I ask my parents about the pavilion on the phone a few days later. They’ve never been to see it, either. Dad says he hasn’t heard anything about it in years but remembers construction work on it started when he was in engineering school at AUB in the 1960s, and a few of his friends had worked on the project until it was abandoned at the start of the civil war.
Claire and I take a bus back to Beirut that evening, and before we get on, I double-check with the driver that this is an express ride to the city. “Of course,” he answers. But before we pull out of Tripoli, we stop at a coffee shop, and the driver calls out to the passengers—the bus is packed with about three dozen people—to ask if anyone wants coffee. We stay parked outside the café for half an hour while the driver picks up coffee, cup by cup, and hands it to everyone on the bus who put in an order. I’m marveling at this absurd mutation of Lebanese hospitality, but finally we’re off. Not so fast, though: we make about twenty ad hoc stops on the way to Beirut, dropping people off by the side of the road, picking up passengers on the sidewalk. It takes nearly three hours before we’re back in Beirut. Express indeed.
I’d been wondering if Claire would be sick of me by now, her tenth day in Beirut, but the vibe between us is still feeling comfortable and easy. Back in the city, we get together for a drink with our former Village Voice colleague Kaelen, whom I had run in to at the restaurant Tawlet in the fall. We meet up at Ferdinand bar in Hamra and reminisce about our Voice days and compare impressions of Beirut. Kaelen has been happy living here over the past decade and writing about the art scene—she seems to have taken to Beirut from the start. Slim and stylish, her dark hair in a chic layered cut, she could pass for a native Beiruti at first glance. How strange for the three of us to be reuniting here, but somehow it seems natural—as if, once again, this Hamra street were a side street in the East Village, the three of us popping into a bar near the office after work.
On our way home so Claire can pack and catch her late-night flight, we stop briefly at a café to smoke argilehs. She’d been wanting to try one, and I like smoking a water pipe, but I don’t do it much these days since apparently the pipes are worse than cigarettes, and I technically quit smoking years ago. The apple-mint tobacco tastes light and sweet, and the air feels like early spring as we sit on the café’s outdoor terrace and watch people walk by on their way to nearby bars and restaurants. A couple of pretty young Asian women pass by, wearing the shapeless pink-pajama uniforms that employers here make their domestic workers wear. Back at home we listen to the Rayess Bek hip-hop CD that Claire had bought at Virgin while she packs, and we reminisce about favorite moments from her trip. We squeezed in a lot in her week and a half here, and it all flew by so fast. I hug her goodbye before I go to sleep; in a couple of hours, in the middle of the night, a taxi I’ve called for her will be picking her up to take her to the airport.
The next day, to distract myself and fight the postvisit loneliness, I drag myself to T-Marbouta café to work on my magazine essay. I spend the entire day there finishing up the piece and snacking on the spicy Armenian sausages called soujouk and on fattoush salad, and drinking glass after glass of frozen mint lemonade. In the afternoon, I click send on my story. Akhiran. At last. Done.
The next week I’m off to the States to do my taxes, visit Richard for a few days, and head to California to meet my soon-to-be-born niece. I arrive in New York in late March, on the night before my birthday. I’ve barely told anyone I’ll be in town, since my trip will be short and I usually don’t like making a big deal about my birthday—but I’m hoping for a mellow dinner with Richard that night, at home or out.
Walking into his apartment as he runs up to hug me is heart-thumping, electric. The time away this year, tough as it’s been for us so far, seems to be confirming that what we have is worth hanging on to, even if the questions—will things really work between us long-term?—are still crackling in my mind. He tells me he’s planned where we’ll have my birthday dinner tomorrow, and winks deviously. I wake up the next morning jet-lagged but looking forward to the day.
When he gets off work, we meet up for drinks at a bar called Brooklyn Social and end up having several rounds of Dark & Stormys. Richard tells me he’s planned a sushi dinner for us—am I game? Yes. I’m desperate for great sushi, which I can’t seem to find in Beirut. Three drinks in at the bar, I realize I haven’t eaten since my early lunch—nine hours ago.
