Crossing the Jordan River

Nearing the border.

On the overland border crossing my friend and I had the opportunity, if you'd call it that, to meet the secret police head chief. All of the guns and questions were... disconcerting. Despite the stressful atmosphere we both had to admit he was pretty darn handsome.

Is it ok to develop a crush on your interrogator? Welcome to Israel.

I mean, come on. Do we look dangerous?

 *There are some interesting details about our crossing experience. I'll tell you about them in person if you'd like to hear. 

Salem

(Goodbye/peace)

When I think of Amman I will always think of:

• Call to prayer every morning from mosques – eerie and hauntingly beautiful. It interweaves with my dreams
• Rivulets of water running down steep streets
• Lots and lots of stairs
• Feral cats everywhere, glaring at you surreptitiously from under ratty brows as you walk by
• Dusty pastels of the evening hours, casting longer and longer shadows as the sun sets
• Layers of rectangular buildings on steep hillsides, drenched in white hot sun

• Echos and light. I love the interplay of light and sound as they shift in this dense metropolis
• Birds singing
• Honking cars and Arabic music streaming out of taxis 
• Propane and fruit trucks. Their loudspeakers project tinny ditties reminiscent of ice cream trucks
• Call of the cotton candy man, his nasally voice strident and punctuated by a riff on his mouth organ
• Gunshots in the air
• Men on the street calling out to me “ni hao”, “china” and “philippines”. “Well-come to Jorr-dun”

• The honeyed scent of jasmine in the hot summer air
• Dried cardamon from coffee dashed onto the ground
• Litter, plastic bags

• Eating schawarma with friends on the street
• Banter of Arabic drifting off into the night air

Jordan, habibi, I love you forever.

Ramadan Kareem

(Ramadan is generous. Typical greeting during Ramadan)

Ramadan has started. 

“I drink milk and eat dates just before sunrise. This keeps me more full throughout the day.” - a friend.

Al-Urdun

(Jordan)

Allah hu-ak-Ra

One of Ramadan's drawings.

(God is generous.)

Due to the language barrier I've been left with no choice but to augment my extremely limited vocabulary with other means of communication.

Thus I doodle. It is a fine way to coax a shy child from her mother's skirts – shuffling, finger in her mouth, eyes curious but unsure. Other times, children swarm as I pull out a notebook and pen, voracious for the endless possibilities this combination produces.

I draw, they draw. They teach me the Arabic names for the objects on the page. I teach them English. Their mothers look on, eyes shining, so happy that for once their children are able to learn something. They gush, so grateful that we give our attention to their children. Going to school is a fantasy. Homeschooling is not an option because their mothers can't read.

In one tent I discovered a fast friend in Ramadan. We know Ramadan as a month of legalistic observance, but for Muslims it can be a time of clarity and devotion. For me, Ramadan will always be a handsome little boy with dark eyes and eager imagination. We'd sit together, our heads bowed as we took turns drawing on a notebook perched on the cushion that served as our desk.

Along the way I'd given him a sheaf of paper – an easy loss for me and a great outlet for his creativity. On my last day there, he urged me to give him my last pen. Heart full, I handed it to him, seeing it as a token of our special artistic camaraderie.

He snatched it, defended it against the brood of boys about him and didn't give me a second glance as I walked away, already missing him dearly.

Part of me wanted to be crushed. I'd treasured our time together, I'd thought we'd had a special master-apprentice / big sister-little bro moment, for crying out loud! But it was nothing to him! I was nothing to him!

Then it dawned on me. It is so much better this way. Ramadan doesn't need to miss me. He's already faced a lifetime of goodbyes. Goodbyes to his home, his family, his childhood.

It's better if he doesn't care if I stay or go. Goodbye, Ramadan.

See-auh-Ra

Click on the image to see what I am talking about.

(car)

This van is way too perfect. It represents where I am (Liban aka Lebnan aka Lebanon) and where I am going (Montana). It's van-tastic.

To be honest, I would be quite pleased to stay in the Middle East. My mind has wrapped itself around the various possibilities and turned itself inside out in its considerations. In sum, however, I sense I need to go back – the work there is unfinished.

