some guy in lebanon

Charlotte, NC

“Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes.”

That is the opening line of the first number of a play I saw when I was 14 years old.

Incidentally, I was on my first trip to New York City, my first trip “solo” (visiting my God Mother), my first Broadway play, and it was the first time I knew how many minutes partitioned a year.

A lot has happened since then.

Most of 2010: Frankfurt, Germany

If I were to characterize the twelve years since that trip to New York, it would be a series of adventures of an ever accelerating scale.

Simultaneously, I would submit that the past year would best be described as a catalog of misadventures, proportionate only to the degree to which I was capable of finding trouble (or trouble was capable of finding me).

Misadventures, then, are what are on my mind as I sit here in the Bad Homburg Arcade, outside Frankfurt, Germany, writing this long-overdue post longhand as I wonder why the past year was the way it was.

Why the struggle? Why the trouble? Why did my good fortune turn to bad in an instant, and what is the use, therefore, of attempting to contrive a definition of a year like this past year based on something so innocuous and conspicuously nondescript as five hundred thousand plus minutes.

This picture was taken exactly one year ago in Amman, Jordan.

Five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes ago I sat in Amman, Jordan with $71 to my name and over seven thousand dollars in credit card debt. Barred from Lebanon, I had yet to cement a deal with Henry Ijams to return to America and consult with PayStream Advisors in Charlotte, North Carolina, when I would veer away from the precipice of insolvency at the last second.

In fact, fifty two weeks ago the reality that my possessions, my money, my apartment, my work, and indeed my entire life had vanished like a mirage had yet to fully set in. I possessed a vague plan to move to Dubai, or to London, and I was seeking more detail on another vague plan with a Lebanese lawyer to post a bond in my name to guarantee one more Lebanese three month tourist visa (the money for which I didn’t have)… and I’d then have 90 days to secure a work permit (for which I had no guarantee).

Fifty one weeks ago, I was completely broke and out of time. I didn’t need to listen to Sultans of Swing to hear about Dire Straits. I’d moved, the previous year, to one of the world’s most troubling and confounding locales, and confounding trouble had finally caught up with me. It was time to turn tails and run. I bought a flight to New York and left the Middle East.

Prior to that, whatever was going through my head as I slept on the floor of a friend of a friend’s condo in Abdoun, Amman for a month, I seem to have repressed. I recall arriving at Queen Alia Airport (that would be the airport I’d passed through a dozen times on various other adventures, the airport that King Hussein named after his third wife… who died in a helicopter crash) feeling rather numb. I now had $40 dollars and that was after an emergency inter-Curtis loan. $40 would not get me from New York to Charlotte, so thankfully Oni bought my train ticket south… although I know that he could barely afford it either.

February: Istanbul, Turkey

Charlotte was a whirlwind – I won’t get into the details too much – but the experience was a jarring transition… although the crummy neighborhood on Wilksonson Boulevard that I moved into reminded me of certain other seedy places around the world I’d seen.

Accepting the job with TWI was essentially under duress (although indeed it was a timely blessing), as I’d made little headway with my debt and my gig with Henry was over – the inevitable consequence of the professional opportunity was the complete disintegration of my personal life and eight months of 14 hour work days, 7 day work weeks, and months in solitude.

In less than eight months I have ignominiously joined the 100K club at United Airlines, so it surprises me to have only seven counties under my belt this year. Nearly 100% of that travel was solo. The job? Replacing inventory management systems, which probably hold the rank of “most boring ERP systems ever.”

February: Kuwait City, Kuwait

Living in Germany for a lot of that time was particularly difficult – although the autobahn must be experienced to be believed. I don’t speak the language, I don’t know anyone here, the TWI team here has the highest of expectations, and the project began without a plan, without guidance, and previously implementations had not gone well.

I must of course thank TWI for the opportunity to complete a project so prone to failure…

13 months ago I was certain of my future in Beirut. My first post in exodus 12 months ago was titled “some Guy in the World,” as I suddenly felt I was a citizen of nowhere, which I never wanted.

What I’d failed to see at the time, however, was that my newly contrived status would unleash me from a long-held belief that my location should define my experience.

Instead, what I am now aware of is that the truth is the opposite: My experience should define my location. In fact, my experience should define everything.

June: Washington, DC

This awareness had its tradeoffs: I acknowledge that the past year has had a hardening effect, and the past 8 months with TWI in particular have been desensitizing and lonely.

But I should not assume that the effect was dehumanizing: Quite the contrary. The journey over the past five hundred twenty five thousand six hundreds minutes was Sisyphean and I am better for it.

I chose a path whose consequences I wrought, and as I watched the boulder roll down the mountain last September, I turned to push it back to new heights consecrated in the knowledge that my future was in my hands.

As that is the case, that this past year has been Sisyphean, I must turn to Camus to properly understand my year, and its epilogue, so forgive my aggressive quotation of his work, “The Myth of Sisyphus,” (which you can read in full by clicking here):

February: Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Camus states the gods believed, as they punished Sisyphus, that “there is no more dreadful a punishment than futile and hopeless labor.” I know I have believed the same thing at times.

As Sisyphus, “stole the god’s secrets,” he was punished with the task of rolling a rock up a mountain, only to have it roll back down, in an eternal torturous cycle.

But, as Camus states, Sisyphus, “is. As much as through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life (meant) for him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole of his being was exerted in accomplishing nothing.”

And so as, “Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit, he goes back down the to the plain.”

I, like Camus, am most interested in that moment when Sisyphus turns to watch the boulder roll back down the mountain, for that is where I was a year ago, and it is where I find, for all intents and purposes, myself today.

September-October 2009: Amman, Jordan

For this is, “the hour of consciousness when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks towards the lairs of the gods,” when, “he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.”

Indeed, “if this myth (of Sisyphus) is tragic, that is because our hero is conscious… the lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory.”

As Sisyphus’ return to the rock, at the base of the mountain, were his, “Nights in Gethsemane,” (the garden where Jesus begged God His Father for an alternate fate, and received no answer) so too were my nights, one year ago to the day, in Amman.

“But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged.”

Camus quotes Sophocles’ Oedipus: “‘Despite so many ordeals,’” despite exhaustion and misadventure and misfortune, “‘I must conclude that all is well’, and that remark is sacred.”

January: New York City

“All Sisyphus’ joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him.”

His absurd struggle causes him to, “Say ‘Yes’, and his efforts henceforth will be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny… he knows himself to be the master of his days.”

“At that subtle moment when Man glances backwards at his life, Sisyphus returning to his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates the series of unrelated actions which became his fate, created by him.”

So, we leave Sisyphus as he proceeds to his boulder. We board the plane, pack the car, collect whatever is left after our choices lead us to disaster, and leap forth to whatever is next. Because we can, we must, and therein lies the reason that we can: Because we exist, and our actions, and their consequences, are proof enough that our existence is our own. Were it not for consequences stemming from our capacity to be deliberate, our humanity would be empty and our lives inescapably droll. To act, to choose, to be, is our gift, and any curses that stem from that gift pale, in comparison, to inaction.

April: Zug, Switzerland

In Camus’ immortal words, “Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile.”

“Each atom of that stone, every mineral flake of that rock-filled mountain, in itself informs the world. The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

I too conclude that all is well.

A year of struggle has yielded new friends, new love, new passion, new insights, new wealth, new opportunities, new risk, new growth, and an altered endeavor that is wholly my own, despite the unceasing mist that hides the path forward, and its boulders, from view.

It is with hubris, and without trepidation, that I will turn Monday morning to descend this year’s mountain. I have already paused long enough for consideration, and my clarity in this moment is my triumph, my higher fidelity – it is the evidence of, and the reason for, my happiness.

Late January: Dubai, UAE

It is in these moments that we should measure our years, and our lives.

Without Gethsemane, without God’s punishing silence or life’s innumerable obstacles, without our trials, without the mountain, how would we measure our triumphs? How could we ever be happy?

Without the actions we take that seal our fate and ignite our adventures and our misadventures, how else would we measure our years besides the droll of passing minutes?

My silence on this blog is deafening… that has been with a certain intent. I don’t see any reason to put TWI or myself at risk by blogging extensively about my work or travels, but I figured a brief update wouldn’t hurt.

As some of you might know, I am now living in Frankfurt, Germany, where I am managing a project to deploy ERP software across our supply chain.

As I sit here today writing this, I am in a little town in Switzerland called Zug, which is near Zurich, where our corporate headquarters is located. Our office overlooks Lake Zurich and the train station, and the office, the town, and the surrounding area is a vision of Swiss efficiency (I only reset my watch, and assume that it is correct, when I come to Switzerland).

I drove here from Frankfurt yesterday – a fun trip south which is mostly across the German autobahn… that provides the gut-crunching possibility of “speed-limit-less” travel. That being said, as far as I can tell, my rental Ford Fiesta is incapable of going much faster than 110 mph, and often it seems like that is standing still in comparison to the BMW’s that roar past at speeds that must be approaching 200 miles per hour. I took a quick picture of the road as I entered Switzerland… this country is like Narnia. I haven’t seen a sky like that collide with rolling green hills since Jerash in Northern Jordan overlooking the Golan Heights – I have a picture of Jerash somewhere… I’ll have to find it because it looks just like this.

This is the first generally relaxing and planned-ahead “trip” I’ve had with TWI… that being said… it was planned Monday afternoon and off I was on Tuesday morning.

I have traveled to so many locations since February 1st that I find it sort of shocking, and this trip has so far been pleasant in comparison by leaps and bounds. Since 2/1/2010 I have been to (in order): Dubai, Kuwait, Istanbul, Bishkek Kyrgyzstan (recently in the news but it was peaceful when I was there), Switzerland, Germany, Portland Maine, Charlotte NC, Denver CO, Swedesborro NJ, Cincinnati OH, back to Charlotte NC, back to Portland Maine, and back to Germany. Including this most recent drive to Zug, I think that adds up to about 25,000 miles of travel in about 75 days, or 333 miles per day.

I am looking forward to a trip to London over the weekend, my first “leisure” travel since Alana and I’s road trip in January.

So all is going very well work-wise but it has been quite a crazy two and a half months. I have found it exhausting and lonely but fascinating and constantly stimulating  - a bizarre but infinitely interesting combination of adventure and work. The people I work with are absolutely top notch and the company looks after its people 110%.

So all is well on my end – It’s been great to hear from so many people who are interested in moving to Lebanon… although I find that just absolutely bizarre. My flatmate in Beirut tells me rent has doubled since I left… perhaps as Nick predicted the yuppies might be headed to Beirut… crazyness. When I think back to his and I’s first trip there in the fall of 2007 when Hezbollah occupied downtown and the Armored Personnel Carrier outside of our hotel had its 50 cal machine gun pointed up at our balcony, I just can’t believe the stories I’m hearing about how tourism has taken off there. It still made me smile though when CNN listed Beirut as one of the 10 “most dangerous cities in the world” this past week.

My love to you all back home – stay in touch!

If you’d like to see what life has been like since this post, click here.

Today I sign off officially from ‘Some Guy in Lebanon,’ as I start work with TWI as IT Project Manager.

I will be traveling extensively across Europe, Asia, and the Middle East for the next year – if you live in Frankfurt, Zurich, Istanbul, Dubai, Kuwait, or Kyrgyzstan, I would love to hear from you, as I will bouncing around that part of the world extensively. For those of you who are wondering, yes, the plan is to be back in Beirut by the fall.

The last six months have been a wild ride – Last time I posted it was October 6th and I think I was in either Jordan or Charlotte. It was with some consideration that I decided to discontinue this blog, but it was clear that blogging shouldn’t be a priority now that I have to direct all my attention to a new and difficult job. I will be sure to keep personal notes, however, and I am more than willing to share where I am and how things are going, if you’re interested.

Feel free to contact me at anytime using this form if you have questions, thoughts, or whatever!

I’ve thought about what I’d say in this post for a long time. In so many ways, it’s probably the most important thing I’ll write on this foolish little blog, but it will also likely be the least conclusive.

I’ll recap, quickly, what’s happened over the past month and a half. In late August, I approached the NYC Lebanese Consulate, requesting a proper visa to go back to Beirut on, so that I could arrange for work papers and legalize my status in Beirut. They stamped my passport and sent it back to me.

Upon arrival at the airport in Beirut, I was barred from entering the country, and I went to Jordan. A wide range of people did their very best for me, but at the end of the day, it was to no avail.

I have booked my flight back to America, and will spend the next three months or so in Charlotte, NC, working for PayStream Advisors on an integrated communications project – I am blessed to have the opportunity to finish what I started with PayStream, and it is truly a lucky stroke to have things line up time-wise.

Taking stock of the past month, I notice two things. First, it is apparent that the ground moved too quickly, this time, beneath me, to respond. I got caught on the wrong end of a bureaucratic stamp, and there was no way to flex around the problem. Second, as a learning experience, this was a good thing – I realize now that I took this situation far too personally, and allowed it to get under my skin. As someone who would like to spend the next five years or more overseas, I’ve got to learn that luck is not always going to go in my favor, and disasters are unavoidable.

In terms of actually just growing the heck up and getting on with it, I definitely noticed that I was in profoundly serious need for an event like this. I did not do a good job of securing a proper safety net in the event that something went wrong with my paperwork, nor did I move towards a place quickly where I could emotionally accept what was happening. Indeed, I did quite the opposite – I convinced myself that things would work out, and, as I said before, I took the whole situation personally, which was a dire mistake. When it didn’t work out, I did nothing but fight it. This was a serious mistake but one I’ll learn from.

In Arabic, there are two terms which tend to govern the general thought process of many people in the Middle East. On the one hand is Insha’Allah, and on the other is Mash’Allah. The former means, “God Willing,” pointing to future events, and the latter means, “God Wills it,” pointing to the present. I would like to venture the following: Somewhere between God’s relationship with the future and the present, lies everything else – Indeed, it is here that we make our stand for sorting out what we have control over.