On the walk to the sushi restaurant, I’m a little woozy from the three strong rum cocktails on an empty stomach. But we’re both in an upbeat mood, gossiping about the bickering couple sitting next to us at the bar. As we stroll, Richard jokingly says maybe we should stay away from any political topics tonight; over dinner or drinks, we’ve tended at times to latch on to some Middle East–related subject or other, and then not let it go for hours. The debate can be fun and thought-provoking sometimes, less so other times, but when it happens, it always takes over the night.
“Okay,” I say, and smile. “I won’t mention the Israeli Apartheid Week conference at AUB last month.”
“What was that?”
I start to explain, but wait—politics. I didn’t actually mean to get into it tonight. I was only half-jokingly bringing up the Middle East right at this moment. Better stop now. But it’s too late.
Over and over again in the past, we’ve agreed to disagree about whether any state should be defined by its ethnic or religious identity. But the mention of the apartheid conference, which I hadn’t even attended, opens up a subject—whether Israel should be considered an apartheid state—that neither of us really feels like arguing about at the moment. I’m stupidly thinking I can just blithely bring up the topic and then quickly drop it and continue with our jolly sushi plan.
He takes a deep breath. I can tell he’s not in the mood for this subject right now. But I hazily forge ahead with it. “The problem is that Israel refuses to see itself as a state that belongs to all of its people. Defining itself as a specifically Jewish state means non-Jewish Arabs, no matter if they were already living in Israel long before it became a state in 1948, don’t get the same rights.”
Richard is shaking his head: “There are ways to fix that problem without giving up the idea of Israel as a homeland for Jews, in a time when they don’t necessarily have anywhere else in the world where they’re guaranteed not to be persecuted. The Holocaust is a pretty recent memory. Wasn’t Lebanon established initially as a homeland for a Christian minority that felt itself to be in danger?”
“Yes, but take a look at Lebanon. It’s not exactly an example of social justice or religious harmony.”
On our way to the Japanese restaurant, we both make halfhearted stabs at changing the subject, but mostly we keep trying to win points in the debate—which neither of us can seem to stop.
While we walk, I ask Richard to explain the difference between South African apartheid and the reality in Israel, and as I press him on the issue, I hear the cadence of his voice rise. He’s feeling attacked. I’m feeling frustrated that we’re both now in combative mode, each backed into different corners.
We’re taking faster strides on the sidewalk now, our argument heating up, getting louder by the second. We’re each still trying to make headway in the debate, but I wonder if, instead, we’re just sinking into the quicksand that drowns so many Middle East arguments. The so-called debates I see on the Middle East among TV pundits, or in op-ed sections of newspapers, usually get nowhere for the obvious reasons: opposing sides refuse to see past their own familiar positions and to try to reconcile them with the complex realities and struggles of another side. They talk past one another, each in their own bubble.
I’ve always admired Richard’s sense of empathy, his instinctive generosity of spirit, and his sharp rhetorical skills—even in the middle of our nastiest arguments. He and I both like to see ourselves as rational debaters who value humanity and ethical integrity over doomed tribal thinking. But in a part of the world where so many populations feel vic
timized and are trying to find their safe corners—and where “Arab” and “Jew” are loaded identities—will it always be so maddeningly hopeless to get past the insular thinking, the paranoia?
When he cringed at the word apartheid tonight, I thought of how Middle East issues are usually framed in the United States, and how certain questions are silenced before they even have a chance. I need to be able to talk about sensitive subjects with Richard, and vice versa, but I wonder if we’re coming up against the usual boundaries now. Can’t we discuss tangled Middle East issues like these together—fearlessly, and also empathetically?—or will one of us always feel misunderstood or attacked? For us these debates aren’t just intellectual swordplay; we have personal ties to the region, and the emotions run deep.
