Ahhh… don’t worry about that one

I have been vague as to what my work actually entails.  That is mainly because it is incredibly monotonous — good for an anal retentive person like me, bad for a blogging audience that wants a good story.  I am now volunteering at SeSoBEL in Ain el-Rihane.  The center is a school for children with developmental disorders from September until June.  However, after June, the kids return back to their homes, and the teachers prepare for la colonie/summer camp, which begins July 22.  As a result, I have not seen any of the children in person; I have seen many of their photographs.  For the moment my job is to search through all the pictures SeSoBEL has taken over the school year and create a different file for each child in the center containing their photographs.  There are a lot of children.  There are even more photographs.  I know these children better than their own mothers.

Honestly, I thought this work was pointless at the beginning.  Instead of toiling away at a desk trying to memorize the names and faces of children I had never met, I could have found a different volunteer opportunity that involved actual children.  Needless to say, I was pretty fed up after my first week.  I carelessly plowed through pictures, figuring that the sooner I finished, the sooner I could move onto something important.

One day I stumbled upon the photo of a child with an unfamiliar face.  I turned the laptop around to face the other teachers in the room (who know the children almost as well as I do).    “Min hiya?  Who is she?”

The teachers all turned to each other with washed looks on their faces.  “Ahhh… don’t worry about that one.  She’s dead now.”

The smiling, vivacious girl in the photo is named Rita.  She was born with lung failure and after her few, vibrant teenage years, her lungs collapsed.  And she was not the only child I saw in those photos who had recently passed away.  When the teachers saw my response of horror, they tried to soothe me.  “Don’t worry, habibti, it’s not uncommon here.”

I suddenly realized why my job was important.  I was documenting the lives of children who didn’t have many memories to document.  I imagined giving these files to the ones they loved — the ones who would want to relive any memories possible.  As numerous as those photos were, they were not enough to satisfy what should have been a plentiful life for these children.  But what these few photos did contain were the happiest memories their lives could provide.  Remembering the rich livelihoods of those that should have had so much more — what could be more important?

 

P.S. — Thank you to all of those that wished me happy birthday.  It was wonderful to celebrate my nineteenth in Lebanon.  I cannot imagine a better way to start this year.

Sutan Al-Brahim

Jounieh by night

 

Now i know why we’re number 6

Ahhh Sunday — a day of religion, family and partying… WHAT UP LEBANON?!?!?  I swear this country says a Hail Mary before every Bloody Mary.

It all started with an amazing lunch cooked by the spunky, brash Samira.  My Teta and I arrived at her house in a small village in the mountains known as Hamat around noon with very empty stomachs.  Smart move.  The minute we walked into the house, we were bombarded with nuts, bread, zaatar and water to wash down the Arak (a.k.a. Lebanese licorice liquor).  This was all followed by what Americans consider to be a feast and what Lebanese consider to be a first course.  I watched as she heaped triple servings tabbouleh and fatuous onto one plate, hummus and baba ganoush onto another and a pile of vegetables and veggie kibbeh on the third.  Next thing I knew, I had three mountains of food in front of my face.  Allah esaedna.  I dug in, letting the heart rule the stomach.  Bad move.  Don’t regret it.  After an hour of gorging, all the members of the table sat at the table in a bridge position over their chairs in order to stretch their bloated stomachs.  As we all wallowed in satisfied suffering, I watched Samira sneak into the kitchen and come out with a silver platter piled with Lebanese fruits.  Nectarines, apricots, grapes, plums, cherries. The members of the table wearily glanced at each other and looked up to pass a guilty glance across the platter.  Who wants to start?  Next thing you know, we had all grabbed a plate and began cutting nectarines, spitting pits onto napkins, and rubbing the running juices from our chinnie chin chins.  The meal may have been over, but the lunch was certainly not.  No Lebanese meal would be complete without the lung-choking, palate-clensing arguileh.  Prepared with mint and lemon, this smoking machine is about ten times worse than smoking and ten times as appealing.  It tastes delicious, makes a fun sound and looks really cool.  It may be terrible for my health, but I’d hate to let a little lung cancer keep me from an authentic Lebanese experience ;D

After creating a food triplet in my belly, it was time to go to the beach.  Okay, maybe I regretted my gluttony a little.  Samira’s lovely daughter, Samia, drove me to the a beautiful beach called Ocean Blue in Jounieh.  We sat for hours and conversed in a mixture of Arabic and sign language while enjoying the beautiful view.  When we finally left, I felt like I had gained a new friend — a valuable asset that I am learning is not too hard to find in Lebanon.

Once the sun went down, Lebanon descended from the beaches and headed to the pubs.  I met my cousins and cousin’s cousins in Hamat, and we made our way to Jbeil for the night.  We started with an early dinner at 9:00 at Zattar w Zeit where I got a predictable zaatar w zeit.  Sorry y’all.

We then headed to the Old Souks in Jbeil.  I started our promenade among the beautiful, antique stores imagining being home by midnight and getting a good  night’s sleep before a full day of work.  We turned the corner to find the more party-hardy half of our group screaming at the bar.

What’s the harm in a little lack of sleep?  I quickly ran over to the table that ranged in age from late twenties to early teens.  With lights flashing and music pumping, our table was soon full ice, Red Bull, 7UP, cranberry juice, and vodka.

The drinking age is supposedly eighteen.  There was definitely a thirteen year old at our table.  There was definitely no ID-checked.  I watched as the tables surrounding us began to stumble onto the dance floor, cries of drunken who-cares-about-tomorrow filling the air.  We all danced brashly, sang loudly and got a little tipsy.

I had heard Lebanese night life was crazy.  Apparently, we are the sixth best country in the world for a good party, and I finally got a glimpse into the reasoning behind that statistic.  Although brief, I was grateful for my first taste of vodka by night in Lebanon.  I left with my cousin knowing that I had missed out on a night of sleep and knowing that I could care less.