We need not take this from a religious or spiritualist perspective – merely acknowledging that there is so much beyond our control, b0th in the present, and the future, gets to the heart of these statements. Indeed, recognizing that there are billions of other people and so many other forces acting in tandem to our own actions and choices, is to recognize just how little control we have, and how important it is to exercise our capacity to act when it is possible, and therefore necessary, to do so.

This is perfectly encapsulated in the age-old prayer, “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.” Where does that wisdom come from? I can only say, as someone who is as young as I, that it comes not from theoretisizing, but from experience. And experience is something I lack. I lack it in spades.

But I am pleased to say that, for what it’s worth, this was an experience that I’ll relish, although I don’t know how I’ll pay back the debts I’ve accumulated from this episode.

Gosh! What a month. I have to say it was not pleasant, but it was what it was. I’m still standing, still breathing… I wasn’t able to shift my weight on this occasion. And, to the ire of several people who I know have my best interests in mind, I even managed to lash out at the American government… something I probably should not have done.

Well, consider this my apology… and also my very specific statement that I’m not giving up. I am not.

I look forward to getting back on American soil – I guess that makes me a bit of a hypocrite… but whatever the case is, I’ll move forward and I won’t wallow in it.

Take care all – this will be my last post on Some Guy in Lebanon until I manage to get back… if I manage to get back. Thanks for reading – to those I’ll see soon, I can’t wait to see you.

As a parting… gift… or whatever, as they are my favorite places in Beirut and the spots I’ll miss the most, here is a picture of Cafe Rawda, of Andre and Captains Cabin. Naz is in there too

It’s extraordinary how things work out.

And as always, I’m in debted to a good friend for his help. It’s time to take my little Middle Eastern sideshow on the road, leaving Amman, Jordan, for Dubai. I’ll be there in two weeks.

I can’t even begin to thank everyone who has done their very best to get me out of this jam with the Lebanese General Security. Hopefully, come January or February, I’ll be back in Beirut with flying colors, ready to take on the world again.

In the meantime, I must go hibernate, and see what I can see, in that city built on sand they call Dubai. Perhaps I’ll do a little indoor skiing while i’m there…

To my family, and to my friends, thank you so much.

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank one more group of people – the employees/owners of Liquid, the coffeeshop and second home of mine on Second Circle, in Amman. Here’s a picture of the store, Ahmad, and me. I would have been infinitely worse off if it wasn’t for this place… 

It seems this is it – A final stand was made, and I cannot thank enough those who have tried their very best for me, and those who are still trying.

But it seems that there is no solution to my problem in Lebanon. For reasons I don’t understand, I am not allowed entry, not even to collect my things and empty my bank account. A work permit is the only option, but I cannot make that option work, for now.

So now I’m truly in diaspora… and it’s amazing to know what that feels like. Whatever it is that the Lebanese government assumes I’m up to, at least I know I’m not. I have infinite reasons to be upset, but for some reason, finally, after losing my cool for a few hours, I am strangely at peace with everything.

Thank you Amman for your help – And thank you Lebanon. Hopefully, somehow, I’ll see you soon.

Well well well – It has been an interesting week. For those of you who don’t know, despite having a visa from the Lebanese Consulate in New York, I was refused entry into Lebanon last week, and sent to Amman, Jordan, ostensibly to “think about what I’ve done.” Any city would feel like purgatory under this arrangement, it’s true, but arriving in Amman in the middle of Ramadan, this place feels acutely like the doldrums. Until today, as it is the beginning of Eid and things have returned to normal, there has literally been nothing to do but sleep and eat.

At least I can now tell a heck of a story!

A quick remark – I would like to take this moment to bring to light the pathetic response of the American Embassy in Beirut when I called them to let them know what was going on. Their response, “We can do nothing because Lebanon is a sovereign nation and it’s their call,” was as laughable as it was infuriating.

We all know that it is American money and aid that pays for Lebanon’s roads, medical support, and much more. We all know that American tax payer money was instrumental in the arrangement of the last election. We all know that American money paid for Israeli smart bombs used in the 2006 war, and we all know that American money now pays for rebuilding the infrastructure that Israel destroyed. Don’t tell me you can do nothing – That’s what you told the Marines you sent here to die.

So – to those of you at the American Embassy, thanks for nothing. If only I was a Senator’s son! Imagine! But no, I’m just some guy in Lebanon. I would venture to guess I do more in a day to extend American goodwill than the State Department accomplishes in a year. Your lack of action that night is disgusting, as I sat in a lonely airport terminal for 12 hours, awaiting a flight to Amman.

People always ask me why I don’t register with the Embassy – Why I don’t go there, why I have nothing good to say about American foreign policy. Well, let me tell you – I have met several people who work for various European embassies in Amman, and they are all were shocked to hear that you would do nothing for your own citizen in such dire straits. Money for bombs, bridges, and votes, but not a second thought for a tax payer.

But I have taken this experience to heart, and I know now to never expect anything from my government – neither social security nor the slightest inkling of help when I’m stranded thousands of miles from home. It’s a wonder I pay taxes at all – just remember who pays for your armored SUV’s and your cushy life up on that hill, let alone for the men who protect you. Next time you buy a drink in Gemayze, just think about where your paycheck from comes as well.

In the meantime, I am reading The Age of the Unthinkable by Joshua Cooper Ramo – I can’t recommend it enough. It’s about the need to respond asymmetrically to today’s problems, and about the nature of Complexity Theory and its relationship to a world where information, decisions, and money move at the speed of light. He points out the extraordinary improvement in the movement of data – in the past one hundred years, the speed at which data moves has improved by 1,000,000,000%!

Anyways, it appears I will be back in Beirut early next week, thanks entirely to friends in Beirut. Though I blame the Consulate in New York for giving me the wrong information, I understand that they are operating within the context of Immigration policies that are fluid – Indeed, calls to various Lebanese agencies has revealed disbelief – No one can believe this happened and everyone seems to have a different reason, and I can accept that. But I am sorely disappointed with my own government’s response – We can invade countries, fund rebels, and buy elections. But for some guy in Lebanon, it’s “tough luck.” Thank you – lesson learned.

Whew!

What a summer. What an extraordinary, incredible, lovely, indescribable summer. Hopefully not too-indescribable, or it would be hard to articulate it in this post…! And now it’s over, and tomorrow I get on a plane and fly back to Beirut. As my business partner Oni Kabir put it to me this evening, “It’s amazing how full circle things feel.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Let’s take a moment to reflect on the past year – 365 days ago I was working at the Portland Lobster Company and gearing up to fly to Lebanon, with literally zero plan besides to intern at the Daily Star. I was also painting houses. Hey, don’t knock it – It paid the bills. But I was staring out into a future that I’d no idea how to envision – In 45 days I’d be getting on a plane for Beirut, praying that Nick would, in fact, be at the terminal to receive me (he was).

9 months later I returned to the United States for vacation, initially planning on being here for a 30 days. However, as my grandmother had major surgery over the winter and wouldn’t be in Maine until late August, it was important (and fantastic) to stay for another three weeks to see her. And so my return date morphed to September 11th (I didn’t choose the date).

I’d like to reflect on that date for a moment – September 11th doesn’t need an introduction. It is a day that will long be remembered in horrifying imagery as America was attacked in an unprecedented terrorist incident. On that day, it seemed, the long arm of Middle Eastern politics, upheaval, and affairs, reached out far across the seas, as Saudis, financed by oil profits, and under the nose of one of America’s key allies, obliterated our sense of security and isolation. Suddenly there was an enormous realization that America did not stand alone in a vacuum. There was a new interest in the Middle East – People took Arabic in unprecedented numbers, and our President and our foreign policy took a new interest in the region, often for the worse. It is impossible to deny that September 11th awakened me to an interest in the Middle East, as well.

American interest had its many disasters, including, obviously, the Iraq war, the disastrous financing of Fatah in Gaza, and a blind eye to Arab dictatorships, new allies in the “War on Terror,” as they brutally cracked down on moderate Muslim democratic movements. But it had one interesting moment – Bush loudly backed the “March 14″ coalition in Lebanon when it streamed into the streets in 2005 to protest Syria’s occupation of the country following the assassination of Rafic Hariri. I will not attribute the entire thing to American foreign policy, but it is hard to deny that, in an ocean of failure, this was one bright spot for the post-September 11th American agenda. It paved the way for my life now.

That I am therefore flying back to Beirut on the 11th of this month only adds to an overall feeling that this trip has allowed me to “bring full circle” so many things.

So I’d like to do a quick recap over the past two months- sorry if I leave anything out!

July

I arrived on July 16th exhausted – I’d been up for three days straight because I’d had a lot of business to attend to before I left Beirut – Also, my flight left early in the morning of the 15th and I was afraid I’d sleep through my alarm. Landing in New York, I don’t remember feeling anything other than how big everything looked – Especially the highways and the airport. I think that all of Downtown Beirut (which I define, for those of you who know, as the box made by Hamra to Gemayze, up to the top of Monot and then across to Verdun, then back down to Ras Beirut and the sea) could fit in John F Kennedy International Airport! And to really drive the point home, I don’t think I left that box more than 10 times in the 9 months I lived in Beirut!

Getting back to Maine was wonderful – I took Jet Blue and I remember the only “astonishing” moment of my whole trip in terms of going from Lebanon to America: Satellite TV on the Jet Blue plane in every seat. ESPN! Comedy Central! While I fly! The moment passed, thank god.

I spent the rest of July driving the hot Mustang convertible I rented from the 7/16 to 8/16 (pictured to the right), complete with enormous sound system, but since it rained nearly every day of July I didn’t get much of a chance to use it until August. Didn’t matter – it was still great. It was wonderful to see Mariah Daily and Whitter Lewis get married shortly on arrival.

Those first two weeks of July were jarring – Parties in Small Point, where I was suddenly one of the oldest people there (especially as many of my generation had not yet arrived) produced a serious existential crises, which you can read about here: Some Guy in Lebanon Part 1. July was still wonderful, however, as mom and I stayed first at the Curtis house, and then Bumma’s – July was a quiet time – Lots of reading was done, lots of lounging around, and working on client projects. It was great to see people as they started to filter in, especially as they were people I’d grown up with… And then, suddenly, things took off as August arrived.

August

On August 1st, the weather suddenly drastically improved and wave after wave of folks arrived in Small Point. Small parties and gatherings turned into an endless string of beach days and nights, sailing, cliff walking, and cocktail parties. My favorite thing about Small Point started to materialize – very quickly a ‘sixth sense’ of ‘where people are at’ kicked in, as did an ever-growing need to see each other, to smile, to drink, to laugh, to watch the moon come up and then the sun go down, and then to howl at both, only to see the sun come back up again. Pictured to the right was one of those wonderful mornings when we all watched the sun rise up over the water. Below is all of us from the roof watching as the sun basked Head Beach in a beautiful glow at 6am.

It seemed as if, out of nowhere, flotillas of boats were being lashed together to watch the sun set, and the clinking of glasses filled with vast amounts of gin and tonic had become the anthem-song of August 2009.

Soon I moved in with Brady at his wonderful house on the Harbor, where endless afternoons sitting by the pool and watching the boats roll in and out became the norm. During this time I turned 25, as did Nick, and we both decided to host our party a few days later.

That “few days later” fell on a Friday, as our birthday party was unleashed on Shell Beach, completely equipped with music, dancing, bar, and bonfire. Many faces I hadn’t seen in ages turned up – I won’t speak for anyone but myself, but I had enough fun to last until next year.

It was great to meet Sarah and Josh, or “Thunderbolt” and “Fergie,” Chef and Sous Chef (respectively) at the Club, including a great night out at Portland bars with them. John Herrigel and Ben Lewis received the thumbs up that they will be running the Summer School next year! Other highlights included reggae at Peaks Island with Emma, Isaiah, and Tim Short-Lee – playing many rounds of chess with Nick at his family’s beautiful home – an amazing pool party at Brady’s – a fast but fun trip to DC to see Leigh, Kris, Devlin, and Alex Steele, and meet up with Oni to talk business – Brady and company’s incredible SPSS play “How to Eat Like a Child” – and so so very much more.

The end of August was of course characterized by the sadness of people leaving, but also the arrival of Maine’s best weather, as well as a few other surprises.

Here are the rest of the photos from the month:

September

Late August and early September brought me and mom back to the Curtis house, spending time with my grandparents – my grandmother (thanks to God) seems more fit than ever – medicine these days is unbelievable!

Sometime in late August or early September I saw my other grandmother, who seems equally fit as ever, while getting a new passport in Boston (lost the old one… then found it after I got a new one…) and had a great afternoon with her. She even made me Kabab, on the advice of her Lebanese hair dresser, and it was delicious.

Everything seemed to get well wrapped up in September – I finally felt that I had caught up on sleep, seen my family and friends, and done everything I wanted to do and all the realizations about my future that I wanted to have. I ended my trip this past week by finally finding peace with an angel, who will be traveling to Nepal this next year and following her dreams, as she should. I wouldn’t trade this past week, month, or year for anything in the world – I have nothing left to do now but smile smile smile.

Epilogue

So what is America to me, having been back for two months? I have traveled its highways, experienced its high speed internet, and enjoyed its Atlantic breezes. It was great to see my friends, who I love, and my family, who I also love. It was obnoxious to be so close to its politics, as they seem to have become horribly stilted, but I still feel the country is in good hands. To me, America is the beautiful, boisterous place where I was born, and where I’m proud to say I’m from. I love this country, and I’ll miss it.

But my home is over seas, and that’s just the way it’ll stay for a while. I have no regrets, and I’m excited to see what the seeds I’ve planted in Beirut will grow into.

I don’t know when I’ll be back next – I’d love to say I’ll be back next summer for a month, and I think it’s possible – but only God knows. Going back to Lebanon is going back to my home – My apartment, my friends, my work, my life. I’m looking forward to working with LAU, with other clients, and settling back in.

Maybe my arrival will herald a newly formed government! Who knows, stranger things have happened.

Some guy from America could move to Lebanon, with no plans, come home after 9 months self-employed, and then go back again with a smile on his face, stretching ear to ear.

I was up late this evening, faced with the sudden urge to watch “Casablanca.” I can only imagine it has much to do with my longing to get bored at 2:30 in the morning and wander over to Captains Cabin, for a beer (or several).

