, the angry students broadcast on CNN yesterday are not roaming the streets looking for Americans to kidnap and behead. However, America has a government that seems to have something invested in making us think that such is the case. Just as it seemed to want us to think that we needed to protect American safety after September 11th by invading a country that had nothing to do with the September 11th attacks, while Saudi Arabia, the largest single funder of fanatical terrorist organizations, receives our continued protection.

People are not looking to kidnap and behead Americans in Beirut. True, if I run across the wrong crowd, calling out "I'm American!" as I so often do, I may be spit on, harassed, even beaten, like those veterans in America were two generations ago. But you won't be seeing grainy footage of my execution broadcast on the internet anytime soon, like those poor victims' were, or Saddam's recently was.

We may start to look at our fear and question why it's there. Have there really been experiences in the last few years in which our lives were actually threatened? Have we had to fend off assailants on a regular basis? At all? Why do we feel so many people are out to get us? Who benefits from us feeling this way?

Be well
Much love
Joe

11:55 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Re-Turning

Dropped off like a package in the rainy afternoon –
Familiar front steps seeming strange,
Prompting an awkward gait
Beneath the weight of luggage

In the cab,
Streets last blurred by familiarity
Today traced red like tourist routes on maps,
Scanned for revealing details

Then the measured distances: door to kitchen/bedroom/toilette/desk

Used glasses loitering by the kitchen sink,
White noise rush of rain and wet car tires passing
from the living room window

The near empty fridge – austerity

Untuned instrument lounging against the wall,
Pleading with a child's eyes to be picked up and held

Stacks of folded laundry left out after the packing

The forgiving disarray,
The unmade bed

And later, the tell-tale mix of spice jars in the cupboard

Hold on,
hold on,

It's good to be home.

4:07 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Catching up

It felt funny putting those last two posts up. The second one, in particular, feels out-dated, as the demonstrators never moved into "the next stage" of demonstrations. In a way, however, it is all the more timely, as they are announcing that they will move into the next stage at the end of this week. We will have to see.

Felt good to come back home to Beirut after two weeks of traveling in Italy. Oh yeah, there's a poem about it I'll post next. The first week with my parents in Sicily was wonderful. Very beautiful place. Rome was as pretentious as I figured it would be - if not more so. I guess 1,000 years as the major tourist attraction of the Western World does something to the character of a place and a people. I wonder if it's like that in Mecca.

But I did have a delightful time catching up with my friend Mikaela. Her friends received me quite warmly. We stumbled our way into an invitation to a New Year's Eve party at a palatial and very well-appointed penthouse apartment near the Vatican (I guess architects tend to collect wealthy contacts). One of the guests had a karaoke set-up from his laptop. When it was discovered that another guest, Constance, and I were both from New York, the crowd began to demand that we do a duet. The intro to "New York, New York" came on, and people were chanting "Gio, canti, canti!" which I think is Italian for "Dance yankee monkey boy, dance." I was saved by one of the locals who apparently loves Sinatra and pushed me out of the way to sing the song. Small victories in the struggle for inter-continental relations.

Italians still remember Nero fondly, as I discovered when we went to the roof for the stroke of midnight, and the city was ablaze, with people lighting fireworks everywhere, and a cloud of smoke hanging over the city. At least no one lost a finger on our rooftop. Later that night, walking back to my hotel, the road to the Coliseum looked like something out of the Inferno: packs of drunken revelers shouting, singing, staggering, broken glass strewn absolutely everywhere, firecrackers exploding, a haze of smoke, and everything cast in an eerie, orange light.

Anyways, there's some terrific stuff to see in Rome, but my time there reminded me why I didn't interview with any schools in Europe. After a week of being shoved aside by tourists and scorned by Romans, it's good to be back in Lebanon, where everyone and everything is just a little crooked and it all makes sense.