Shu Haida

A man being searched and another realizing there's an onlooker.

(What is this?)

China Doll

(pic at Isa camp)

The ladies love dressing me up. Not quite sure why, but it proves to be great fun for all of us!

Ismee...

(My name is...)

Amani

Arabic names are so beautiful both in sound and meaning. Here are a few of my favorites:

Amani - Wishes

Khaled – Eternity

Majid- Glory

Kareem - Generous

Isa - Jesus

Amal- Hope

Abdel Hamid - servant of the praised God

Badr – Full Moon / Handsome

Emira - Princess

Noora - Light

Iman - Faith

Malak – Angel

I have also been given a few names:

Kadyn Nisseh – Given as a joke. It is a term from the Qur'an that refers to women – it has something to do with how women tease, backstab, and are catty towards each other. Yikes.

Kadyn Altheem – Kadyn the Great. Now that's more like it.

Wings

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all” - Emily Dickinson

It was only a paper plane, but for Muhammad it was a memory.

As I folded it and placed it in his outstretched hand, a wave of foreboding washed over me. Planes mean something different to Syrians. Shrugging, I figured it had to be more benign than the paper guns he had all too expertly fashioned moments beforehand.

He flew it around the tent, grinning as he watched it's lilting flight path. Pausing, he balanced the plane in his hand and nestled the double barreled gun he'd made under it. “This is how the planes shot us.” He demonstrated how his government's air force dropped missiles on his home in Syria. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” His wrist contorted as he showed how the planes doubled back to finish the job.

I've worked with kids who've gone through significant trauma, but never anything like this. How do you process with a child why their government dropped missiles on their house? For him violence on such a grand scale is normal. How does that affect his heart?

I left that day feeling sad for him and sadder still because he had no tears, no expressions of, “That was wrong that happened to me.” I can't erase his painful memories nor the fact that he hasn't seen his parents in 1.5 years.

Later on we visited his family again. By now we'd grown more in our relationship. We'd heard about some pigeons Muhammad kept as pets. So, despite hating pigeons I asked if he'd show them to me. He hopped up and carried one in. A white dove.

This time it was Muhammad that handed me the winged object. The bird in it's alarm defecated on me and flapped madly until Muhammad showed me how to properly hold it. We all giggled as I did my best to not appear completely terrified.

He then recounted how his other pigeon had flown away. Those familiar to avian husbandry know that a bird's wings must be clipped so it doesn't fly away. Muhammad, sweetheart, didn't want to hurt his pigeons so he glued their wings instead. Of course, in time the bird was able to loosen the glue and flee.

This little boy's life life is marked by brutality. Yet when it came to him to deliver a measure of that brutality to another he couldn't do it. Clipping a bird isn't unreasonable; yet his heart remained soft.

An intrinsic understanding of what is ok and what isn't has been placed within us. This remains despite all – even if we ourselves try to clip its wings. Our souls understand.

Kamen

(Again)

(This was an entry I wrote after our first days in the camps but just never posted)

Fatimah. She's just a little girl, living in a tent with her family in a field. She is one of millions of names written in tidy little rows on sheets of paper. You know, the ones with the light blue logo, the United Nations, they call it. 

United. What does that even mean? Fatimah doesn't know. She doesn't know as she waits with her father in line behind the big truck, the one where the outsiders come and unload supplies. Days like this are exciting because it means the food comes and the smiling foreigners hug and spend a time with her.

Is “united” what the grown ups in her camp are supposed to be? She sees how her neighbor hides her mats and propane when the volunteers come, and then tells the volunteers she has nothing, hoping they will give her more mats and more propane.* That way she can sell them to make a little money. It doesn't seem right to Fatimah, but what is her neighbor to do? No one will hire her husband to work. If they hire anyone, they will take the teenage girls to work in the fields or in the factory, where after working 10 hours, they have earned enough to buy a bottle of shampoo, maybe conditioner. Those girls are cheap, and they work well. But Fatimah's neighbor doesn't have any teenage daughters to send out.