But I have an awful, frightful, terrifying secret that I must get off my chest – I had never seen Casablanca all the way through. Only in bits and pieces, here and there. I know, it’s sad.

However in retrospect, I’m sort of glad I hadn’t – At least this way nobody could accuse me of trying to, well, you know, be Humphrey Bogart.

I guess I’ll just have to be more careful now. That pained expression I get when I’m talking about women I’ve loved over many rounds of scotch at 4 in the morning in any dive in Hamra? Well, now you can assume it’s just my way of pretending we still live in a world where one can run guns to the resistance in Ethiopia and pretend that, if it’s said a smoke-filled-bar where the men speak Arabic and the women speak French, it makes one a protagonist. Only in the movies, I’m afraid – although, it seems, love still finds a way to hurt us more in real life than on celluloid.

Rick's Cafe, Casablanca

No matter. There’s something magical about the movie – I think it’s sort of incredible that it was filmed prior to the American invasion of North Africa. I think that the character of Rick and the love triangle, and his actions, must have had an enormous impact on the American viewer at the time. The movie does not scream “love triumphs over all.” If it did that, it’d just be foolishness. Instead it says, “love is a uniquely free thing. Fascists don’t feel love, rebels feel love. Bar men feel love. France feels love, and God dammit, Americans feels love. And the only people who aren’t having any fun are the Nazi’s, and we’d best keep it that way, because we’d rather be in more pain from love than not love at all.” The movie beautifully orchestrates the viewer into a position where they must equate rebellion, intellectualism, sympathy for the underdog, good music, gorgeous women, and smokey saloons with love, the opposite (an absence of love) with the Nazi’s. The Fascists are here to take your fun and your love, and by God, if even this drunken angry murdering love-struck chain-smoker can do the right thing, why can’t we all?

I was rather harsh on Americans in my last post, I admit. I am prone to that. It’s perhaps fair to say that the emotional orchestration of the American isn’t so bad after all when it’s done with such flair. Hard to say – Let’s just say that the slippery slope begins after the Nazi gets shot in the chest. All in the name of love!

I admit, watching Casablanca this evening, just twelve days before I am scheduled to return to Beirut, put a great many things in perspective. Not the least of which is the fact that I couldn’t help but feel a parallel to my recent love life. I’m happy I hadn’t seen the film all the way through until tonight, and I’m happy I took the time. It was too much fun, and I felt at home.

Perhaps there is a “Karma’s cafe americain” on the the horizon. Just, Karma, one favor – I just can’t understand why everybody kept drinking ‘champagne cocktails’ the whole movie – please don’t serve those. Ever.

This post has garnered quite the discussion over at KabobFest. I invite you to take a look at it. Thanks for the traffic guys.

This picture popped up on Reddit yesterday, with the comment “This takes guts.”

The picture immediately moved me for a number of reasons, and so I posted it to my Facebook Profile with the following comment:

if you can understand that 95% of americans look at this picture and feel more terrified of the man with the flag than the man with the assault rifle, then you will understand the root of the problem, the conceptual basis of racism (and its implicit …self-justification), and the reason behind american acquiescence to apartheid

This started a spirited discussion, with a commenter remarking:

My understanding of the “root of the problem” (let me know if you agree with this interpretation): for those Americans who are not Arab or Muslim, an Israeli soldier has never and will never pose any threat to them or their identity. A small subset of Palestinian nationalists are associated with groups who preach hatred toward Americans and wish to… do harm to Americans. Many of the people who fear the nationalist more probably are racist, but as a white, Christian American, you could ask yourself, “Who out of these two people is more likely to dislike me on the basis of my superficial identity?” if they know nothing of your personal opinions. Similarly, who would you be more afraid of in Compton, an armed white police officer or an African-American man with black nationalist paraphernalia? The issue is that people are evaluated collectively rather than as individuals, but this is so deeply ingrained in our psyche that it’s hard to avoid.

So how do you move forward?

I was not satisfied with that, and so responded:

the reason that americans’ don’t feel threatened by the man with the gun, either personally or on the level of ‘identity,’ is because they are one and the same. an american can’t feel threatened by anyone who would brandish a weapon against a palestinian, because on a self-justifiable level, that’s the only thing that makes sense. the american … attitude towards the israeli-palestinian reality is that, on looking at this picture, they don’t see one man with a gun and one man with a flag, but one man with the gun, standing between the one man with the flag and his terrorist cohorts, and oblivion. an american will look at this picture and feel threatened *on the behalf* of the man with the gun, because he represents the wall between ‘us and them.’ that’s because he’s white, wearing a soldier’s uniform, and brandishing a weapon that looks like the ones we see ‘our boys’ with in movies. a palestinian, on the other hand, would look at this picture and see an unarmed man standing up against a heavily armed man, one who they know cannot be held accountable for his actions. a palestinian looks at this picture and sees an allegory to his own existence.

so no, i disagree. if a black man in compton sees a white police officer, he sees whatever he sees (and i’m not black and i don’t live in compton so i won’t presume to know what that is…). i, however, know that if i was in compton and i saw that white cop, i’d feel that he was there to help *me.* and as an example, no matter how ‘enlightened’ anyone is, in his book ‘blink’ malcolm gladwell demonstrates that all white people will respond that way. regardless, the racism implicit in that gut-reaction is the belief that the white police officer is there for a good reason. he’s armed for a good reason. he can respond with force based on government authority, and for good reason.

the american looking at this picture doesn’t notice at all its explicit imbalance. he believes that the soldier is there for good reason, is armed for good reason, and is needed to maintain the barrier between the scary looking dark skinned man, and the West.

the american doesn’t just empathize with the soldier and fear the arab. the american *is* the soldier, and for that reason is incapable of empathizing with the arab.

The commenter responded:

the worst of what people do is what generates the most media attention. thus, americans learn about terrorist attacks by palestinians and become afraid of them as a group. people throughout the muslim world learn about american drones bombing wedding parties in afghanistan and are filled with generalized anger towards americans. the media doesn’t … help things, but they play on the way our minds work, and if you don’t personally know someone on “the other side,” it’s hard to break through those mental barriers. this is why getting to know you, will, is important in changing the perceptions of people in the middle east without much personal exposure to americans, and also why it is necessary that the average american gets to know one of the “scary dark people” as a person rather than a stereotype. your existence, sir, is validated

At this point we were obviously not getting very far, and probably in agreement, but because I am a jerk and this was my Facebook wall, I demanded the last word:

one in one hundred people i meet in the middle east are ‘filled with generalized anger towards americans.’ one in three americans i meet are “afraid of them (i assume you mean arabs) as a group.” it has nothing to do with terrorism or attack drones or media or anything. it’s the simple fact that americans feel that anyone on the wrong end of a … white soldier in green fatigues with an american-made weapon is, by definition, at fault and to be feared. feared to such a degree as to deem it an immediate threat. more threatening than the things that really hurt them, like usurious bank loans, or cancer, or drunk driving. i would venture that it’s not the media that programs the american to assume that the israeli is right and the palestinian is wrong – it’s the simple fact that calling into question the existence of the israeli soldier, let alone his actions, would expose the american to existential questions he or she is unwilling to ask. such as, “what does my support of the soldier and my fear of the arab, say about the ethics and morals i have as a human being.”

I think the important thing here to remember is that in this picture, it is the Israeli, not the Palestinian, that is armed, but to most of the West, it is the Palestinian who inherently looks scarier, even if the person knows nothing about their conflict, because he is of darker skin than the soldier. This has been proven in a number of studies, often referenced by Malcolm Gladwell in his books Blink, The Tipping Point, and Outliers. Even people of darker skin are proven to have this prejudice.

Well fine – But what is even more curious is that, in this case, the self-justification that immediately arises if the viewer knows anything about the conflict. If that is the case, then the viewer, if they are (as is likely the case if they are American) sympathetic to the Israeli cause, will say to him or herself “well of course the Israeli must be armed, the Palestinians are so mean looking and scary!” And they do not stop to question the moral issue at hand. At what point is it reasonable to assume that an unarmed man is more terrifying than an armed man, solely on the basis on prejudice? We do this all the time – we take guns out of the hands of citizens (as in the case in countless states, counties and municipalities), but we don’t question that police should be armed. Or, as the commenter points out, we feel less threatened by white police (even if we are not white) then blacks dressed as militants, and we support the police officer’s right to be armed, and to use deadly force, and are frightened if the black man is.

Of course that means that we have made a value judgment that the police officer (and the Israeli soldier) is armed because the opposition is so scary, but we fail to question the system of thought that leads to the value judgment – That is, that the police officer and the soldier are empowered by a state that is controlled by the very people that find the opposition threatening, thus completing a nice little bit of circular reasoning that ultimately grants power to the strong and stigmatizes the weak. The moment the weak choose to resort to violence in an effort to destabilize this unjust relationship between the powerful and the police, the stigmatization becomes even more justified, inevitably to the degree that the weak becomes a terrorist, and therefore may be fought, “without prejudice,” no matter how prejudicial the conflict really is.

I did not know my Great Grandfather but in the briefest of senses – When he died I was not even three years old. There are pictures of me with him, and I suppose any ‘memory’ I have of him is clouded by those photographs.

Yet no one can deny the degree to which I unconsciously feel his presence in everything that I do – It was his friendship with Nick’s Great Uncle, Governor Sumner Sewall, that led him to purchase Ropes End in Small Point, leading not only to my long and formative time at the Small Point Club, but also to Nick’s inevitable suggestion that “Lebanon would be a nice place to move to, don’t you think?” And I would like to believe that, if genetics or heritage plays a part in anything, the instinct in my mind that immediately agreed to leave my cushy work-from-home job in consulting for the great unknown on the other side of the world was part and parcel of the instinct that led my great grandfather to agree to everything that his family and country asked of him, no matter how bureaucratic (like founding the Federal Aviation Agency) or life-threatening (like dog fighting in bi-planes), and everything in between.

I’ve had conversations with various members of my family, as well as people who knew him, trying to get to the heart of the man – It’s as if I have a ghost that haunts me, determining an extraordinary amount of my life and my decisions. Well if I am to be haunted, I suppose there are far worse ghosts to do the haunting!

And just when I felt that following in his footsteps might have led me right off a cliff (see my last post), two things happened.

First, I began to reassess and reevaluate a statement that my grandfather made about General Curtis, that is – “The thing about my father is that it was simpler to be a hero in his times.” On one hand, I agree that this is true – He was born at a time that allowed him to fight in two world wars, as well as participate in the development of Eisenhower’s America and the golden years of Kodak. On the other hand, I’m sure my grandfather knows full well that his father’s life transcended his era – The distinction, the key element of that transcendence, is at the heart of what I would call the most interesting of personality traits: To live a life that is as unpredictable as it is executable. To leave college and steam off for France prior to America’s entry into the first World War was unpredictable, but was also the hallmark of many men of his day. But the key, it seems, to his success, was in execution. This is what made what otherwise might have seemed ‘rash’ choices become the clearest and most obvious of paths for him to take. Looking at memorials of his life, it is clear that while (perhaps many) others could approach his successes by making spectacularly unpredictable decisions in their life, only a few possess the capacity to execute plans that do more than just make those decisions viable in the long term – they  ultimately make them success stories. And when a man possesses that trait in times of war or times of immense corporate or governmental development (he lived and thrived through all of these) he will be constantly called to put that trait to good use, and will be consistently recognized for it.

But I sincerely believe that anyone can be heroic in the style of my great grandfather if they possess the capacity for success in unpredictable ways by flawless execution, regardless of the times they live in. If I am to inherit the consequences of his life’s path, and potentially also inherit the world he helped shape, to truly capitalize I must also seek that level of flawless execution, regardless of the world around me.

Second, right on cue, shortly after publishing my last post, my mother received a package in the mail from her parents, containing many old pictures and memento’s from her earlier years, along with pictures of me and my brother when we were young boys. These were treasures from our past, and it was wonderful to have them – but for me, the most important piece was a small leaflet tucked unassumingly between two pictures of Ned, my mother, and I, in Europe over a decade ago: The program for my great grandfather’s funeral. In it is his eulogy that my grandfather wrote. Reading it now is a revelation – if only I could accomplish half the things he did with his life, I’d die with great peace of mind.

In the interest of educating my few readers as to the footsteps I’m following in this crazy life, and hopefully I am not offending any member of my family by doing this, I would like to share this document – this testament to my great grandfather, the man who has had such a huge impact on my life and my personality, despite the fact that I never knew him and can barely remember meeting him.

So – here goes:

Edward Peck Curtis – Remembrance of a Valiant Life

“And walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch”

These words from Kipling’s “If” give some insight into the extraordinary man that my father was. He walked with kings, and presidents, and statesmen, and they welcomed him as one of their own, knowing his true worth.

And yet until last week I couldn’t go downtown without a cop at the Four Corners, or a Kodak Office receptionist, or a liqour store clerk, or the dry cleaner, asking me, “How’s your Dad? Tell him I say ‘Hi’, will you?” And I would, and he would recall prior meetings and conversations with each of them.

Medals and honors and awards came to him in profusion, and for the most part he wore them lightly. The Distinguished Service Cross he valued – that was for valor in combat and he knew the cost that went with it. But ask him how he won his second Croix de Guerre and he’d tell you, “Oh, some silly French Major got drunk and fell in the Seine and I pulled him out” – which may well have been true.

For titles he cared not a whit. One of his favorite stories was about going to the Baltic Provinces in 1919 with U.S. Commissioner Jack Gade. He was Gade’s deputy, but the appointment was a last minute offer and the only slot left in the approved table of organization was that of chauffeur.

“Sure,” said Curtis, “I’ll be chauffeur,” and off they went to Latvia, where he would mind the store while Gade was roaming about the provinces. He would send cables back to the State Department describing the local situation and he would sign these cables “Curtis for Gabe.” This practice finally brought forth a plaintive query from then Secretary of State Henry G. Lansing: “Lansing to Gade. Why your chauffeur signing cables?”