He and I often do break through the walls when we talk about these subjects, but right now we’re just slamming into them. I’m sad, flustered, wondering if we’re destined for a life of doomed fights about the Middle East.
I hear myself muttering, “We should just break up now.”
Is it the cocktails talking? I’m too upset and confused to think straight.
Richard’s Beirut visit last month had been a success, and none of the anxieties I’d had about it beforehand—will identity issues get in the way? will we have a big meltdown?—had come true.
I guess the train wreck was bound to happen sooner or later.
Richard glares at me and storms off.
APRIL
A few days ago all these thoughts were skipping through my head: the baby, a clandestine New York visit, northern California in spring. A break from Beirut. The hard-earned end of winter, and a celebration not just of my birthday but of the general okayness, the bliss even, of life when happy events unfold one after the other and you’re feeling tuned in, grateful, ready to enjoy them.
Now my birthday’s been ruined, and my relationship is on life support. I’m heading to California in a couple of days, and I’m going to be a mess meeting my niece for the first time. She’ll be only a few days old, but surely it won’t escape her notice that her auntie is a wreck. It’s not so easy to hide emotional chaos even from babies, I’d imagine.
After all the hard work trying to make this relationship last from across the planet and for so many months, it’s amazing how easily things fell apart. In barely a few minutes. Roadkill from a badly timed spat about—what?—politics, damn it!
The next day I text Richard while he’s at work.
“Bummer the night ended the way it did. Drunk debating—not good.”
“Yeah. Let’s talk.”
When he gets home from work, I smile, mumble “Hi,” but he shakes his head. My “We should just break up” comment from last night is hanging in the air. Last night after our sidewalk fight, we’d both ended up back at his place; all my luggage was there, and it was too late to try crashing anywhere else. We’d gone to bed without a word. Tonight we’re standing in his living room, silent again, staring out the window onto the brick-red townhouses across the street.
“I want to talk,” I say.
Richard shrugs. “There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”
I walk away, pace around the apartment, and head into the kitchen. I open a bottle of wine, pour out two glasses, and set them down on the coffee table in the living room. We both keep standing there, neither of us sitting down, or touching the wine, or saying anything.
True, I’d been wondering ever since we started dating if politics would wreck this relationship eventually. But even when we’ve had huge arguments, we’ve managed to recover from them, our mutual affection and respect winning out. Then, last night, I’d hurled that break-up comment. As angry as I was, that was an unfortunate and sudden outburst. It was hurtful to him, as I’d intended it to be right at that moment.
Apparently he hadn’t just forgotten about it during his busy workday. Now he’s looking distant and worn-out as we stand there in his living room, still quiet, not knowing what to say or do. If he’s decided we should in fact break up, I’ll have to change my return ticket and leave New York early, or stay with a friend for my last few days here. I don’t want to. But I wonder if we’ve pushed things too far this time.
Eventually I venture this:
“Listen, we’re not always going to agree. Not about politics, and not about a lot of things. The way we argue about certain issues drives me nuts sometimes, but we’ve always found our way back. I feel about you the way I want to feel about someone. It’s going to get politically dicey between us sometimes, but I’m pretty sure we can handle it.”
He doesn’t answer. For half an hour, neither of us says anything. I leave the kitchen and go to his room, shut the door, and lie down on the bed.
An eternity goes by. An hour, maybe two.
Then a rap on the door.
“So, want to watch the end of the Celtics game?” It’s his voice. I can hear it behind the door.
Yeah. I do.
The morning after, he gives me a hug and a kiss before he heads to work. We both crashed hard as soon as the game ended. Although I hardly ever watch sports, this was a badly needed distraction, and I guess we’d spent our frustration and anger and were determined to move on without rehashing the whole nasty night. The game showed up just in time. Good thing, too—not only because an hour of raucous cheering helped melt the frost and get us back on track but also because I have to do my taxes today, and I need every positive vibe I can scrounge up.