I hope you are all well and happy.
Joe

3:26 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

The Protestors

December 10, 2006

Sunday. This is the day Nasrallah has said they will move to the "next stage" of demonstrations. Walking to de Prague (my neighborhood coffee house), Hamra seems quieter than usual, though Sundays are generally quiet. 2:10 PM. Amy tells me the demonstration doesn't start until sometime after 3. Not sure if the anticipation I feel is just mine or is shared by those around me. Could I just be projecting? Unlikely, with all the talk I've heard over the last two weeks and all the bales of razor wire I saw yesterday. Funny how it can color your perception of everything. I've been feeling that people are receiving me differently lately, even feeling that people are driving more aggressively lately.

Lots to think about after my walk down to the Solidère area yesterday to see the demonstrators camped out and assembled. Was turned away from one checkpoint and sent to another, after communicating to one of the soldiers stationed there in my ramshackle Arabic that, no, I was entering for work, I just wanted to see the demonstration site (this, after I had already walked all the way back to my apartment in Hamra the first time, because I hadn't thought to bring my passport with me. Never had to pass through a security checkpoint requiring passports just to cross town). The guard at the second checkpoint was friendly, joking "This is you?" as he compared my unshaven appearance to the bearded face on my residency card (in an effort to look less Western, I'm in the process of growing the beard back). Then he ushered me past with a warm smile.

As I walked along that street, headed to le Place D'Étoile, the street didn't seem remarkably different. That stretch never seems to have pedestrians, and there were still plenty of cars passing. It occurred to me, as I watched the cars passing, crossing from East to West Beirut, that by choosing the Riad el Solh as their gathering point, the demonstrators were creating a blockade between East and West Beirut in the exact same place where the Green Line divided the city during the Civil War, though in that case, ethnically segregated neighborhoods clashed in battle there, while now, the dispossessed lower class Lebanese, were camped out before the Parliament's home in le Grand Serail to clash with a government they see as serving the wealthy and corrupt.

Then I saw the coils of razor wire and the tank blocking the street's access to le Place D'Étoile, and I realized just how much the downtown area had been altered. I kept circling around the perimeter of the Solidère area, until I came to a wide, long street that leads up to le Grand Serail. Six or seven soldiers were stationed in front of those bike-rack-looking metal barricades that are such a common sight around Beirut. I could see some tents at the other end of the street. I stood there looking down the street, until one of the guards came up to talk to me. He was friendly and asked if I was looking to enter, in a mixture of Arabic and hand gestures. When I told him I speak little Arabic, he responded in English, and I was able to get across that I just wanted to enter to look. He brought me to another soldier who asked for my passport and what brought me to Beirut. The boys were quite friendly, and seemed interested or pleased by the fact that I'm a teacher. They questioned me about where in the States I came from, if I knew Arabic or French, and after looking over my residency card, sent me in with a pat on the shoulder.

I felt my hear rate increasing as I walked down the emptied street towards the white pavilion tents at the other end. One of the side streets offered me a view of the clock tower at the center of the Place D'Étoile, and I took in the absence of people around it. As I came up to the barricades separating off the tent area, I expected there to be another guard station, blocking my entrance into the demonstration area proper, but there was none. After standing at the barricade for a few minutes, looking up at the Parliament building, I realized I was free to enter the area.

My heart rate stepped up even more, as I crossed over. I could feel the adrenaline of my fight or flight response seeping in, as I expected one of the campers to come up to me any second, bellowing "Amriki," and shove me up against a building. No one really gave me a second glance. There was a station of port-a-potties and several large, plastic water tanks propped up on scaffolding, with garden-hose type spigots sticking out from the bottom. There was, of course, a line for the port-a-potties. To my left was a van with large placards erected on its roof, and beyond that, a large outdoor speaker system, like those for outdoor concerts. An older man with a green flag wrapped around his head was rambling on loudly in Arabic, sounding drunk or mad, punctuated by laughs from the people around him. It looked like I had just entered Burning Man, or Lollapalooza, except that, beyond the tents were more loops of razor wire and several tanks in front of the steps leading up to the Parliament Building, standing high above, on the top of the hill.

