No matter how many times we get together, dinner with friends remains one of the most dynamic social activities throughout the week. As we work our jaws through dinner, we share stories and exchange interesting anecdotes. Busy preparing for her wedding, a girlfriend jumps in with a story about the rules and regulations posed by her wedding venue. A club belonging to the Lebanese Army and hence guarded by a few soldiers, absolutely forbids foreign housemaids from attending the wedding. When asked why, the organizers claimed that the East Asian individuals would distract their “tough” soldiers/officers by flirting with them, winking at them and igniting their sleepless sexual fantasies. Gasps and questions started flying about the group. I started thinking about the “Lebanese Ego” and how it never fails to surprise me every time it reveals itself on the surface.
The next day, I wake up early and walk up through the empty and calm streets of Hamra towards the gym. I bump into an African American friend on her way to exercise on Manara. We exchange hellos and greetings and as she walks away, she looks back at me, flashes a wide smile and exclaims “Bye! I’m going to go and get harassed by the Lebanese for an hour!” I pause for a few minutes wondering: how come people in this country would spend hours and days on the beach under the scorching sun to obtain darker skin color, while they spend their lives labeling, offending and harassing people with concentrated levels of melanin in their skin?
Smile you are in Lebanon where people classify you in a barn that exists in their mindsets according to external looks and skin color.
Enjoy your stay, but please use sunscreen and whitening creams constantly in order to avoid harassment (verbal/physical) and jailing.
I sigh deeply breathing in the dry dusty air. I wait with sleepy eyes, cracking lips and aching muscles. I scan the crowd: men, women, children and elderly; all looking up at the skinny yet mighty Syrian border officer, waiting for him to call out their names and give out their little black books. The crowd is dispersed; some pace the filthy border hall, others sit down and wait with their wailing children and most men step outside for a cheap smoke and a cup of stale coffee. The officer suddenly turns around with a bunch of black books in hand and the crowd goes crazy, standing up, jogging to gather around the scrawny man. He starts calling out names and a hundred arms extend to reach out and retrieve the little black book. The whole bunch is distributed; the man turns his back to the anticipating crowd which in turn walks away again for a second round of pacing, smoking and waiting. With every round of little black books distribution, a salad of emotions fills up the room: relief, joy, excitement, disappointment, anger and disgrace. The same motion pattern is repeated with every round. I look around and imagine a zoo for homo sapiens where they are treated like animals, fed little black books, ordered around and shouted at. Finally, my name is called out, I retrieve my black book and walk away.
Smile you are in Syria where people are treated like animals without tails.
Enjoy your stay, but please keep some change in your pocket to tip the officer for placing you at the top of the animal kingdom and treating you accordingly.
I let out a sigh of relief as we all squeeze ourselves into the little cab about to cross the Jordanian border. We make our final stop next to the last Jordanian police officer for passport inspection. He notices the little kid accompanying one of the passengers and asks her for written permission from his father to leave the country. The passenger cries out in surprise and declares that she doesn’t have the requested piece of paper. After consulting a senior officer, the beer bellied lieutenant reads our verdict: go back to the border to check with the big boss in his air-conditioned office.
We head back (the driver cursing sisters and mothers on the way). The driver walks with the mother and her child into the main offices and I wait in the shade. An hour later, the trio emerges: the driver cursing God and the prophets this time; the woman and child walk behind him with grim faces and voices filled with thirst. Apparently, they had to call the father, ask him to go to the nearest police station and fax his consent to allow his child cross the border with the child’s mother (!).
So in Jordan, women, naturally, bear children in their wombs for 9 whole months . Yet, to travel with them for a few hours across the border, they need the sperm donor to wiggle his tail and say “Yes, the womb can carry the child one last time without my grace presence”.
Talk about male dominance!
I spent the last week walking around Amman and its suburbs watching people’s interactions and listening to their conversations. West Amman residents drive their posh cars, wearing their expensive clothes, thinking that they live in heaven on earth just because they have a few new malls and a couple of skyscrapers (funded by Israeli money, camouflaged by big Jordanian names). They look down at residents of East Amman who live in little houses and complain about the expensive prices every hour of the day.
