Lebanon part deux

After wandering around the market/souq in the Old City part of Sidon, I walked past a portley fellow cooking some sweets. As I stopped to watch him at his craft he gave me a piece of helluwa (sweet cake), cooked in a bit of oil on a large flat pan. The cake's texture was reminiscent of a pancake, with a fresh cheese filling and a sugar syrup on top. Delighted by this exquisite new dish I asked for a plate and he invited me in to eat with what he later told me was his family. He asked if I was German, then French, then Russian. I finally admitted to being American and he seemed amazed but pleased. Over the next few days I came to realize few Americans made it this far south in Lebanon since last year's war.

He offered me some water out of a blue glass container that resembled a flower vase. Not seeing a clearly defined drinking end, I asked the family how to drink from it so as to avoid impoliteness. The man then told me to use the small spout opposite the handle. I put my lips to the spout and took a gulp and the family burst into laughter. Grabbing the vase, trying to contain his snorts, he lifted the mysterious glass object about a foot above his head, tilting it slightly so that a small stream of cold water poured straight into his mouth. Looking at what I'm sure was an expression of sheer confusion on my face, he snorted again and turned away so as not to inadvertently spit on me in his fits of laughter. He gave a final hefty snort and fetched for me a cup.

I wandered around a bit more, admiring the Medieval European architecture of the souq, mentally comparing it to the architecture of Khan al-Khalili, the historic market in Cairo, heavily steeped in its Ottoman styles. I asked a man where I could find a nargileh (shisha) and coffee and he promptly grabbed my hand in his and walked me about 30 meters down the cobblestone path where a woman greeted me and asked if I needed a place to sleep. She then pointed to my travel guide that was protruding from a side pocket of my backpack and told me she was in it. I found the name of a place which I had circled the night before located in the heart of the Medieval souq I had been meandering through all afternoon called “Katia's”. I looked up and she said, “you're welcome here. I'm Katia.”
Fortuitous indeed.

Katia had a kind face. It didn't bear the wrinkles of the tired and troubled faces which roam Cairo but it was apparent her life had many worries. True, she was not poor in comparison with some of her neighbors living in the Souq, but for Katia, her troubles laid beneath her composed and somewhat calloused exterior. She businesswoman running one of only three hotels in Sidon (Saida in Arabic) located in the heart of the souq in a former convent in which she and her husband and two daughters had made their home, taking on guests when the opportunity arose. It became clear very quickly, however, that last year's war had exacted a costly toll on the tourism of this seemingly quiet and happy community. As we sat chatting in her husband's cafe she told me of a time thirteen months ago when the cobblestone paths of the souq were filled to the brim with European tourists with a spattering of Americans mixed in, when as many as 200 people outsiders would pass be the cafe over the course of a summer day. Now the labyrinthine streets weaving through the stunning Medieval architecture of the buildings of the souq were scattered with locals buying nargileh pipes, fresh fruits, haggling over the price of a tunic. I was the third tourist she had seen that day and the tenth of the entire week. Our conversation continued and Katia talked of the difficulties of being one of the only Christian families left in the area, much of the Christian community having left for Beirut during the war and the single bomb that exploded in Sidon. It was obvious by her husband's interactions with local Muslim patrons of his cafe that Katia's family was much more integrated into the fabric of the community than any Christians I have spoken with throughout the entirety of Egypt and with the exception of the occasional annoyed aside about the minarets which surrounded their home, blasting the call to prayer for the devout Muslims five times a day over their loudspeakers, there didn't seem to be any inherent conflict with the predominantly Muslim area. Yet Katia spoke with a bitterness when the conversation turned to the war and its causes.

“No one likes war. My daughters were frightened and as a mother, I was frightened for them.”

Her anger towards Israel for targeting civilian areas took a back burner to her contempt for Hizbollah for circumventing international relations and provoking Israel into last year's devastating war.
“We had just truly started to recover from our disastrous civil war and the Israeli occupation when Hariri was assassinated. We hadn't even finished picking up the pieces of his body when Israel came again. And now we are in a very bad way. A very bad way.”

It was clear to me that while she and her husband owned the convent and cafe, they were still struggling to get by. She talked about not wanting to leave the area that had been her home for more than thirty years but painfully relented to considering the option as the war continued for 34 brutal days.

Later that night after returning from a short tour of the town Katia invited me to sit and talk with her husband and her two Christian friends. I sat listening to the peculiarities of the Lebanese dialect, often substituting French words for Arabic ones. Although still Arabic, it was spoken with such a European, specifically French accent that I had trouble discerning even the most basic words. As I began to follow the conversation more, the topic of politics came up and the voices became lively. All of them expressed their frustration and discontent with the current President Emile Lahoud and his lack of backbone and political force. Then, in a most surprising moment, Katie turned to me and said she admired Mubarak for his strength in leadership and said she hoped for someone similar to come for the Lebanese presidency. Forcing my mouth closed from its gaping position I tried to explain the repression which dictates all political expression and cultural dissent in Egypt. I pointed out that few people in Egypt would feel comfortable talking about national politics in such a negative light because of the ever-present fear of the Mukhabarat (secret police). This word seemed to strike a nerve and she explained her familiarity with the secret police in Syria during her visit there to obtain an American visa five years prior. And upon discussing her travels to Syria her memory was jarred, as if waking up from hibernation and began to almost berate me over her difficulty of obtaining a visa and eventual denial because she was Lebanese. She told me of her pursuit to have her daughters educated to the best standards, in America. She talked of the necessity to flee Lebanon following the turmoil in 2000 but being unable again to obtain the desperately needed visa. But after a moment she seemed to recollect herself, recalling my numerous criticisms of American foreign policy and immigration laws, remembering the rapport we had developed in the afternoon hours.

This was surprisingly refreshing. for the first time since arriving in Egypt three months ago I had met someone who didn't immediately like me because I was American (thinking I could help them get a visa). But despite my explanations and protests, my encounters with uneducated Egyptians couldn't understand how knowing an American isn't an asset in the immigration process. Coming from a society in which everyone has a price and any service, government included, could be bought, they did not comprehend a system governed purely by bureaucracy. Furthermore, the concept of rules and laws as guarantors of rights and liberties which no politician could bend or break or change at a whim was a truly alien notion. And it is from several of these Egyptians to which I refer here that I received skeptical looks after informing them that President Bush was going to leave office after a little over a year. “Why would he do that,” they would ask. “Because we will have new elections,” I would reply. “Oh, we have those. But Mubarak wins them every time so they don't really matter.”
Having only known corruption they couldn't fathom any alternative way of life.

At this moment in my interaction with Katia I felt more at home than I had in months; she recognized me as a person and appreciated me for my beliefs and worldly outlook. Although I was obviously a visitor in this place, she treated me as a friend, regardless of my nationality, no, in spite of it. She gave me the validation I had been looking for in Egypt and had yet to find: she saw my personal merit as the main component of my identity rather than the place my passport was issued. Lebanon was a truly wonderful place.