I passed slowly through the area, still wondering if someone would decide to accost me as an undesirable. As I walked away from the Grand Serail, past the Riad el Solh, with it's statue of Solh, Lebanon's George Washington, I began to see the camping areas stretched off quite some distance. It was strange to walk through this SoHo of Beirut and see no shoppers on a Saturday afternoon. One large, space-aged looking tent – across from the Roman ruins that stretch out along TGI Friday's – had a group of college-aged guys lounging out front and a Brazilian flag sticker on it. More and more like Burning Man.

Around the old, bombed-out theater above Martyr's Square was an even larger tent city. Lots of men were clustered on plastic chairs on the sidewalks and the sweet, pipe-smoke aroma of nargileh hung heavy in the air – usual Saturday afternoon fare, but never on this street, in the shopping district where no one lives. Normally. At the massive intersection, where I normally take my life into my hands as I try to cross to get over to Gemayze, the only traffic was two little boys, riding around on bikes with bright orange balloons (orange being the color of one of the opposition parties) bouncing off the back, like bright rubber tails. Across the intersection from the tent city, soldiers stood up from a row of tanks behind a tower of razor wire, stretching all the way across the intersection, blocking off the symbolic Martyr's Square, where hundreds of thousands gathered two weeks before for Pierre Gemayel's funeral.

Here, I turned to head back to the street where I had entered. I couldn't bring myself to enter the tent city, and figured I'd just make my way out. As I walked back, I noticed all the children. One little girl, maybe four or five, was outside her tent with a couple of slightly older siblings and Mom and Grandma. She was draped in the bright yellow flag of Hizbullah, with its large green machine gun emblazoned across the top. Four high-school-aged girls, heads wrapped in scarves, walked down the street with arms linked. A young boy duck-stepped down the street with a Hizbullah flag hanging off one shoulder, a Lebanese flag from the other, and his mother walking beside him. It hadn't occurred to me that families would be here. Young families, with parents the same age as me, and children younger than my 7th grade students. I hadn't expected whole families to come from their villages. It then occurred to me that, judging by their trappings and the 20% plus unemployment rate in Lebanon, many of them might have all their worldly possessions collected in these canvas, army-surplus tents supplied by Hizbullah. I thought of the tent city erected in Washington during the Depression – the Pensioners Army. Then I thought of the soldiers, the tanks, the razor wire, the possibility of more weapons secreted among these tents, and people's tense anticipation of today, with Nasrallah calling for a larger wave of demonstrators to descend on the capital. I was brought back to a quote Thomas Friedman uses in From Beirut to Jerusalem, in which someone is asked when the war will end and responds "When these people learn to love their children more than they hate their neighbors." And I realized that, as an American, I have rarely seen the human face of political conflict and strife, and that, even more disturbingly, it is often the face of a child.

3:45 PM.

3:21 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Work

December 9, 2006

I thank God for my grandfather. And dirt. And what I've learned about my hands from both.

Watching the workmen across the street dismantle antiquated scaffolding that looks like it could have been used on the pyramids .. one wheel hand-drawn pulley, narrow board for a platform 7 stories up, no barrier or railing separating him from death; the man on the ground letting the rope slide through gloved hands, enduring the intense heat of its friction on his palms, his partner grabbing the pieces of cement covered piping with bare hands that have undoubtedly grown calloused; I think of the students I accompanied on the olive picking service project, staring at their own hands with a mix of bewilderment and disgust as they pulled them away from a pile of olives from which they were supposed to pick out leaves and twigs. The sight and feeling of their hands dirtied, stained purple by the olives, baffled, even frightened them.

And then I think of Pepere .. who supported his family with the work of his hands; mounting scaffolding to paint houses; the stretched muslin ceilings he put up in his own house that still look down shimmering white and unblemished, though they are older than I am. The middle finger of his left hand pushed over at an angle from years of holding a brush. And I thank God for the presence of all this in my life. I thank God for my grandfather's unspoken lesson about how much two hands can do if we allow them to get dirty and calloused.

I thank God for these lessons which, in time, allowed me to tear down and reconstruct walls and roofs on wealthy Long Island houses; to look out the back of the truck at the end of the day and see a section of house (sometimes several rooms worth) standing where there had been only grass and a pile of lumber before we showed up.