Fatimah is still too young to send out to work, but her turn will come. It will be backbreaking work, but she knows how to work hard. She already does it everyday: cleaning, cooking, carrying water, what ever she is told. If she works in the fields, she will tie a headscarf around her head tightly to cover as much skin as she can. She will still wear makeup and pause in the fields to reapply it because she must look beautiful. Since she will always be working, her only opportunity to find a husband will be if he passes by and sees her in the fields.

When she is married at 14 she and her husband will come back to this same field. Her husband will stand in line behind a truck to get his ration. Maybe this repeat of history is what it means to be united.

*I haven’t seen this in Lebanon, but saw it a lot with refugees in Jordan. 

Mondial

(World Cup)

Korea had the early lead but at halftime the Syrians took over and had the game from there. 

*This happened at the very end of our time in this camp. I risked this huge cultural faux pas of exercising as a female due to our rapport. I blame World Cup fever.

Fard'

(Gun)

The other day I started to watch “The Book of Eli”. That was about the worst mistake of my life. Let's just say I didn't get very far in the movie. The gore, darkness, and the dire world circumstances depicted left me in the emotional equivalent of dry heaving. 

It is at moments like this when I realize how profoundly grieved I am by what the Syrians are going through. 

How we spend our time:

Carding wool.

Listening and sharing as we drink tea together

Making food

Distributing food

Playing with kids and putting on youth camps

Teaching English and learning Arabic!

Keeping a look out for anything we can lend a hand with.

In short, we are just living life with the Syrians, in accordance to the great kindness they are showing by inviting us in.

Medina

(city)

Beirut is a phoenix. There must be scores of writers that have already made this connection, seeing as how the ancient Phoenicians came from this area and the word phoenix is close to Phoenician – the opportunities for parallels and clever play on words are endless. 

I'm just what I am though, so please bear with me. 

I say that Beirut is a phoenix because it has repeatedly risen from the ashes war after war,  suicide bomber after suicide bomber. When you walk through the city, you see bombed out, bullet riddled buildings standing derelict in the midst of a new buildings with an attitude of  “We must just keep going for life must go on.” 

Maybe that is why Lebanon is known for it's love of bling. Get it shiny because life is short. 

The central building is not under construction. It is bombed/shot out.
That won't stop Chevrolet from sidling right up.

This city has gasp! the audacity to have not just a new building rise up out of the rubble, but a luxury building. What panache. What defiance and drive. 

Yella

On the weekends we've been able to take advantage of the extremely low cost of public transportation to explore the country.

(Let's go)

Here's how you travel in Lebanon:

You walk down the street. A dented jalopy comes by, honks and a man leans out the passenger window, “Beirut?” he offers. “Aiwa” (yes) you respond. You haggle over a price, you do your best to be both assertive for a fair price and yet submissive in this patriarchal society.

You get in. The vehicle is completely unmarked. You figure the country is small, the embassy can hopefully locate you if you disappear.

You sit as close to the front as possible or make sure that you are only seated by women. If I have to explain why this is advisable, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you really need to get out more. Sometimes the driver is a gentleman and reorganizes the seating arrangement so you are seated safely.*

The vehicle screams through the mountains to get to your destination. The driving here scares me a good bit. To put that in context, let me tell you that driving in India thrills me and doesn't make me nervous.

The air is a mix of warm bodies, nicotine and nargileh** smoke, and sometimes the music is blaring so loud you're sure you can smell it.

The Lebanese military often uses public transportation as well.

From time to time you pause at a police or army checkpoint. The van pulls into an enclosed area behind metal sheeting. The doors slide open. They lean in with their AK-47's in hand and request your passport. They ask you to take your sunglasses off. They see that eagle crest on your passport and you cease to be a threat. They move on to the others in the vehicle. Others stumble over their answers and get riddled with way more questions than you did. You wonder what is in that man's large black bag. You wonder if it is prejudiced that you are wondering.

The driver speaks no English but by some crazy miracle, you are able to communicate. He drops you off at the destination after you've handed him a wad of Lebanese Lira.

And now, the real adventure begins.

*Let's give credit where credit is due. The men I sat next to were complete gentlemen. Jordan, however, was a different story. 