What is it that defined my father? The editorials speak of style and grace, and this is true, but does it consist of? It seems to me that three very special qualities came together in him:

The first was commitment and dedication to the job at hand. The first to volunteer in two World Wars; always ready to take on the tough assignments so long as he believed in them; never seeking appointment for its own sake (he turned down at least two cabinet offers, feeling that others were as qualified as he); but undaunted by challenge when he knew he was uniquely suited for the post; never did he fail his country or community when they need him.

The second was an extraordinary sense of what was appropriate and fitting. A small thing, perhaps, but always a concern. The paper reported, for instance, that he only called President Eisenhower “Ike” between the war and the White House: it was always “General” before and “Mr. President” afterwords. And how fitting, and how complete, that he should have died three days before the birth of his second great-grandchild – and he knew that she was here. One thinks of Ogden Nashe’s poem:

“When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn
So many I loved were not yet dead
So many I love were not yet born.”

And the third quality was that marvelous gift of cheerful irreverence that marked so much of what he did. He knew and followed President Eisenhower’s maxim: “Always take the job seriously, never take yourself seriously.”

I remember 20 years ago when Debba was confirmed in this church at the height of the crises between Eastman Kodak and the FIGHT organization, in which the church played no small role. It happened that I was ushering that Sunday, and as I passed the plate he put in a $20 bill and, in a stage whisper that I don’t suppose was heard more than ten or fifteen pews away, said, “Not a penny for FIGHT!!”

If you go to St. Paul’s Cathedral in London you will find a simple marble plaque in the crypt that reads “Si monumentum requiris, circumspice” - if you seek his monument, look about you. And it is of course dedicated to Christopher Wren, that great architect of the Cathedral and so much else of London after the fire.

If you seek my father’s monument, you will not find much of bricks and mortar or lasting name. There are some: Curtis Hall at Eisenhower College (he was not stranger to failure); a line on the Collier Trophy in the Smithsonian commemorating the award he got as Special Assistant to President Eisenhower when he authored the study that led to the establishment of the Federal Aviation Agency; the Edward P. Curtis Award for Excellence in Undergraduate Teaching at the University of Rochester (that he truly valued, since it kept him in touch with the best of those who teach our young); but there are many lesser men who have left greater superficial monuments to their name or at least their fortunes.

Yet, if you seek his monuments, you have not far to look:

When you fly in safety, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of tyranny overthrown and democracy triumphant in two World Wars, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of the golden age of Hollywood in 1930′s and the man who sold them every inch of film they ever shot, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of committed service to country and community across an incredible number of fields and ventures, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of devotion to family – to parents, and sister and wife and children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, remember Ted Curtis.

When you think of cheerful bravery and courage – not just the kind that leads you to volunteer for a solo flight fifty miles behind enemy lines to bring back vital intelligence about the German retreat at the battle of Argonne, but also the kind of courage that makes you step forward time and time again to take on the job others didn’t want or didn’t recognize as something that had to be done, and the kind of bravery that characterizes your every battle, even that dreadful conflict no man can win against – old age and death – remember Ted Curtis.

And finally, over and beyond all these other things, when you think of the nature and the meaning and the values of friendship, remember Ted Curtis.

There was never a man so blessed with such a richness and diversity of friends, and if I were to begin sharing those tales with you we’d be here past midnight. So let me settle for one story (apocryphal, but no less true for that). It was once written that if you were to truly appreciate this man, you would have to go to the farthest corners of the earth, by jet plane and bus and jeep and camel, and finally on foot, until you were up in the hills way back of beyond. And there, it was said, you would find a cafe, and you were to stand at the mouth of this cave and call into it “I’m from Rochester.” And a voice would come out of that cave and reply, “Say ‘Hi’ to Ted Curtis for me, will you?”

And so, on behalf of my mother and my sisters and all our family, I say welcome and thank you to all of you who have come for the last time to say “Hi” to Ted Curtis. We very much hope that all of you will join us across the street at Eastman House immediately after the service for a reception and a chance to share old tales and happy memories.

How can we sum up the life of this astonishing man and his extraordinary accomplishments? My words are inadequate, but perhaps at the end I might share with you two bits of poetry that seem to me to sum up both what he did, and what he was. And one of these is my choice, and one is his.

Mine first – again from Kipling, the last stanza of his eulogy to Lord Roberts, British soldier and statesman who died in France in August 1914 on the eve of that great war that was to change the world and the lives of generations of men, beginning with my fathers’s. And Kipling wrote:

“Yet from his life a new life springs
Through all the years to come
And glory is the least of things
That follow this man home.”

And finally, at the very end, his choice, from Hilaire Belloc:

“From quiet homes and first beginning
Out to the undiscovered ends
There’s nothing worth the wear of winning
But laughter, and the love of friends.”

Amen

Edward P. Curtis, Jr.
St. Paul’s Church
Rochester, New York
March 23, 1987

Two weeks in the United States – and already Lebanon feels like a ghostly place, a world that seems to have been swept away like a dream, groggily whipped clean and evidenced only be sleepy eyes and the strong need to brush ones teeth.

And I am left feeling like an alien, strangely unkempt and unused to 24-hour electricity, highspeed internet, and unknowing stares as I try to approximate Lebanon to those who ask “Where have you been?” – I find that my Middle Eastern home is a place of course that that is as alien to those here, as I was to it last November.

“Yikes,” is a usual exclamation, followed by the type of face one makes when the milk has gone sour. “What’s it like?” Of course there is no reasonable explanation – “It’s fantastic,” illicits the same ‘sour milk’ response as before.

Two weeks in America feels more abroad than two months abroad – I find that I am clinging not to myself, but to the self I was before I left. Or worse, to the self I was years ago – as if a thirteen hours on a plane is enough to bring about a pubescent attitude about everything, and a sort of general anesthesia, or worse, a full pathology, marked first, by devolution and second, by amnesia.

Even my writing is clearly suffering – who writes ‘anesthesia’ and ‘amnesia’ in the same sentence?!

What to say… what to say? On brighter notes, I seem to have shaken off both my fear of flying and of deep water – Yesterday I crewed with Merit in Wednesday sailing races in high winds, which of course led to crushing victory despite nearly swamping off of Hermit Island.

And yet I am ashamed to say I am jumping at shadows. I am not myself. Gone is the strength of mind and purpose I possessed just two weeks ago – I find that I am paranoid about business dealings and personal relationships. I left for Beirut seeking adventure and success – having found both, upon re-arrival, I simultaneously have lost both the love of my life and the civilian sense of American reality that bound me to the coast of Maine.

Rolling distant thunder claps two days ago reminded me of wedding firecrackers and celebratory gunshots drifting over Beirut’s hills – but instead of smiling, perhaps because I wasn’t taking my obligatory stroll to the Mediterranean to watch the sunset at Cafe Rawda, I again frowned: Who and what have I become?

I don’t know for sure. More to come.

You were once my hostess. Now you are my home, my friend and my sister. I say these things with the utmost seriousness, and a firm understanding of the context of each statement. Homes, friends and sisters do not enter my life lightly or without struggle.

Though you offered me no promises, this is my promise to you: No matter where I go in life, who I meet, what I see, I will sing your praises to whoever will listen, to the point of outright obnoxiousness.

Before I go to America for vacation on Wednesday, let me offer the following comment I made on November 4th, 2008:

“My new boss Marc remarked to me today, with excitement, trepidation, and the cynicism of a westerner towards the United States of this past decade, of the irony of my arrival the day before  the most important American election of the modern era, and that I would begin to work on the day after. He dared not even suggest that Obama could pull it off.”

The weight of those words still fall heavily on my mind. Marc – Marc Sirois is now a business partner. Barack Obama is now President of the United States of America. Excitement, trepidation, and cynicism are words that entirely describe my own attitude towards America in these turbulent times. Though we clamored to the call of Change, some things always stay the same. But not everything – instead of beginning work tomorrow,  today, tomorrow and Tuesday I must finish four enormous projects that will cement my professional base in Lebanon.

How could I have known, in those first few days, what this would be like? The highs and lows, the endless idle sunny days, the cold showers in December, the pain of incredible heart break, all to do battle with our greatest enemy in this life: the innate fear of meaninglessness.

I have run into several people over the past few days who have found my blog after recently moving here, and I’m also receiving more and more messages from people who stumbled across my posts and are interested in moving to Lebanon – It’s a very different country than it was in November 2008, let alone October 2007 when I first visited or when Nick first moved to this country. We’re no longer unique here, but the words that have been on my blog synopsis since late 2008 are still ringing true:

This is my blog about living in the Middle East trying not to run out of money and actually doing something worth doing.

I’m not sure I’ve accomplished either of these things in the slightest.

But a few people remarked that my post “Eight Months in Lebanon” was too modest. So allow me then to embellish for a few sentences in response.

As a disclaimer: Without friends, family, and the kindness of strangers, I would not have accomplished even the slightest iota of success here.

That being said. I moved to Lebanon on the first of November, 2008. I had $3500 in my pocket, one friend in Lebanon, no job and no guarantee of one. Eight and a half months later, here I am. I survived.

But we are not commanded to merely survive, and I would venture that I did more – I thrived. I thrived thanks to those things disclaimed: Friends, family, and the kindness of strangers. But I also thrived because, according perhaps to the Will of God (sic), I committed myself to do something extraordinary, though indescribable, and I achieved it.

If you can do the same, you should do with my strongest encouragement – Beforehand, let me share quickly share the summation of my experience here: There are no systems, no guarantees, no saftey nets in this life. There are only friends, family, the kindness of strangers, and our own eternal decision, to do, or not to do, something extraordinary.

As Lebanon stabilizes and more people move here searching for their own Lebanese story, Nick and I will be increasingly less unique – but don’t let anyone dare take from us our accomplishment, or equate it with this next generation of expatriates. Like the Lebanese, we learned to thrive despite odds and adversity for one reason, and one reason alone: Because we can.

To really drive that point home, here is a picture of Maxim Chaaya, the first Lebanese to ever summit Mount Everest, in May of 2006 at all times. He was 44.

His flag was my first Everest. God knows what I’ll be summiting in 20 years. Maktoub.

As usual, I digress. To conclude:

America is frozen in time for me, crystallized in two mental images: The Royal Jordanian gate in the international terminal at JFK, fighting tears, panic and the all-encompassing feeling that I’d made some terrible mistake – and hearing on the Captain’s Cabin television in early November the simple words of a personal hero that, if I ever met, would likely find little trouble understanding my journey this past year:

“Yes we can.”

We’ll see what happens when it is unfrozen on Wenesday afternoon.

I’m tan – “How did you get so tan, Will?” You might ask – Well, dear reader, this is for three reasons:

1. I live at the eastern end of the Mediterranean. One can get a tan just by walking around
2. I spent Saturday at “Lazy B,” a wonderful little cabana-style resort south of Beirut.
3. I spent most of Sunday sitting in no-man’s-land at the Syrian border in the sun. For five hours. Just to be in Syria for forty five minutes.

I want to remark on this last point -  “Why did you go to Syria, Will?” Well, dear reader, it’s because my visa was going to expire and they changed the rules in Lebanon requiring an exit stamp to leave at the airport if you’re in your third month of a tourist visa. But I couldn’t get an exit stamp because my visa was going to expire in two days, so they told me ‘just go to Syria – you don’t need an exit stamp.’ Of course, going to Syria means waltzing into one of the most skeptical-of-Americans nation in the world – they purposefully make you wait forever if you’re American to dissuade you from coming back – or something, I’m not really quite sure (they fax the information to Damascus – who knows how long it sits next to a cup of coffee there). Luckily, they let me in after I got a mean tan – I had to be out of the country for “a few minutes” according to Lebanese authorities in order to renew my visa.

Unfortunately, I have renewed my tourist visa too many times, so they confiscated my passport on the way back into Lebanon, and I spent this morning at General Security sorting things out.

But, thankfully, this series of events brought to bare one of those keen little existential moments that sometimes come along and really force an expatriate to come to grips with their experience. This Sartre-ian moment was made extra poignant, I believe, because I am approaching (tomorrow) my eight month anniversary in Beirut, and will be returning to America in two weeks.

So before I go and jump the shark here with some shmrarmy expatriate psychological meandering (although I already have), let me illustrate the situation I faced this morning with the nice Lieutenant in charge of interrogating (that is to say, politely questioning and taking everything I had to say absolutely at face value… seriously) me:

Lieutenant: “What is it you’re doing in Lebanon.”

Me: “How much time do we have?”

Lieutenant: “All the time in the world.”

Me: “Well we’re going to need it…”

But then I drew a blank, as I always do when people ask me what I’m doing here. Because I didn’t know – and I said as much, although I did go through the logistics of it all – who I’d worked for, where I’d quit, etc etc. – I didn’t really think more of it until after things got sorted out and I was told I’d get my passport back tomorrow with the appropriate visa and got in a cab for home.

“What is it you’re doing in Lebanon.” Why am I here? Why is any expatriate in Lebanon, let alone the Middle East – citizens of this region aren’t ignorant; they know the type of press the Middle East gets in the West. They know Americans in particular think that Lebanon is sand dunes, camels and war (when Orlando Bloom lands near Tyre in the movie Kingdom of Heaven which is set during the crusades, he literally lands on rolling Suadi-style sand dunes, and is immediately challenged by a dark-skinned sword-waving mean-toned Arab to a fight to the death).

I admit I didn’t know much about Lebanon before I came, but I knew it wouldn’t be sand dunes and camels (there are neither in Lebanon as far as I can tell). I didn’t know about war, but I assumed it would be relatively safe, an assumption that turned out to be quite true. I knew that most pictures that accompany stories about Lebanon are of the bombed out Holiday Inn – cropped out of that picture are the Lebanese Canadian Bank Headquarters, the Intercontinental Phoenicia Hotel, the Sea, and a new high-rise development under construction.

And then it struck me, on the cab-ride home – Another man had already put the equation into words, and all I had to do was realize where I stood in that equation:

“And because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect.

To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict or blame their society’s ills on the West, know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy.
To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.” – Barack Obama, Inauguration Speech

When I heard these words five months ago, I and my peers were shocked at the simplicity yet profundity of the image – the statement it made, the weight that it carried, and the challenge it proposed.

Clearly Obama was directing this statement towards the Middle East, where corruption and deceit, so often supported directly through American aid, or indirectly through American acquiescence, is the status quo here, as is blaming the West for nearly everything. His words were straightforward yet poetic – understanding of the legacy of the past, yet pointing towards a future with different rules and different expectations.

Well good for Barack Obama – I read here that his speech writer is 27. I’m sure the kid has never been to the Middle East or the larger Muslim world, although obviously President Obama has.

And this gets me to my point – Sure, it’s nice that Obama said that. Bush said similar things (minus the imagery and skilled oration). Ameriacn foreign policy is supposed to be designed to change closed fists to open and welcoming hands, though we all know that isn’t true.

In fact, Obama and the State Department owes every American living in the Middle East who isn’t a soldier or arms dealer an enormous thank you.

For who will be there to shake unclenched fists? You’d best be sure that it will eventually be some member of the State Department – Eventually. But we – those of us who live here – we’re the ones that will be changing minds and extending hands, even as our State Department issues travel-warnings to places like Lebanon that are equivalent to:

“Traveling to Lebanon will result in your immediate death.”

So, President Obama, I would like to issue you a challenge, as you did five months ago to the tyrants, dictators and extremists of the world – don’t build bridges that you and your establishment secretly intend to blow up later, and likewise, don’t rebuild bridges you blew up in the past if you intend to do it agian.

To illustrate what I mean, consider the bridge being constructed on the Damascus highway in Lebanon that I past by on Saturday – It was blown up by the Israelis with American-made weapons in 2006 for the reason that “Hezbollah might use the bridge to send Israeli hostages to Syria” as if this sole bridge was the only passable transit to Syria, and its destruction was instead not obviously a part of an Israeli attempt to punish the Lebanese as a whole by destroying their infrastructure.

The lessons are obvious – The American government has to do more than just shake hands – That’s the easy part. Myself and the many Americans who live here are busy trying to get those fists to unclench:

• Lesson 1: I am here for the simple reason that I like shaking hands, and this is a part of the world where the West needs to be doing more hand-shaking. Our President said as much.
• Lesson 2: The minds that control clenched fists have long memories and short fuses. Rebuilding a bridge that your foreign policy and foreign aid were responsible for blowing up is not a proud moment for a nation.
• Lesson 3: Few foreigners who live in the Middle East have “tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation and emerged from that dark chapter strong and more united” – But all foreigners who live in the Middle East know that, though old hatreds may someday pass, lines of tribe will never dissolve, and that it will be private expatriate citizens, independent of government, that play the true role in “ushering in a new era of peace.”

For we are the ones that draw suspicion – we are the ones that take the risk to leave everything for foreign shores in a part of the world that our friends and family are convinced is “dangerous” – without our effort and our presence Obama’s words would ring hollow.

I believe that our reasons for leaving America and finding a new home in the Middle East are not so diverse – We knew, before President Obama said it, that we were doing more for our country and for peace with our physical presence here than the building of any bridge by the American government can accomplish.

Especially if that bridge was destroyed by American smart bombs, just three years ago.

…

More Beirut Stories are coming soon.

Almost 8 months in Beirut now – Eight long months. As I sit back and think – go over my current situation, I can’t help but notice the totality, and the still insignificance, of what I’ve accomplished so far… and all the people who have trusted me, who have had faith in me, and who have stood by me.

I will never be able to repay the debt I owe to those who’ve made this possible – even here, I see that truly it takes a village to raise Will Donovan. Perhaps more here than anywhere.

Who has arrived in Lebanon without family, with limited finances, with no contacts, and with a degree in Religion, and built a business from nothing? To those of you who have done so, you know how hard it is. To those who have not, perhaps you can imagine.

To those who have treated me like a brother, God Bless you. You will always have a place in my heart. I could not have done this without you.

To those in particular who have opened your homes and your hearts to me, thank you. There are no words to express my gratitude.

Lebanon… Lebanon is a country that order forgot, despite certain appearances to the contrary. And Beirut is a city that is simultaneously beautiful and ugly, easy yet impossible, open yet confounding. It is almost impossible to imagine or fathom the emotional, professional, or personal extremes one must grapple with to achieve the most remote success here – but maybe not so impossible – Like America, it is both crowded and lonely, aggravating and pleasing.

And I will return to America shortly to see old friends, family, and others, and I will fail spectacularly in my ability to vocalize some sort of approximation as to what Lebanon is, and what this country means to me.

How will I, for example, juxtapose freezing winter nights in a dirty hostel in Gemayze with waking up in my breezy Hamra apartment? Or counting the equivalent to pennies in order to eat, with five-course steak dinners in biblical Byblos? Or cutting project costs by 90% to earn clients, when two months later one project earned me a year’s equivalent at the Daily Star?

As Nick puts it, Lebanon is the kind of country where you struggle to choose where to have brunch on Sunday mornings, even as elections threaten to boil over into civil or regional war with even the slightest provocation by dozens of parties.

If someone ever takes stock of the expatriate life in Beirut and writes it down accurately and cohesively, I wonder how they’ll do it. Will they remark at the perpetual poverty of those AUB students who burn their allowances and rent money at Hamra and Gemayze bars? Will they marvel at the serene calm of Cafe Rawda (where I am currently writing this entry long-hand), even as he or she is surrounded by screaming Lebanese children and the constant babble of Hijab-ed women smoking endlessly on nargile? Will they make the reader see that that is actually the definition of serene? Or that this time affords one to do things like read, write, learn Chess, leave the cell phone and computer at home, and then walk along the corniche for an hour?

Will they appropriately describe the Beirut club scene in all its over-glorified detail, commenting on the degree to which it simultaneously rivals the best parties in the world, yet still manages to suck the soul, and the host’s wallet, dry? Will they remind the reader that the reason the parties are so great is because everybody seems to have acquiesced to the end of the world, long ago? BO18 was built on the scene of a massacre – is it an act of defiance to the abyss or is it a counterpart?

What will be written of children that we encounter who speak three languages fluently but who will struggle to find work in ten years? Or of our Lebanese friends who are caged by their passport inside a country that could explode at a moment’s notice?

Perhaps more importantly, how will they quantify the experience of living in a Mediterranean paradise that still bares striking scars of wars that most of us never saw and cannot understand?

Suffice to say, anyone who attempts to write it down will face a paradox, largely because we have become, in due time, a piece of the landscape, and therefore are not really capable of defining its periphery. No matter – that will be left to the poets, which I thank God I am not.

To be perfectly frank, I’ve lost large pieces of myself here, and those missing-portions of me have been replaced by something else entirely. I have witnessed profound unfairness, and also the gentle kindness and hospitality, of which I have already remarked. I’ve seen the consequences of spectacular failures in domestic and foreign policy, and I am unlikely to forget them easily.

I’ve learned to keep my head out of the clouds, even as I used to admire the cloudy malaise of a life lived longing for a deeper truth – But I’ve become convinced that a survivalist and an intellectual do not walk the same path – In fact, I find that they are so often tragically at odds with each other, especially when they are one and the same disaffected, but ultimately, more-worldly, individual.

I’m rambling – I admit.

And it’s not as if enough people read this blog anyways to pretend that what I write holds some consequence – But if you are reading, and you do care, let me say the following: I have not yet made up my mind.

What is Lebanon? It is an interesting question. I am not necessarily suited to answer it, but for reasons that I’ve shared here and with others, it is likely answer-less because there are so many “Lebanons” – there are as many Lebanons as there are people who have experienced it for a day, a week, a year, or a lifetime.

I myself do more than just live here – over time I chose to abide by its few rules. This had several consequences, the most important being that by learning to live by Lebanon’s few rules, I left behind a life lived by many rules. And doing so has changed me, and not in some way that might be quantified as “better” or “worse.”

This dichotomy (better versus worse) is something of an obsession in America – and I find it reasonable by its own right, but also misguided in its aims. For the mission of tracking life on the basis of “better” versus “worse” is the trapping of “progress” and I am really very suspicious of this goal’s aims. For what sort of life, or society, can be gridded on axes of time and progress – we are not budget items to be treated or thought of as optimize-able.

Nowhere is this more true than places like Lebanon where the goal of progress has been so clearly abandoned. There is nothing here that could be objectively tracked by labels “good” and “bad” anyways. There is only us. And we are, here, surrounded by cheesy high-rises and five-star hotels, refugee camps and two-dollar cab fairs. But (like Sisyphus) we find that we are happy.

Like anywhere else, we are detainees by our own volition, and it will take more than revolutions to end that cycle of captivity – but at least here we are closer to the edge – it is easier to look back, and also to look over the precipice.

To digress, I tried to watch several American movies this week, and I had to turn them all off before the credits ever started rolling. What is it with the trite characters, the obvious storylines, the cookie-cutter personas on-screen, that we love to watch in America? How can a human being be captured in a two hour window or even a few scenes – we don’t give a few hours of dreaming the same credibility in our lives, and at least those are self-produced, self-affecting, and self-important.

How dare we then reduce our own lives to those of our on-screen counterparts – into little slices of manipulative nonsense?

How can we stomach such easily digestible and wholly inaccurate caricatures of our own lives? How can we credit such enormous self-impact to actors we don’t know – to depth-less forms that we are told to recognize as ourselves? Have we lost our minds?

And when the consequences of popular culture and hyper-reality are tabulated, what becomes of us?

By whose measure must we obey the standards of a system that is designed to program us with this qualified conformity to a quantified system of good and bad – why pay the slightest attention to a system that is so obviously corrupt and contrived and so single-minded in its purpose to produce the forced and forceful apartheid of our individual and collective reality? Who walks out of a movie theater any more aware of the obvious and immediate parallels between the ghettos of Warsaw, Gaza and Los Angeles? And who is any more likely or willing to do something about it?

It’s just embarrassing.

Lebanon has shown me the striking imbalance of the system itself – of its perpetual call to conflict, and its disgusting demand for conformity.

Indeed, the boundary of civilization is a red light at an intersection at midnight on an empty block that still demands one’s compliance to brake and signal.

Well. People don’t stop for red lights here.

For all this country’s ills, the Lebanese don’t need to watch City of God to see punishing poverty. They don’t need to watch Hostel to see torture, or Saving Private Ryan to see war. They aren’t required to watch Superbad to define the coming of age of a teen, or to see High School Musical to witness the pornographic overtones of a society gone mad.

The Lebanese dance when there is rhythm worth dancing to, cry when their homes are buried by American-made and Israeli-deployed smart bombs, and are perfectly aware of, and content with, the pornographic evidence of a society gone mad.

They are not so easily fooled by rigged elections that favor the powerful and the status quo, nor are they so lacking in awareness as to miss the fact that there are few promises in this world, and the time and place that one is born bares the most significant consequence as to whether a child will grow up to be wealthy.

They do not have adjustable rate mortgages or 0% interest credit cards, but they can get cheap loans for plastic surgery.

And they will, as far as I can tell, never stop to consider what might happen is they fail to brake (or even yield) at a red light at midnight. Or even at noon.

So to my friends and family, ignore my new-found impatience with well-formed and orderly lines at Starbucks, or Black Berry wielding captains of industry, whether they be twenty, forty or sixty.

I’ve finally realized what Ecclesiastes meant – and though I’ll embrace the vanity of the Western lifestyle both in Beirut and in America when it suits me, I will never again set myself in alignment to it. The order of our lives, I’ve learned, is nothing compared to the order of life’s unexpected impositions, and that is a fact no matter what family or time one is born into. Whether we choose to sit quietly while the world and its well-heeled and well-bred leadership flush us down the drain, or instead make the choice to recognize and reject the cost of the Americanized corporate primacy that demands near total-vanity, is up to us.

The Lebanese and those who live among them will smile as they purchase souped up BMW’s that they can’t afford, or blow a good chunk of next month’s rent on a night out, but they do so knowingly, and are aware that there are more important things than money: Family, friendship, connections, favors, wasta, and relaxing at Cafe Rawda watching the sun set. They know that a bank can repossess their car, but for the most part they’ve seen enough to know that such transient things hold little weight when compared to the value of kin and clan. And as such they reject the very basis of modern capitalism: An individual is not a credit score, and that almost nothing is under control.

Beirut is nothing more than that question, and that answer – and I cannot thank enough, or be more weary, of the paradox that I’ve discovered here – perhaps equally of importance, I’m keenly aware that this paradox is everywhere – it is unavoidable. And neither the television nor Google will ever educate us properly as to the truth of the matter.

I can only wonder at what its taught me so far, and what it holds further down the road.

Eight months in Beirut – we’ll just have to see what happens next.

The election went over well… all things considered – I will admit I know very little about it. However, I wanted to share an e-mail I sent to NY Times contributor Thomas Friedman after he published this story: Ballots over Bullets in which he roundly declared Lebanon’s elections clean, fair, honest, and part of a “wind of change” in the region.

I wrote him (he has yet to reply) the following: (Solidaire is Downtown Beirut and “Bukhra, InshaAllah” means “Tomorrow it will happen, God Willing” and it is said when it will most certainly not happen tomorrow)

Mr. Friedman – Your piece on the Lebanese elections was certainly sweet, and a wonderful line to toe, but I’m sure you’re aware that in Lebanon, there’s no such thing as “the real deal.” Don’t make me quote your own book to you…. You failed to mention, for example, vote buying at $2000 a head, or the remarkable speed that Hezbollah accepted the results of their extremely expensive loss (10 minutes flat – I timed it). You know as well as anyone that a preponderance of evidence in Lebanon, especially when it is made up largely of good-will and cheer, upon the shallowest of inspection will immediately reveal foul play.

The only influence Obama had on the elections over the weekend was signing off on the fixup-deal between the Saudis and the Syrians to keep things calm and keep their respective allies off the streets, for reasons that include more than just keeping their flats in Solidaire from losing half their value over night. I’m sure we could also include in that same list of reasons for a fix the fact that Persians, Arabs, and Israelis alike enjoy the clubs downtown (those within shelling distance of Ras Beirut and the airport) far better than those horrible places that are shielded from mortar fire in Jounieh.

But the most likely reason is that everyone’s lost their shirt in Dubai and they need the Lebanese economy’s projected 4% growth in 2009 to be more than myth.

Indeed, I’m sure on Friday night you could find members of both March 8 and March 14 kissing cheeks at Buddha Bar, toasting to the deal, likely engineered by the Obama White House, that kept the Belvedere and Red Bull (and foreign remittances) flowing, overlooking with the disastrous consequence of simultaneously guaranteeing the continued existence of Hezbollah’s arms.

I don’t mind the shrewdness of those foreign players who engineered a calm election weekend – those of us who do business here are better for it – I only mind that those who should know better chose instead to pretend that a Lebanese wink is as true-blue as a “Bukhra, InshaAllah.”

And of course, there’s nothing like delaying inevitable hard decisions (how to disarm Hezbollah without sparking civil war) in the name of the free market, especially when you can get everyone to believe (or pretend to believe) that it was Democratic. And nobody enjoys “Democratically” delaying tough choices like the Lebanese and their puppet-masters.

It was reading your book in Portland, Maine, in 8th grade that eventually brought me to this country – don’t let me down by stilting your analysis of this maze of a country twenty years later… your readers deserve better than that.

Yours truly,

Some Guy in Lebanon

That’s pretty much all I have to say – I’ve met people all over Beirut who alternatively believe that the election was free (Nick I’m looking at you), and those who think it was a sham – From my perspective, given the current economic climate of the Middle East, and given that the decision makers in Iran and the Arab world have too much invested in Lebanon right now, the thing smells like a fix. But then again, I could be wrong. We’ll have to see what happens – if a cabinet and a government are formed quickly and without too many problems, well… then we’ll have something to ponder. But even if plans for forming a government stall, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a fix, it just means that things move quickly beneath one’s feet in Lebanon.

On a more positive note, I spent Thrusday at world-renouned club Sky Bar for their Opening Night – I didn’t get to take many pictures and they all turned out bad, but here are some pictures from the night taken by BeirutNightlife.com – Sky Bar is known in many circles as the world’s best club, and it certainly didn’t let me down (for more pictures of the evening, click here)…

White on Friday was more dilluted…I guess everyone was down the street.

Missing everyone back home – looking forward to my trip this summer to see you all!

Not much new to report – planning on bunking down tomorrow for the elections – have been to the store to pick up the staples: beer, chips, snacks, diet Pepsi, cheese and crackers. Hopefully it will be a high-uneventful day.

I wanted to share these: The first is from the nightclub White, the second from Chilli’s Restaurant in Achrafiyeh, and the third are from the Sea Club Sporting (they call it a beach club but there’s no beach so I refuse to honor that title, even though it’s an awesome place.

First, White – didn’t expect to be back so soon but I had a great night out there and managed to get some reasonable pictures with the phone.

Next, a frightening and bizzarre experience at Chilli’s Restaurant in Achrafiyeh, which might as well have been somewhere in the Mid West or Boston or something. A truly strange experience to walk out of Beirut and into Chilli’s!

Finally, the wonderful club Sporting – I took a 360-Degree set of shots from where we (Me, Catherine and Nick) were sitting – you can see Rouche, the Sea, South Beirut, and the Ferris Wheel at the Amusement Park.

I also had lunch at the restaurant at the Club, which sits above the main pool areas – we were sitting to the far right:

That’s all for now – Hope all is well with everyone

A triumphant return to Music Hall on Friday night (overcoming a little food poisoning) was met with standing ovations and amazing seats. Always a fun time, Music Hall is also a great opportunity to dress up (which doesn’t happen too often) – It also is a reminder that I don’t have a proper summer suit (hmmm… perhaps I smell a birthday present? Kidding! I’m sure I’ve burned up all my birthday/christmas presents with ‘will moves to lebanon’ seed money).

Anyways, we got some great pictures. Quick introductions – You may know Kaiulani Kimbrell, Nick’s sister – Amanda is Catherine’s friend from the States (blonde hair) and Catherine is Nick’s girlfriend (gold dress/brown hair). Also pictured are Caroline Anning and Angie Nassar.

*welcome internet – this is my most trafficked page, largely because people want to know about BO18. This post was a fairly trite review, meant for my grandparents… perhaps you’d be interested in some of my better posts about Lebanon and the Middle East:

• A Thousand Words and Some Discussion
• The First 87 Days in Lebanon
• Eight Months in Beirut
• “Why I’m Here” and Other Beirut Stories
• Springtime in Beirut, or “*sigh*… c’est la vie…”
• My Dear Lebanon: Epilogue
• Captains Cabin: “Where the Present Catches Up to the Past in a Glass”

Hope you enjoy! Now, to the post…*

BO18  – for the un-initiated, it’s sort of the peak of Lebanon’s “stay out as late as possible while really not having a care in the world” culture. Designed like a coffin, it’s below ground, but with a roof that retracts up ‘on the fly’ so that the cramped and claustrophobic atmosphere suddenly transforms into an incredible outdoor nightclub. And we’re not talking about some little carbon-fiber roof – we’re talking about an enormous steel-girder thing.

This is a picture of what it looks like “above ground” that I found on Google – imagine walking down into that thing… filled with people and ridiculously loud music and expensive vodka, and those middle panels just suddenly “psshhh” lifting into the sky! It’s nuts.

This is the roof retracting/retracted (again, not my pics – they’re from Google)

BO18 is also the Lebanese way of deciding that, “it being only 4:30 in the morning, let us leave this expensive club with all these people… and continue on our way, in order dance to the loudest imaginable music at the expensive club with those people.” In other words, “let’s go.”

Turning our attention to last night, the evening was spent traipsing around Achrafiyeh, Downtown and then out the highway to the infamous BO, first at dinner at I think a restaurant called “Champagne” or something… then to White on top of the Nahar building where I got the following photos with my phone (which is why you can’t really see anything in the second picture, but luckily the first was snapped just as a strobe light went off):

Definitely a crazy night… Happy Birthday to Omar – I don’t really go out and hit the town very often but last night was definitely a good time.

…And then next weekend will be a return to the equally swanky Music Hall when Nick’s sister Kaiulani arives. Will be sure to take lots of pictures for the folks back home.

Another another note – I’ve resolved myself to start writing more often… even if it’s boring non-political posts about the occasional late-night crazyness.

My flat mate and I are sitting on the porch joking about how we’re sitting in some sort of weird European spy movie scene – my computer is playing some French/Spanish jazz music, the neighbors are all out on their balconies, the sun is setting, and all around us are little pieces of Europe, but with a Lebanese twist. There’s the guy on the bike smoking a cigarette, the woman hanging her mother’s underwear on the line (I assume it’s her mother’s), the man in the undershirt on his own balcony checking out the girl hanging the underwear, then there are the palm trees, the crumbling concrete, the Mediterranean air and strong sun…

Spring in Beirut is dreamy, even when it includes 14-hour work days. It’s hot but not too hot, cool at night, and even the vast armies of cats seem to have put their late-night gang-wars aside to just lounge around lazily.

At a Cafe on the Corniche called Rawda, I recently sat with Naz (flatmate) and did absolutely nothing for about three hours, then held two business meetings in quick succession, without moving. Such is Beirut – vast periods of intense laziness, followed up by successive bursts of sometimes-highly-profitable activity. Nowhere is there an American rhythm of “constant-on” – instead, work habits here are more like a broken Lebanese air conditioner that clicks on furiously just as its getting too hot, but never works properly until then.

Here are some pictures from the past week – The dark one with the beer is my bartender Andre, with his hero Barack Obama’s miniature figurine. Unfortunately the figurine does not have a karate-chop action. Too bad…

Ignoring my last post, things are going splendidly in Beirut… I have booked my flight back to the States from July 15th to August 16th – I can’t wait for my generation’s first big Small Point wedding!

My prayers are with everyone back home, congratulations to GW Class of 2009…! Sorry about that recession… Perhaps you’d like to read my post about the Coming American Diaspora?

A few months back, I wrote a piece entitled “My dear Israel.” In it, I derided Israel for it’s inexplicably overpowering assault on Gaza – Look, every situation has two sides – Hamas took off the gloves, and it’s entirely up to both timeframe and opinion as to who shot first. The truth is, when it comes to Isarel/Palestinine, the first shots were fired by people most of whom have not lived to see their consequences.

Such as it is in Lebanon today, as well, although the wounds are certainly fresher in the Occupied Territories’ northern neighbor: Those who fired many of the first shots are no longer alive to see the positive, and negative, consequences that lead to the Lebanon of May 2009.

I have lived here about seven months – I have seen what a quiet Beirut is, but I have yet to live through “accidents” or “unfortunate periods” or “trouble” or whatever those who have lived through it like to call mid-to-large-scale political or regional violence. But I know one thing – I am an outsider, at the fringes of what these days I can only tentatively call my neighborhood, my city, and my country. Because of course it will never really be “my neighborhood, my city, my country,” not just because I am not Lebanese, but also largely because there are so few in Lebanon who make that claim themselves – the Lebanon of their birthright is hardly the Lebanon it is today, because nobody deserves citizenship to a country in pieces. I think every Lebanese awaits the day when their nation and their passport don’t raise eyebrows or pulses.

In a tangential but real way, I too live every day with the consequences of decisions, and salvo’s, of the 70′s, 80′s, 90′s, and the last ten years. I live as an expatriate in a foreign land at the nexus of nearly every major political, social, and emotional vortex in the Middle East – and for the last six months I have lived, sometimes with difficulty, and sometimes in great comfort, through, and by, the balancing act that this country’s leaders tried to play in late 2008 and early 2009.

In three weeks this country will go to polls – The world will be watching, but most everyone will be failing to understand, just as I do (on a dependent scale of course), the ramifications of the decisions the Lebanese will make in June.

Some will call it a clash of civilizations (I prefer to decapitalize this phrase), some will call it a day when radicalism met modernity, and some will call it a sham. All will be right, and all will be wrong. All will fail to fully realize the complexity of the situation, and who is really on whose side, largely by their own ignorance, but also because the Lebanese honestly don’t know, themselves, what the past, present, and future hold for their nation.

Lebanon is an old country with an old heritage – but it is also a new country in the sense of its current incarnation – and on the day the Lebanese go to vote, I am keenly aware that they will choose not just their own fate, but mine as well – only I will not go the polls – I will watch on television as the country either comes together, pulls itself apart, or continues on the path it’s been on since last May: A shaky, but relatively conciliatory, path, that is reflective of not just the Middle East, but of the whole world.

No one will look after my interests, as they will likely not even look after their own – But I pray to God that anyone who says one God damn word about anyone or anywhere in Lebanon has been there before, and has had tea with that man or that woman, and their people. Because otherwise this whole thing is going to hell in a handbasket, and the Lebanese will be the lead-balloon tied to their own feet.

Good luck, my friends. I’ll spend the day shacked up in my apartment or around the corner at Captians Cabin. I will be drunk, perhaps drunker than I’ve ever been, and I’ll be praying that you make a choice that welcomes both your own future, and that of a 24 year old white kid from America that nobody can quite figure out what he’s doing in Beirut.

For the record: I’m here for one of two reasons: To party here so that you don’t have to, or to party here with you until 5 in the morning. I prefer the latter, so let’s keep that up.

It’s been six months – Six incredible months. In that time, I’ve visited a few places in Lebanon, but I’m looking forward to seeing much more of the country this spring and summer. I’ve also traveled to Jordan and to the Netherlands, have moved into a wonderful apartment in Hamra, resigned from the Daily Star, made a living as a consultant, and am looking at the next year as a mystery, but an opportunity as well. Three months ago I wrote a list of what I’d learned after 87 days - Well it’s been another three months, and it’s time to think a little about what I’ve learned in 180 days.

First, I’d like to recount the following highlights from that list:

• One does not need hot water to survive, leading also to the conclusion that,
• One does not heed hot showers to survive.
• It is impossible to weigh friends against anything else – Good friends and people you can trust is incredibly valuable.
• The Lebanese make especially good hamburgers.
• Captains Cabin will not close until 4am or later if you keep buying drinks.
• This certainly is an incredible country, and I have so many wonderful people here to thank for helping me get through these past three months.

I wrote that three months ago – all still hold true, although my life is now filled with plenty of hot water. I’d like to write a new list as I’ve just crossed the six-month barrier, if you’ll indulge me:

• Hot water is wonderful, especially in the form of the hot tub at Lifestyles Gym, which is as big as my apartment (and my apartment is fairly large)
• Having money in my pocket that I earned by proving my worth in the Middle East is an indescribable feeling
• A balcony that the sun hits all morning is a valuable asset for relaxing
• Free to time to practice chess means that Nick no longer beats me in embarrassing fashion – It also means I win sometimes too
• Working out is wonderful, and a gym is worth every penny
• The south of Lebanon is beautiful, and travel advisories against going down there are a joke
• Knowing how to take a service-taxi across town in Arabic saves mountains of money
• I can’t speak French and probably never will
• I barely speak Arabic and that’s not likely to change
• Quiet cups of coffee in the Mediterranean sun at Cafe Younes on Sundays are glorious

There’s so much more, but I’ll leave it at that – My last day at the Daily Star is on Friday – I’m moving on bigger and better things, all of which I had to sign Non-Disclosure Forms for, so I can’t share, but let’s just say that my clients include one of the biggest banks in Lebanon.

Oh, and here’s a great picture of Nick, Andrew, and myself in the lovely and extremely historical Tyre, where Cleopatra seduced Mark Antony. It was also the sight of some serious partying last weekend. Andrew Wander, by the way, has been hired by Al Jazeera to write for their new Human Rights Abuses desk. Unfortunately that means he’s leaving us for Doha, Qatar – Although we all know he won’t be able to stay away for long…

I hope everyone’s well back home – I’ll be back in July for a few weeks – if you actually take the time to read this blog, I hope to see you then!

My God, it’s been ages, hasn’t it? I am so sorry for not keeping up with my blog, but I’ve been SO busy over the past two months. So many people who are reading this are not at all uptodate on what’s been going with me, and I don’t know where to start, but I’ll try to just give a brief overview.

In the past two months I’ve been so blessed to have my name and expertise grown noticed by many people here in Lebanon. In particular, through some business associates, I now have a budding career in strategic communications consulting in Lebanon, and I find myself one of only a few people who are offering those types of services here. What does that mean? In Lebanon, unlike say, in America, there are very few people who help companies:

• Formulate their messaging and content
• Audit the effectiveness of their communication channels, both internal and external
• Determine the engineering and architecture of their data, both internal and external
• Build attractive, professional, and monetized websites
• And lots of other similar things

This important service is usually best left to a consultant, and because there’s been such considerable brain-drain in Lebanon over the past twenty years, there are few people here who are qualified and able to use these services, even as there are so many people and companies who need them.

I have been commissioned for these services for a Bank here (can’t say which), and will hopefully attract a portfolio of other similar institutions in the coming weeks and months.

I cannot stress how wonderful and BLESSED I feel to be doing work that I love, find fulfilling, and find interesting, and be paid handsomely for it. I also cannot thank enough those people who have made the introductions, and negotiated the deals, so that I can do this work effectively.

On that note, it appears I will be soon leaving the Daily Star for offices of my own here in Beirut, and will be able to really grow my work.

More to come on this in the future, but let’s just say I couldn’t be happier with my current and potential-future professional situation. I have also completed work on two enormous web projects at the Daily Star, one for Tourism and one for Nightlife, both of which I will try to hold some control of after I leave the newspaper.

As for today – well it was a beautiful day in Beirut, with weather similar to mid-spring in Florida, or mid-summer in Maine, the weather I love so much. A friend of mine and I went to an Organic Food market and then had lunch nearby, and I’ve spent the evening working (gasp?! on a Saturday night? And I turned down an invite to a big gala to do so? I must REALLY be loving my work!), and I just went and bought a huge haul of American candy.

Pictures of said Organic Fair and candy are below. Also there are pictures from a French Steak Restaurant housed in a Crusader Castle up the coast.

So! Things are going so very very well, although as I’ve said before, the ground moves very quickly beneath one’s feet in Beirut. There are elections coming up which could get a little ugly, and I’ve heard it from all sorts of people that this is a big “IF” – so we’ll see what happens there.

I will try to keep up with the blogging better in the future. My love and prayers to all from the Middle East!

Lebanese in the Hague face stereotypes and bureaucracy – just like the real United Nations

By Will Donovan | original source

THE HAGUE, Netherlands: The conference center at The Hague is buzzing with activity as six students from American University of Beirut (AUB) discussed with The Daily Star their future plans after they receive their Bachelor’s Degrees. They are the delegation representing AUB at this year’s World Model UN Conference, hosted in the shadow of the International Criminal Court.

It is an interesting question to pose to these ambitious AUB students who had traveled all the way to The Hague to represent their school, their country and their culture. The resounding answer from all six was largely to be expected:

“Graduate school in Europe.” “Graduate school in America.” After that? “Work in the Gulf…” “Europe…” “America…”

While each member of the AUB delegation confronted stereotypes, bureaucracy, and chilly North Sea weather in The Hague this past week, all reported the conference a “huge success.”

The six-person AUB delegation, “representing” the role of the GCC state Qatar, sat with The Daily Star Friday afternoon to discuss their experience at Dutch-organized event, featuring over 2,400 students representing 275 universities and 53 countries.

Sitting in a quiet lobby away from the thousands of foreign students engaging in endless simulated debate, the AUB delegation talked about their Model UN organization. Sally Meouche, the head of the delegation, told The Daily Star that, not only was Model UN a “growing movement in the Arab World,” noting that the 2006 World Model UN event was hosted at Sharm El-Sheikh in Egypt, she added that, “overall the average awareness of Arab political and cultural realities is growing as well.”

The consensus was that, “Misconceptions are variable.”

“This is all about cooperation, learning and social events – we meet a lot of people and when they hear we’re from Lebanon they want to know more, they want to help out. Students who are interested in the Middle East [and] who are in Model UN aren’t interested in being spies … they’re interested in making the region a better place.”said Maya Sabban.

“The delegation from the University of North Carolina represented Jordan at this conference – their understanding of the country, its challenges, its attitudes and its overall strategy was amazing. They told me they had met with the Jordanian ambassador to the US, and their portrayal of Jordan was very realistic,” Meouche said.

The AUB delegation also stressed how important it was that they were here representing Lebanon as students and as citizens, given that “obviously there are some misconceptions of who the Arabs are.”

“Yes, I do get asked whether we ride camel, but overall I was impressed at the degree of understanding and knowledge. The students who participate in Model UN are from all over the world, and they know a lot more about foreign peoples, cultures and politics than your average University student,” Ghassan Nassif told The Daily Star.

Other American and European teams were sometimes, “overly optimistic or idealistic in their portrayal of Arab nations,” but, “it’s good that we’re here to correct them.” As an example, the American team representing Syria acquiesced to UN monitors – said Ghassan, “I had to yell at them – obviously that wouldn’t happen in real life.”

The AUB delegation is planning a Model UN event in Beirut this July, and they stressed how important it was that foreign students who come to the event also get out to see the country. “We will be accommodating our guests in Hamra because of its proximity to student life at both AUB and LAU, and we will be sure to show them the many faces of Lebanon – the historical sites, the clubs and bars, the mountains and the sea – so that they get a full picture of Lebanon while they’re here,” Dina Kfouri told The Daily Star.

It is easy to see how important Model UN is to these students – equally obvious is the degree to which they believe that Model UN, which enjoys near universal participation at colleges and universities around the world, is a force for international understanding.

Asked what their impressions were of the event in The Hague, the AUB delegation all agreed that “it was a success,” their only complaint being that, “there were so many [participants that] it was hard to debate and to meet people.”

The also complained that the scope and size of the event made it difficult to get things done, and “committee sizes were so big that they were crippled.”

Evidently, the event was simply too realistic; endless bureaucracy, circular debate and a cacophony of too many voices and interests are recurring problems of the real UN.

The Daily Star also took some time to speak with some of the event organizers from the Dutch Model UN club. Based at Radboud University in Nymegen, these Dutch students were responsible for putting on one of Model UN’s biggest events.

Annalise Rietveld, Director of PR and Communications for “WorldMUN 2009,” told The Daily Star organizing this year’s World Model UN conference took a “full year” and the work of “14 dedicated students.”

“We’re really happy, it was a huge success. We haven’t slept in weeks but we’re just happy that it went so well. We’ve had lots of compliments,” she added.

from forbes today: (source)

BEIRUT–You could argue that, in a contest to choose the most civilized citizens of the world, it would be a travesty not to choose Beirutis. Multi-domiciled (New York, London, Paris, Beirut), automatically fluent in three languages (English, Arabic, French) and the literature thereof, exquisitely turned out, hospitable and generous by instinct, they conduct their lives in a physical setting so glamorous it rivals Istanbul. They should be U.N.-protected as international cultural treasures.

Conversing with them is a little like appearing in front of an Olympic committee that adjudicates finesse in everything from fine dining to dirty jokes. The financial and entertainment geniuses of the region, they’re the last of the great historic Levantine communities, the kind Lawrence Durrell so loved. They speak a natural Esperanto, “Shu? Alors, what’s it called, habibi, the tres gentil guy who owns Chanel here, my cousin’s husband … ”

This has been my first visit to Beirut as a grown-up, indeed since the civil wars began in the mid-1970s. One week’s past and already I’ve found myself trying to rejig my life so I can return incessantly again and again as the waves do below the Corniche, and as Beirutis never fail to do after each war.

I say this with gunfire crackling in nearby hills; it’s a long weekend, and no doubt they’re partying up in the Shouf mountains. In the space of two days, I’ve disputed over Foucault and Beckett, discussed Ottoman history, wine-tasted in the Bekaa, splashed into the Mediterranean, feasted like Xerxes, sung Anglican hymns at dinner, and witnessed furious political argument–all the while dazzled by the local beauties. Beirut invented the paradigm of the icy brunette, the unapproachable one in dark sunshades above perfect lips seemingly born into every VIP room and first-class lounge. Ahhh, Beirut.

Just before the Civil Wars intervened, I attended boarding school here at age 9 for perhaps the happiest year of my life, at the International College, the feeder school to the American University of Beirut (AUB). After that I left for the cold climes and grotty gruel of schools in England. As a boy, I remember watching a James Bond movie in a cinema up in the mountains in the morning and swimming at the legendary Saint George Hotel perched just above the sea and sun-dappled in the afternoon. And I knew what it might be like to live a James Bond life. My father tells me that at the Saint George we were once actually introduced to Bin Laden in his chain-smoking teenage playboy phase. I don’t remember it at all.

It was of course absolutely imperative then, as it’s always been in Beirut, to be encased in the grooviest garb. I still wear my father’s suits from that time, beautifully tailored to suggest a hypothetical dinner-party evening somewhere between St. Germain and Fellini-era Piazza del Popolo. A year after my mother had purchased a shirt for me in a boutique on Hamra Street, I wore it to play at a park in a small town in England. A local scrubber (as such girls were dubbed) with a rare eye came up and gazed on me in awe. I was 10; she was 16 I wager. “Where’d you get that shirt, then, luv? It’s gorgeous,” she crowed in her local twang.

Recently I watched a documentary somewhere–in the U.S. I think–about the Black September gang, who caused the gruesome slaughter of Israeli athletes at the Munich Olympics. The ringleaders were a handful of privileged young lefty Beirutis, mostly Palestinian. (The Israelis killed them one by one in later years.) But the documentary showed a film clip of a Beirut press conference they gave then. They were so young and cool, so dazzlingly chic, with a kind of Cap d’Antibes glow. In those days, in Beirut, even warlords and terrorists had to keep up standards. I’ve racked my brain for years: What did it mean, that you could be at once so hip and so bloody?

Perhaps the chic-est of the warlords was Walid Jumblatt, the Druze leader, a hyper-intellectual, elegantly louche stoner of the time with long locks and a fab L.P. collection, or so one heard. He graduated from the AUB, as so many leftists did, and was resolutely anti-American. He joined the Socialist International. His Druze gunmen, belonging to a perennially embattled minority, were the fiercest fighters.

Jumblatt caused a sensation in a Playboy interview once when he said that crime in New York terrified him more than gun-battles in Lebanon–this was around 1980. The astonished interviewer pointed out that several of Jumblatt’s nearest and dearest had been assassinated, including his father. Yes, he said, but in Lebanon you know who’s trying to kill you; in the U.S. you don’t. Jumblatt now declares himself to be anti-Syria, pro-U.S., pro the democracy movement. After all, the Syrians killed his father. But the shrug of his shoulders tells you something else, that you never know friend from foe here for very long, that it can all shift lethally in a trice.

And there’s the rub. You would want that these heartbreakingly likable, erudite, cultivated people, many of whom went to school together, discoed and drank and wenched together, could look at each other and say, “Nah, I can’t fight you, you’re too fabulous. You’re a Beiruti like me. Our first duty is to the muse of fabulousness–to conserve this lovely place and the life here, the intellectual brilliance, the exquisite brunettes, the mountain forests, the Ottoman houses, the almost derelict Saint George Hotel … ”

An impossible task, it would seem. Already, the reconstruction of recent decades followed by the influx of oil-money investment has wiped away swaths of old Beirut and replaced it with dense high-rise ugliness–always a sign of runaway municipal corruption.

Up into the mountains, and along the sea northward into the Christian area, helter-skelter urban sprawl shows how in this, as in other things, the locals haven’t conserved their inheritance. In central Beirut, many say that the late Prime Minister Rafik Hariri–who was blown up right beside the Saint George–played his part. He sold a chunk of that downtown area to his own private company, the story goes, and stood to profit from all development there.

That aside, political pressures on Lebanon from beyond its borders–from Syria, Israel, Iran and others–constantly pretzelize any internal will to leap forward. One half of Lebanon pulls toward the West, toward democracy, transparent government, cultural openness, fierce hard work, rule of law; the other half toward egregious regional habits, toward bureaucratic corruption, warlordism, political patronage, rule by the gun.

Lebanon has more of the West in it than any other Arab country. Beirutis know which way the solution lies; even Hezbollah has to operate with one eye on the democratic process. But there’s no visible way to get there from here–at any rate none that involves a painless and risk-free passage. If progress means an Iraq-style nightmare en route, who would opt for it? Yet, there’s no way back either–back to what or when? Thinking on that makes one feel for Beirutis all the more. In a purgatorial state–no looking back, no stable present, a crepuscular future–they keep returning, keep trying, living exquisitely well and setting an example for the Middle East, indeed for the world.

There is a way forward. The pro-democracy movement, the so-called Cedar Revolution, is not yet extinguished, despite the assassination of Hariri and his business shenanigans before that, despite the backstairs machinations among political factions since. There are poles of light still, not least the patriotic endeavors of former Speaker of Parliament Hussein al-Husseini, who helped the civil war factions compromise with the Taif Accords. It’s a highly complicated challenge involving a very delicate political dance around minefields. But as the July 7 elections approach, we will all need to know its details. I will do my best to clarify its complications in future columns. Stay tuned to this space.

source

To all who supported me or gave me words of encouragement during the controversy of the past two weeks, you have my gratitude and respect.

You will by now have seen the statement by Director of National Intelligence Dennis Blair reporting that I have withdrawn my previous acceptance of his invitation to chair the National Intelligence Council.

I have concluded that the barrage of libelous distortions of my record would not cease upon my entry into office. The effort to smear me and to destroy my credibility would instead continue. I do not believe the National Intelligence Council could function effectively while its chair was under constant attack by unscrupulous people with a passionate attachment to the views of a political faction in a foreign country. I agreed to chair the NIC to strengthen it and protect it against politicization, not to introduce it to efforts by a special interest group to assert control over it through a protracted political campaign.