And in time brought me across Lake Atitlan in Guatemala to haul rocks and 50 lb bags of cement to help local coffee growers build houses for their growing families; and the tears of the mother as she wept in unspeakable gratitude, as we finished our week of work there.

And in time brought me to build my own house .. the three bedroom loft in Brooklyn, with nothing but my hands (well, and some borrowed tools, credit for lumber, and my father's unshakable faith in me).

And so again, I thank God for my grandfather; and dirt; for revealing the power that resides in the hands that write this.

4:14 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Vacationing in the countryside

Been enjoying a bit of vacation for the last few days, thanks to the Eid of Iftar, celebration the end of Ramadan. Feels a little around town like Christmas came early. Had a chance to get outside Beirut for a couple of days. It was well timed, as I was growing weary of big city life, as often happened in New York, as well. I was amazed by people..s hospitality and generosity, as I..ve often found when traveling. When I asked my co-worker/Arabic teacher, Wafa, last week if she thought hotels would be all booked up for the holiday, she replied ..Don..t bother with a hotel. My family has a house in the Chouf; there..s an apartment on the top floor you can use... She said that she hopes her son, who is my age and currently in the states, will find the same hospitality from people, and that I could tell my mother in New York that I have a mother in Beirut to care for me. So on Sunday, she picked me up, and took me up to her family..s village, along with her brother and daughter.

Sunday was filled with family visiting. Since grandma and grandpa only speak Arabic, I was lost most of the day, but people were overwhelmingly friendly. Various family members stopped by all day. Food was served from the moment we arrived until I went upstairs to read at 10 at night. I was reminded of holidays at my Grandparents.. house. Though Wafa..s family is not Muslim, the Eid was the first vacation many people have had to return home. Customarily, people here visit home during the summer. Since they were prevented from coming this summer by the war, this vacation was the first opportunity many people had to return to Lebanon to visit family, making it a very special Eid, it seems.

Wafa was over-anxious to play tour guide, taking me around the Chouf the first day. We stopped at Whalid Jumblatt..s mansion, though recent increases in security, reducing the days it is open to the public prevented us for touring inside. Then she took me to Beit Eddine, the former residence of the Emir, during the nineteenth century. Truly breathtaking places. ..

All during my stay, I was treated to food that had just been picked. When we arrived back at the house, lunch was ready, with fresh beans, and a cabbage salad from the garden, followed by fresh figs and fig jam. Walking around the village, we were free to pick figs, pomegranates, and grapes, from plants hanging over walls into the streets. I started to get the sense from the relatives we visited with, as well as Wafa..s stories, that there..s more of a connection between city and country here. Many people in Beirut have their villages to which their return almost weekly, even if they feel that the cosmopolitan city is where they most want to live. In the states, I often had the sense that city was city; country was country, and never the twain shall meet. Things operate differently in this country that has so much packed into such a small area.

The next morning, as I sat out writing on my balcony, Wafa brought up coffee and fresh-baked manouche (quickly becoming one of my favorite local foods), that her mother had just made. I had several hours to myself, enjoying the substitution of birdsongs for the car horns and fireworks that have been filling the air in Beirut during the past month. Then we set of to visit some family members around the village. At each house, we were warmly received and invited to share a snack, or some sweets brought by visiting relatives. No one seemed unsettled by the awkward American intruding on family time. Indeed, I started to get the impression that I was the only person who saw my presence as an intrusion. People were interested in my decision to come to Beirut. As I..ve often been asked since arriving, people wondered ..Weren..t you scared?.. They seem surprised that an American would come to Beirut after the news coverage of the war. There seems to be an unspoken impression that Americans fear and distrust the Middle East. Can..t imagine where that might have come from.

As we drove back to Beirut that afternoon, we stopped in Deir El Kamar, and walked through the old stone alleyways, stopping to pick blackberries, as we watched the sunset. I stepped into an old church, that Wafa wanted me to see for the architecture. A small group of people was in the first two pews, reciting the rosary. Having been raised Catholic in the States, it was surprising and moving to hear the rosary recited in Arabic, even more so, since the last time I heard it was when my parents and I recited it over my grandmother, dying in her hospital bed this spring. It hadn..t occurred to me before then that mass here is said in Arabic. With all the impressions and ideas we have about Arabic and it..s connotations in the Christian dominated US, I had to wonder how people from the States might be affected by hearing mass in Arabic.