Smile you are in Jordan where an individual is referred to as “this” instead of “he/she”.
Enjoy your stay, but please keep in mind that you are served according to gender only and anyone can have their tongues cut off and eyes removed from their sockets if a Hashemite is mentioned at the wrong time in the wrong place.
The Syrian border.
27.7.2008
The next day, I wake up early and walk up through the empty and calm streets of Hamra towards the gym. I bump into an African American friend on her way to exercise on Manara. We exchange hellos and greetings and as she walks away, she looks back at me, flashes a wide smile and exclaims “Bye! I’m going to go and get harassed by the Lebanese for an hour!” I pause for a few minutes wondering: how come people in this country would spend hours and days on the beach under the scorching sun to obtain darker skin color, while they spend their lives labeling, offending and harassing people with concentrated levels of melanin in their skin?
Smile you are in Lebanon where people classify you in a barn that exists in their mindsets according to external looks and skin color.
Enjoy your stay, but please use sunscreen and whitening creams constantly in order to avoid harassment (verbal/physical) and jailing.
I sigh deeply breathing in the dry dusty air. I wait with sleepy eyes, cracking lips and aching muscles. I scan the crowd: men, women, children and elderly; all looking up at the skinny yet mighty Syrian border officer, waiting for him to call out their names and give out their little black books. The crowd is dispersed; some pace the filthy border hall, others sit down and wait with their wailing children and most men step outside for a cheap smoke and a cup of stale coffee. The officer suddenly turns around with a bunch of black books in hand and the crowd goes crazy, standing up, jogging to gather around the scrawny man. He starts calling out names and a hundred arms extend to reach out and retrieve the little black book. The whole bunch is distributed; the man turns his back to the anticipating crowd which in turn walks away again for a second round of pacing, smoking and waiting. With every round of little black books distribution, a salad of emotions fills up the room: relief, joy, excitement, disappointment, anger and disgrace. The same motion pattern is repeated with every round. I look around and imagine a zoo for homo sapiens where they are treated like animals, fed little black books, ordered around and shouted at. Finally, my name is called out, I retrieve my black book and walk away.
Smile you are in Syria where people are treated like animals without tails.
Enjoy your stay, but please keep some change in your pocket to tip the officer for placing you at the top of the animal kingdom and treating you accordingly.
I let out a sigh of relief as we all squeeze ourselves into the little cab about to cross the Jordanian border. We make our final stop next to the last Jordanian police officer for passport inspection. He notices the little kid accompanying one of the passengers and asks her for written permission from his father to leave the country. The passenger cries out in surprise and declares that she doesn’t have the requested piece of paper. After consulting a senior officer, the beer bellied lieutenant reads our verdict: go back to the border to check with the big boss in his air-conditioned office.
We head back (the driver cursing sisters and mothers on the way). The driver walks with the mother and her child into the main offices and I wait in the shade. An hour later, the trio emerges: the driver cursing God and the prophets this time; the woman and child walk behind him with grim faces and voices filled with thirst. Apparently, they had to call the father, ask him to go to the nearest police station and fax his consent to allow his child cross the border with the child’s mother (!).
So in Jordan, women, naturally, bear children in their wombs for 9 whole months . Yet, to travel with them for a few hours across the border, they need the sperm donor to wiggle his tail and say “Yes, the womb can carry the child one last time without my grace presence”.
Talk about male dominance!
I spent the last week walking around Amman and its suburbs watching people’s interactions and listening to their conversations. West Amman residents drive their posh cars, wearing their expensive clothes, thinking that they live in heaven on earth just because they have a few new malls and a couple of skyscrapers (funded by Israeli money, camouflaged by big Jordanian names). They look down at residents of East Amman who live in little houses and complain about the expensive prices every hour of the day.
Smile you are in Jordan where an individual is referred to as “this” instead of “he/she”.
Enjoy your stay, but please keep in mind that you are served according to gender only and anyone can have their tongues cut off and eyes removed from their sockets if a Hashemite is mentioned at the wrong time in the wrong place.
The Syrian border.
27.7.2008