** Hookah

Coquelicots

The Duke's chapeau, cane, and hunting horn
(to go along with his pack of hounds and extensive hunting grounds) 

Almost a decade ago I was working for a duke and duchess in France. It was, despite the inherent romance and adventure in that sentence, one of the most difficult experiences I have been through. Some days I felt physically ill due to the great difficulty.

As I trudged along, refusing to give up – out of pride, foolishness of youth, or the gritted teeth of sheer will, I began to notice something quite particular. Alongside the roads, in the fields, and all sorts of inopportune places cropped up these exquisite little red blooms. Coquelicots. Poppies.

They were a bonafide weed and likely the bane of some farmer's life, but to me they were beautiful. They represented a will to not only live, but to live vibrantly. “Yeah, we're weeds, and there is no reason why we should be able to thrive in this field - but we do. And we are blooming flaming red. So there!”

For me, coquelicots will always mean hope.

And strangely enough, they bloom prolifically here in Lebanon.

I don't believe that's an accident. 

Mish Nadif

(Not Clean)

The conditions in the camps are harsh. That mud has a glue like consistency and when you get wet there is no way to get dry. 

Elections

Syrian President Al Assad on TV.

 June 3

Syria is having elections. 

There are many ways to define that word.

My Economist loving, wannabe political wonk side longs to drill the Syrians to ascertain their opinions about it all. But that's not why I'm here. I am here to demonstrate love and life to them – bringing up politics just unleashes Pandora's box.

I've been told that when voters go to the polls and ask for help to fill out the ballots, the officials direct them, “Just check here” on Bashar Al-Assad's box.

Syrians have told me they have been granted some form of amnesty that if they return to Syria to vote they will still be able to return here to Lebanon. They are still afraid of attempting this, that there won't be follow through and they'll be punished for having fled in the first place.

Syrians can vote at the Syrian embassy an hour's drive away in Beirut. However, if they are struggling to scrape enough Lira together just to feed their families, paying for gas to vote is their last priority. 

There is support for Bashar.

Many Syrians are afraid to state that they support Bashar Al-Assad, the current president, because they know the rebels will try to kill them. They are afraid to say they support the rebels because they know the government forces will attempt to kill them. 

Shmel, Yemiin...

(Left, Right...)

Mom, remember this clapping game you taught me when I was little? I have Arabicized it and it is making its way through the refugee camps. Who knew it would become such a connector!

Sah?

Making tea in a tent. The hole in the floor by the "wall" is the kitchen "sink".

(Understand?)

I'm trying to decide if I regret telling you about the “Keteer (A Lot)” story.

You see, it's too true. It's too much to hear, even though it is only one thing that has happened to one family out of millions in a similar situation.

These families have demonstrated great trust by sharing their stories. I'm not sure if it is right for me to fling those histories out on the internet to any casual passerby.

Is it better for us to see the reality of the world around us? Or is it a waste because we might still refuse to see beyond arm's length and continue to insulate ourselves in our affluent dream world? The latter is easier but also worse because it means we'll have more to answer for later.

If you read the previous entry, know that I shared something sacred with you. It is a deeply personal story of pain and loss, not to be lightly tossed over your shoulder once you go back to what ever it was you were doing before you landed here. Please promise me that you won't go away unchanged. Promise me. 

Keteer

Her husband is an exceedingly good man.

 (A Lot)

A while back a friend asked if the “Mish Mumkin” story was a true story. That exact story was not, but I took events that have occurred and applied them to a western setting to be more understandable to us.

Here is a real story, told to me by the mother, as we sat sipping tea on the the floor of her tent. We'll call her Noora (Light).

It was a joyous day for she and her husband. They were at their hospital in Syria and Noora was undergoing a cesarean section for the birth of their son. The doctor had made an incision across her belly when an alarm sounded. Planes were coming to bomb the hospital.

Evacuations began and chaos mounted as everyone clamored to run, wheel, or crutch their way out of the building. The doctors and nurses around the operating table took no time to think, only to survive. They turned and fled, leaving only the clatter of their fallen instruments on the floor.

Noora lay open on the table, her baby halfway born.