But enough idealistic speculating for now. Tomorrow the students return, and I..m taking time from school work to compose this latest epistle home. As always, I hope you are all well and happy, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Joe

4:22 AM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

harvest time

Sorry for the protracted silence. Hopefully, I haven..t offended anyone. I..ve been letting myself get wrapped up in life here, and spending lots of time working on school matters. it..s been interesting to move from New York, where I felt at times that my cell phone was glued to my ear, and I always had e-mails to manage, and come here, where all my communication happens face to face. It..s certainly not due to ay lack of technology here in Beirut, but there just hasn..t been the same need for constant, instant communication. I think after the flurry of activity that marked my last days in New York, I..ve been welcoming the silence here, and throwing myself avidly into establishing my life here. So, life sent me a message, and I..m home sick with the flu today. And ..silence.. isn..t quite the right term.

There is a lot to listen to these days. With Ramadan happening, there are often broadcasts of Qu..ran verses heard throughout the city, in addition to the regular calls to prayer that punctuate the day. Lots of screeching tires and cars horns, as well. Last Friday, I went with a group of colleagues to hear a local songwriter / oud player perform. And, of course, I now have my students to listen to as well.

School started last Monday. I..d been doing a lot of work to get ready for them during the preceding week. I even spent both days last weekend in my classroom, preparing the space and planning activities. I didn..t mind all that much, though. Teaching here seems to be my main focus. I missed that back in New York, somehow, working as a musician, community organizer/artist, etc., etc., etc. It..s felt good to put so much work into my teaching here, and I..m afforded lots of flexibility from my administration, as well. And last week made it all worth it. My students are terrific. They very enthusiastically cam along with me in the activities I had planned for us. I think it..d be funny for people to see what my time here last week was like. Any sense that I..m living in some exotic location would have been obliterated. My students have the latest in western fashion, and speak English as though from birth; most of my time has been spent at work .. a school which, on the inside, could be located anywhere .. and my apartment. But I..ve been very happy with all of it.

I have found some time for exploring. Two weeks ago, Carine, who teaches kindergarten, took Todd and me to Byblos, where she..s from. It challenges Damascus.. claim to being the oldest continually inhabited city on the earth, with records of people living there going back 7,000 years. As we were walking through the old city, it was great to see two young children, brother and sister, laughing and playing on the swing in the little yard outside their ancient home. I thought of Beth and me on the swing set on Shasta Street in New Hampshire. Carine then took us to her home, where her mom treated us to an assortment of local sweets, including fresh guava from their grove of fruit trees.

This past weekend, I took some time to explore the city by myself. I walked from my neighborhood in the western part of the city over to Gemmayze in the eastern part, which seems to be aspiring to become the East Village of Beirut. It made me nostalgic for New York, where I..m sure fall is now discernable (while temperatures still reach up into the 80s here), and I wished I could meet up with friends for a beer on Ave A. Perhaps in answer to my wish, later tat day, I had a chance to meet some of the teachers from International College, the other international school here, which shares space with ACS. It was funny to head out around our neighborhood that night to a local bar with it..s resident DJ and overpriced drinks. Felt a little like being back in New York.

On Sunday, Andre, the outdoor education teacher, organized a faculty trip to the Tannourine Cedar Reserve in the mountains. We were a small group. It was a welcome break from the city, hiking through the rocky trails, looking out over the valleys. On the drive back down the mountain, we stopped at several roadside stands to pick up some local fresh figs and tomatoes. I remembered autumn trips to pick apples back in New England and upstate New York.

So life here is still good, though generally far from exotic. I hope all of you are happy and well. Now that the all the pre-school prep work is over, I hope to have more time to write back to people. I..d love to hear from you all about how life is back home. Maybe someone can even go apple picking for me. I..m sure there are folks who already have beer in the East Village covered for me.

Be well
Much love
Joe

4:40 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment