some guy in lebanon

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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.

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?

My flat mate and I are sitting on the porch joking about how we’re sitting in some sort of wierd European spy movie scene – my computer is playing some French/Spanish jazz music, the neighbors are all out on their balcony’s, 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 Mediteranian 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.

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.

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.

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.

We all know the story now; we’ve read the papers. We’ve watched the television. We now know of the act, the face that Karma Hamady chose to allow us to see; and we know of its cunning and intent.

While the ramifications of her actions shocked the world, few could have grasped the scope of her death. For we all now know of Karma Hamady’s other life, her true life. The life of an artist, a free spirit, a talented musician with a genius ear, and yes, as we now know, one of the most notorious revolutionaries in history.

Karma and I decided to eulogize each other for fun. I am still writing her’s but here’s what she wrote about me: “Did You Know Him?” By Karma Hamady Nobody really knows exactly how old Will Donovan was when he died. Well, no one really knows exactly if he died at all. Some say he [...]

So, it’s almost been three month in Beirut. How time goes by in a flash! I won’t forget it… so, to recap, here are some things I’ve learned about myself in the past 87 days.

Hamra pub has weathered 44 years of wars and sieges By yours truly – This is the most fun I’ve ever had writing anything. Ever. Pictures are my own and were not featured in the original article. Click here for the Original Article from the Daily Star, Published December 2nd, 2008 BEIRUT: The speakers filter [...]