Her husband pleaded, yelled, and grasped desperately at the tails of the doctors' coats, but no one would stay and help. Frenzied, he ran through the quickly emptying hospital, pounding on doors, entreating anyone to help him. Finally he was able to grab hold of a nurse and refused to let go. She didn't know how do surgery, but she was the only option.

The nurse, undoubtedly terrified, delivered the baby, then sewed Noora back up, there in the silent operating room waiting for the bombs to drop. 

What would it feel like to hold your baby for the first time and to know that in minutes, maybe seconds, you will all die?

Somehow, miraculously, the powers that be found out the hospital had been emptied and so called off the airstrike.

They were to live. However, despite the nurse's best efforts, Noora developed a horrible infection from the procedure. She underwent another surgery and they fled the country. Months later, their son is sickly and wane from the trauma. They constantly worry about his health.

Ten days after the birth of their son, the planes came back. The hospital was evacuated, but 25 babies were left in their incubators amid the confusion. They were all killed.

It is so hard to write this. Maybe it's better if I don't tell you the real stories.

(This is only one of this family's stories.)

Chouf

On my way to Tyre,
from where King Hiram sent cedars to build King Solomon's temple.

(Look)

What strange times we are living in. 

Shai

Yours truly learning to dance the dabka.
(Of course, in a women only setting)

“You can drink a second cup or you can do a dance for us.” 
- a Syrian saying.

Drinking a cup of tea is an act of hospitality on the part of the hosts and an honor to consume on the part of the guests. It is boiled over a kerosene tank with loose leaves and plenty of sugar. In fact, the boiling allows for the tea to be super saturated with sugar. I recently found out the sugar to water ratio. It was difficult to swallow.

But they are so kind to offer it, so I am delighted to drink it. Besides, it is haram (forbidden) for me to dance in front of men anyway. 

Cedars

Lebanon still has cedar trees. And yes, they are fun to climb!

Kareem

This is Arabic coffee. It takes over 6 hours to make and is an especial honor to receive. When it is served, a bit is poured into a cup. You take it with your right hand, sip it, then hand it to the server, who then refills it and repeats for all present.

(Generous)

Arab hospitality is unsurpassed. No matter how much or how little people have, they prioritize hospitality. It is a cultural imperative and in most cases, Arabs derive great satisfaction in practicing this art.

In America, we like to talk about giving until it hurts. With Arabs, you'll never know if they have given until it hurts, because they are so generous and hospitable that they would never dream of indicating that they've passed that point. 

Shu iss meuk?

(What's your name?)

(May)

How strange it is to write a name for the first time. It's like trying it on for size. They're only letters, yet it feels so special.

She's brand new. She's never been called anything before. Those five simple letters are making introductions for her into this world. Welcome, sweet little niece. I can't wait to meet you. 

Backcountry Wisdom

I have seen many variations on the toilet and on kitchens,
but I must admit, this one had me... impressed by it's ingenuity.
This is not from my house. 

Things to keep in mind at my place:

Pack it in, pack it out.

If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down.

Always know where your Petzl is

Purel is worth more than gold

Dear Shower,

I wish we got to spend more time together. Is it bad that I don't remember when I last saw you? I appreciate you and wish you were more of a part of my life.

Ana Mish Fahmeh

 (I don't understand)

The other day a few of us went for a walk. It's spring and the sun's out, what better way to pass an afternoon?

About a 10 minute walk away from my place is a Hezbollah neighborhood. Many nations consider Hezbollah, The Party of God, to be a terrorist organization, whereas others just consider it a political party. I generally categorize suicide bombings, hijackings and other such activities in the “Terrorist” category, but let's not get caught up in details.

We'd been told the area is fine during the day. We walked towards the mosque, the minaret serving as an easy compass. I admit, I'm a sucker for Islamic architecture. It is so beautifully composed and intricately executed. The dome of the mosque glittered under the Levantine sun and banners of armed men in camouflage rippled from the eaves. Sometimes I am glad I don't understand Arabic.

The streets were quiet. We walked under a yellow flag with a green AK-something gun on it, the flag of Hezbollah. I looked to my left. A row of breads were stacked carefully behind a pane of dingy glass. A bakery.