As those who know me are well aware, I have greatly enjoyed life since retiring from government. Nothing was further from my mind than a return to public service. When Admiral Blair asked me to chair the NIC I responded that I understood he was “asking me to give my freedom of speech, my leisure, the greater part of my income, subject myself to the mental colonoscopy of a polygraph, and resume a daily commute to a job with long working hours and a daily ration of political abuse.” I added that I wondered “whether there wasn’t some sort of downside to this offer.” I was mindful that no one is indispensable; I am not an exception. It took weeks of reflection for me to conclude that, given the unprecedentedly challenging circumstances in which our country now finds itself abroad and at home, I had no choice but accept the call to return to public service. I thereupon resigned from all positions that I had held and all activities in which I was engaged. I now look forward to returning to private life, freed of all previous obligations.

I am not so immodest as to believe that this controversy was about me rather than issues of public policy. These issues had little to do with the NIC and were not at the heart of what I hoped to contribute to the quality of analysis available to President Obama and his administration. Still, I am saddened by what the controversy and the manner in which the public vitriol of those who devoted themselves to sustaining it have revealed about the state of our civil society. It is apparent that we Americans cannot any longer conduct a serious public discussion or exercise independent judgment about matters of great importance to our country as well as to our allies and friends.

The libels on me and their easily traceable email trails show conclusively that there is a powerful lobby determined to prevent any view other than its own from being aired, still less to factor in American understanding of trends and events in the Middle East. The tactics of the Israel Lobby plumb the depths of dishonor and indecency and include character assassination, selective misquotation, the willful distortion of the record, the fabrication of falsehoods, and an utter disregard for the truth. The aim of this Lobby is control of the policy process through the exercise of a veto over the appointment of people who dispute the wisdom of its views, the substitution of political correctness for analysis, and the exclusion of any and all options for decision by Americans and our government other than those that it favors.

There is a special irony in having been accused of improper regard for the opinions of foreign governments and societies by a group so clearly intent on enforcing adherence to the policies of a foreign government – in this case, the government of Israel. I believe that the inability of the American public to discuss, or the government to consider, any option for US policies in the Middle East opposed by the ruling faction in Israeli politics has allowed that faction to adopt and sustain policies that ultimately threaten the existence of the state of Israel. It is not permitted for anyone in the United States to say so. This is not just a tragedy for Israelis and their neighbors in the Middle East; it is doing widening damage to the national security of the United States.

The outrageous agitation that followed the leak of my pending appointment will be seen by many to raise serious questions about whether the Obama administration will be able to make its own decisions about the Middle East and related issues. I regret that my willingness to serve the new administration has ended by casting doubt on its ability to consider, let alone decide what policies might best serve the interests of the United States rather than those of a Lobby intent on enforcing the will and interests of a foreign government.

In the court of public opinion, unlike a court of law, one is guilty until proven innocent. The speeches from which quotations have been lifted from their context are available for anyone interested in the truth to read. The injustice of the accusations made against me has been obvious to those with open minds. Those who have sought to impugn my character are uninterested in any rebuttal that I or anyone else might make.

Still, for the record: I have never sought to be paid or accepted payment from any foreign government, including Saudi Arabia or China, for any service, nor have I ever spoken on behalf of a foreign government, its interests, or its policies. I have never lobbied any branch of our government for any cause, foreign or domestic. I am my own man, no one else’s, and with my return to private life, I will once again – to my pleasure – serve no master other than myself. I will continue to speak out as I choose on issues of concern to me and other Americans.

I retain my respect and confidence in President Obama and DNI Blair. Our country now faces terrible challenges abroad as well as at home. Like all patriotic Americans, I continue to pray that our president can successfully lead us in surmounting them.

Jill Bolte Taylor: “A Stroke of Insight” – The most incredible speech I’ve ever heard.

If you can’t see the video above, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UyyjU8fzEYU

I swear it! Things are moving along – So since you know that I am still alive, allow me instead to switch topics.

I am going to post a long email I wrote to Ned recently. Some back story (from Ned):

An Ithaca alum went to Palestine last summer and wrote a piece about her work with the palestinian civilians who are affected by the war. She wrote an editorial supporting the civilians who usually get lumped together with Hamas and blamed for the conflict. This piece was published in the IC View, an Ithaca Newspaper sent to parents and alums, and available online for students. Many of these alums, family members, and students rose up in arms against this particular piece, calling it an anti-jew piece, and a pro-hamas piece. I’ve read it a couple times, and with the exception of a sentence i think she worded incorrectly, I can’t find any evidence of this. The president of IC came out and issued a formal apology stating that a new process of review for pieces submitted to the IC View is going to be instated, and he forced the editor to also publish an apology. To me (and many other students and alums) this piece was not in the wrong, and what they’re instating sounds a whole lot like Censorship. Can you read these and give me some insight as someone who is both geographically close and has great interest in the area it involves as to if I’m in the wrong here, and this piece should not have been published, or if the school is merely being pushed around by some donors.

Emily’s article: http://ithaca.edu/icview/5148/
President Rochon’s Response: http://www.ithaca.edu/icview/5269/
Maura’s Apology: http://www.ithaca.edu/icview/5270/

This situation literally infuriated me. If you read this girl’s article, it is ANYTHING but an anti-Israeli or a pro-Palestinian piece. Anything but. Please see image to the left if you have any doubt. The boy in the yamaka and the girl in conservative dress are clearly attacking an old woman wearing a hijab. ’nuff said – This stuff happens. The men in the background wearing green are Israeli soldiers…. sure don’t look like they’re doing much, does it?

So I sat down and wrote Ned back. This is what I wrote. It is long, and it is a diatribe, and it has spelling errors, and it has grammatical errors, and it is in all lower case. Sorry for all of that. But it was how I felt at the time, and I pray that Ned puts down the theatrical stuff for a few minutes and spends some time trying to bring academic integrity back to his school. I invite any comments or questions.

ned – to call this a pro-hamas piece is rather pathetic, given that it addresses the west bank, where hamas does not maintain any control – the west bank is controlled by israel, and politically under the guidance of the palestinian authority, which is governed mainly by the fatah political organization, a remnant of the palstininian liberation organization (PLO).

to call it incendiary is rather pathetic too – consider for example your friend’s statement that:

“But challenge them they must. When it comes to Israeli settlement activity, much more is at stake than the allocation of land and resources. Unchecked settler extremism is fostering a culture of violence that shapes the perspectives and experiences of everyone there. Its legacy will touch West Bank communities — no matter their ethnic composition — for generations to come.”

She is essentially saying that it is the responsibility of the Israeli soldiers who occupy, police, and essentially govern the west bank to control the situation and stop any violence perpetrated by anyone against anyone. it would be, for example, ridiculous (although it has happened) for an irish police officer in boston to not stop a mob of irishmen (whom we by blood related to, you and i) from beating up an italian baker. the irish police officer is tasked with defending the community, the state, and the constitution of both Massachusetts and the united states of america. as such, he (or she) is charged with defending the integrity of the law – the law in israel is quite clear on one thing, however – that israelis have more rights that palestnians living within the confines of occupation in the west bank (or ‘greater israel’ depending on how you look at it), but it is the responsibility of israeli soldiers to protect anyone in israel (including the west bank) who is under duress. palestinian included.

i’m really at a loss here – there is nothing inflammatory about what she has to say. she could have, for example, come to beirut and seen the children i tutor at sabra – the children who’s families are forbidden to return to their ancestral homeland, forbidden from working in the lebanese economy, and who underwent extraordinary stress at the hands of the phalangists and the idf and the amal group during the civil and camp wars of the 80′s, when many thousands of palestinian civilians were killed here in lebanon.

she could have said many things – she could have attacked the occupation, she could have attacked the very nature of the settlements – their illegality under international law, their conspicuous concordance to genocide, their overall obsenity to justice. she could have said all sorts of things – but the one thing she does not do is support hamas, support violence, support terrorism, be it israeli or arab – she does not call for the end of the occupation, she does not call for the end of settlements, she merely states that it is the responsibility of those who choose (or are forced) to live in the west bank to be good neighbors. to strengthen the bonds of peace.

those living in america clearly do not understand the conflict for what it is, especially the place of hamas – hamas does not operate in the west bank. hamas operates in gaza – both gaza and the west bank share commonality in terms of israeli durress, and palestinian heritage, but in terms of leadership, they are quiet different – also in terms of israeli existence in those two spaces, they are quite different. israel unilaterally “pulled out” of gaza in 2006 so theoretically there are no israelis there (theoretically) – this is not the case in the west bank – not only is israel there in force, but they make no qualms about calling it an occupied area – in fact they generally assume that it is not the west bank – that it is israel, and not palestine. and even if they ‘pulled out’ of the west bank, they are not under any circumstances going to give up settlements or certain areas of the west bank (such as the five star resorts on the dead sea)

so – what’s my point. my point is that nothing she wrote warrants an apology – she presents both sides in her article. almost nothing justifies violence and absolutely nothing justifies terrorism – she is merely stating that people should be aware that there is consistently violence perpetrated against palestinians by israeli settlers in the west bank – the west bank if an occupied zone which the international community generally recognizes as such, as does israel. it is therefore the basic human responsibility of israel to ensure that the quality of life, and the human security, of the palestinians living within their confines are at the very least reasonable – forget settlements, forget occupation, forget all of that – it is completely reasonable for your friend to address the issue that israeli soldiers must, at the very least, prohibit israeli settlements from acting violently against their palestinian neighbors, just as it is their responsibility to keep palestinians from attacking israelis. that is a fact of life.

your friend is not saying, for example, that ‘this is what i heard is going on’ – she is saying ‘this is what i saw.’ what she saw was through a window, a looking glass, of course – what she saw was just a slice of the picture, a small portrait. but what she saw is far more illustrative and demonstrative of the reality on the ground and the condition of the west bank than any american who has not been there can say. it is morally abhorrent and inconceivably anti-academic to suggest that what she is saying is somehow anti-semetic or pro-terrorism – she was not in gaza, therefore she has nothing to say about hamas. and though fatah can easily be called a terrorist organization, it still lacks the basic features of scholarly intelligence and academic pursuit to suggest that this young lady, emily mcneil, was doing anything other than telling her side of the story. she said what is plainly obvious to anyone who has actually been there: that what is happening to the palestinians in the west bank is rather tragic, given that the least the israeli soldiers tasked with guarding could do is protect them from violence, foreign and domestic.

so personally, i think you should tell anyone who has anything to say about it to pack a bag and travel to ramallah, or come to beirut and see what it’s like first hand. nobody has the right to talk about it unless they’ve been there and seen it. nobody has the right to tell anyone else’s story but their own. your president rochon should be marginally ashamed of his suggestion that this has anything to do with telling both sides of the story – if anyone at your school has been to southern israel and wishes to talk about the horrors of knowing that hamas could shoot a mortar into their living room, let them. if anyone at your school has been to sri lanka and wishes to discuss the horrors of the war between the tamil tigers and the government, let them. if anyone at your school has been to native american reserves and wishes to discuss their poor condition, let them. let them. let them tell their own story about what they say.

but do not for a minute believe that this was anything other than an unfair crucifixion of your friend, ms. mcneil – she has my full support, as does any american who is sympathetic to those who suffer possesses the right to discuss their witness to that suffering. call her a liar if you wish, but it is not the responsibility of the editor, mss. stephens, to suggest that there was somehow something wrong with the editorial process. a paper should be balanced over a period of its lifetime, and not get caught up in the need for a ‘point-counterpoint’ on a day to day basis. when it comes to israel, for example, if you have an inflammatory anti-israeli statement and an anti-palestinian statement, is that really the sort of discourse one wants for a student newspaper?

or in fact is it better that we get first-persons from people who have seen what has happened first hand, and allow people to have their own responses. student newspapers sole responsibility is to present the reality of the students it serves to inform. this is an ithica student who went to the west bank and saw what she saw. she did not accuse israel of doing anything other than failing, as far as she was concerned, to meet its basic duty to defend the people it chooses to control. the west bank is 100% in the control of israel – therefore it is their responsibility to protect those who are there. let anyone who chooses to disbelieve ms. mcneil travel there and see first hand.

that’s all i have to say – at the very least – let anyone who realy knows that ms. mcneil could not have been discussing hamas come forward – hamas does not operate in the west bank. hamas operates in gaza – the two territories are separated by hundreds of square kilometers and many tens of thousands of israeli soldiers. they are fairly mutually exclusive.

to support peace and non-violence is the duty of any sane and moral human being. to me, all ms. mcneil is calling for is the proper protection of under the control and influence of israel by israel. that is what is fair. there is nothing in her article calling for the end of the jewish state – those who would dare to question her should take a long hard look at themselves and ask “am i really calling for balance of a school newspaper, or am i merely pro-israeli and refuse to accept a discourse in my school paper that allows for some light to shine on the palestinian side of things.” it is essentially censure masked as freedom of speach. it is unacceptable at a institution of higher learning.

seriously though if anyone really wants to see what goes on, tell them to visit beirut – my guest room is waiting for them, or ramallah in the west bank – i have many friends there who would gladly take-in any american who wants to see what life is like there, and treat them like a king. tell anyone who wants to see what it is like to look into the eyes of innocent palestinian children and civilians – and to try to explain why they are forbidden from a homeland, forbidden to live in the homes their grandparents and great grandparents lived in for generations. then they’ll know that it is the duty of any freedom-loving american to know that truth: and one must see it for themselves. ms. mcneil did exactly that – she went to west bank. a brave thing. then she chose to share her thoughts with her community in an academic setting – equally brave. it is the most un-reasonable thing in the world to place this young woman in the same camp as terrorists.

that’s it. that’s all i got. hope this helps. frankly, i’m stunned and saddened. i wish your president rochon would be open to the idea that honest discourse does not require a point-counterpoint of equally inflammatory statements. it requires first-hand experience and reasoned discussion – ms. mcneil provided that and your campus crucified her. shame.

all my love and prayers to you,

will

Agent Lathan gave out 2,000 high fives by standing next to a subway escalator during the morning rush. Five additional agents spread out along the adjacent stairs, holding signs that prepared commuters for the upcoming high five fun. Enjoy the video first and then check out the mission report and photos below.

Read the whole story here: High Five Escalator at Improv Everywhere.