A bakery! Islamic architecture, bakeries, and trying new things. I'm a sucker for them all. We hadn't had any personal contact with anyone in this neighborhood, so really, we had to enter this shop, right?

“Hey, you guys, let's stop in here.”

As we stepped inside the tiny shop, our eyes adjusted from the bright sun and settled upon two swarthy male patrons and an old baker behind the counter. There are strong rules governing male and female interactions in this culture but we felt secure, being modestly dressed, aware, and possessing just enough Arabic to greet the baker and get some bread. And besides, I saw a picture of the Madonna hanging on the wall.*

The baker took three of the aforementioned treats from the window and wrapped them up in a square of paper. I asked how much. He refused to let me pay and then proceeded to shove them in my general direction. Flattered, we politely insisted. He grumpily refused then shooed us away.

Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner. Maybe it's because he's worried for us in this neighborhood. Maybe it's because 3 little snacks aren't worth his time.

We'll never know.

But I'll tell you what, those little Hezbollah doughnuts were delicious. And eating them under the green and yellow flag hanging from a building riddled with bullet holes didn't make it taste any less good.

*It's different than you think. The Middle East is crowded. People of different faiths and traditions have to live in very close proximity.

Saab

(Hard)

Syria, I weep for you. O people of such rich history and heritage, to have been reduced to such a thing as this. 

Tie-yub

(Delicious)

They say Lebanon and Syria have fantastic food. I might consider arguing, but my mother taught me to not talk with my mouth full. 

Love Hurts

The kids have literally drawn my blood in their clamoring for love. 

They are ever so welcome to it. 

Tent Poetry

The tents are made from large swaths of treated canvas, originally used for billboard advertisements. The designs and writing on them are in stark contrast to their surroundings and times. It's irony as an art; a social commentary.

Burger King Logo: 
Oh, globalization.

Camouflage patterns: 
Their very homes are clothed in a symbol of war.

“30 years financing” for an apartment or “Palace Beirut”

Pictures of liberal women: 
Heads uncovered, arms revealed, legs showing.

Bottles of liquor: 
Poorly painted over with black paint because it is forbidden in Islam

Ads for luxury housing, watches, and perfume: 
How about running water? That would be nice.

“Fairy Tale Cakes: 'Once Upon a Cake'”: 
This is no fairy tale.

Photograph of a young woman in a mortarboard, ready to receive her diploma: The girls are marriageable at 14. There is no opportunity for such dreams.

Evening Walk

Sweet cherries on the tree

make me think of home.

كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة

In the Arabian Nights, Scheherazade kept the king captivated by her stories for 1,001 nights, thereby preserving her life. Scheherazade, I am afraid I am not as clever as you. We both seek life, but I am far more clumsy. I hope plain words and encouragement can count as a good story.   

The Brothers Bloom, or advice from one of my favorite movies

Zombies emerging from ancient sarcophagi at Baalbek!

(May)

Bloom: “This isn't an adventure story.”

Penelope: “What are you talking about? It totally is!”

Sometimes things feel heavy and I need to remind myself that life is meant to be savored and at times, laughed at. 

So, like Penelope, “I'm pretending to be a smuggler, right? But what you don't know is, I am a full-on smuggler. 'Cause I tell it like I own it. You know what your problem is? You just got to stop thinking so much. I mean, just enjoy the ride, man.”

On that note, maybe I'll smuggle those sarcophagi outta Baalbek.

Baalbek. Current city and ancient Roman ruins. Oh, my heart!

Il-ee-yum

(Today)
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. 

Thanks, Fyodor

(May 2014)

In retrospect, it may not have been a good idea to have brought “The Brothers Karamazov” along for light reading. However, it has been somewhat of a respite and I've gobbled down the whole book like a hungry Dmitry. I guess wandering around the Russian psyche can be an escape.

Je Kif

(A French expression that comes from Arabic that means "I like".)

This is Lebanon. Arabic + French + that Phoenecian je ne sais quoi.
My language is becoming an awkward mix of English, French, and Arabic. Not that I'm complaining!

Local News

Suicidebomb kills three in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley

Two rockets from Syria hit Bekaa Valley town

In pictures: War artist George Butler with Syrian refugees