Before I leave for California that Sunday—my taxes all done and mailed off, stress level ratcheted back down—Richard and I decide to have a Saturday adventure. We take the train to the huge Chinatown in Flushing, Queens. The plan is to gorge ourselves on Szechuan food and explore a neighborhood we both want to get to know better. It’s a tank-top day, with a warm breeze, spring hitting early. We arrive in Flushing at midday and join the sidewalk fray along Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue—masses of the old and young, Chinese mostly but other ethnicities mixed in, too, street vendors lined up in front of buildings, pedestrian and car and stroller and wheelbarrow traffic fighting for space. Smells of roast duck, hot soy tea, and spices are everywhere. We peer at the tiny map on my cell phone screen and make our way to a Szechuan restaurant I’ve been wanting to visit called Spicy and Tasty. The small square dining room is lit up in fluorescent bulbs, not the most atmospheric, but based on the dishes I’m spying on the tables around us, I can’t wait to start eating.
When I go to restaurants with Richard, I usually skip the meat right along with him—even though he always says “Don’t!” But I like to order so we can share everything and maximize the dishes we can sample, unless there’s a meat dish I can’t resist. Today we easily find enough nonmeat dishes to fill our table and order enough for five (in true Lebanese style): cold noodles with red chili sauce, sesame yam balls with red bean paste, squid with peanuts and hot peppers, shrimp and pickled turnip in spicy sauce. Bright bold flavors, spiciness, crunch, heaven.
Stuffed after our gluttony, we head for the 7 train out of Flushing, and on the way we wander into a Chinese bookstore. We end up in the language section, reading to each other from an educational handbook that attempts to teach American conversational phrases.
“ ‘The pork chop was tender and large, yet tasteless.’ ”
“ ‘I don’t like my wedlock.’ ”
“ ‘Many people crave politics.’ ”
That was our last day together for a while. Plans for the next few months are up in the air. I’ll be in Lebanon. He likely won’t be able to take enough days off from work to visit me in Beirut again this spring or summer. So it’s back to the long-distance life. It hurts to leave, stings badly every single time. We’ve been building up that muscle, the two of us, but it’s still tough, no doubt about it.
And I’m off to California.
When I first see my baby niece Marlena’s face, in Laila’s lap, in their home on a lush green Oakland street, all I can think of is a phrase from one of the Engli
sh handbooks in Flushing: “You are the cat’s pajamas.”
It’s such a joy to look into Marlena’s pink marshmallow face, her enormous dark eyes and soft brown hair, one minute an exact duplicate of Samir, and then instantly like a mini-Laila. I hold her and stare at her while she sleeps, and I have this strange feeling that I’m holding part of myself. Marlena is not even my own daughter, but the feeling that comes over me when I hold her catches me off guard.
Over the next three days, I get lots of time to hold her and stare into her small blush-cheeked face, while Samir is at work and Laila takes occasional breaks to shower and return phone calls and do things you can’t always do as a brand-new mom when you’re responsible for the survival of a tiny living thing. I can’t get enough of rocking Marlena in my arms, singing her lullabies (terribly out of tune, I’m sure she can tell), and jangling the colorful mobiles I dangle above her chocolate-brown eyes and raspberry mouth. I realize how much I already love being an aunt. She’s snagged my heart completely, this miniature thing.
My time in California flies by too fast, and soon I’m back in Beirut. My acquaintance Joumana, the one I’d met at the book event in October and who lives in Dubai, is in Beirut helping organize an event called TEDxRamallah. It’s a spinoff of the annual TED conference in California, which brings together speakers to give brief talks on various “ideas worth spreading.” I’d promised her over e-mail that I’d be there. The Middle East edition that Joumana is helping put together will invite a variety of speakers from around the Arab world to give short talks about innovative entrepreneurial, cultural, and activist ideas coming out of the region. It will take place live in the Occupied Territories, with a simulcast at a Beirut theater.
This is the first time a spinoff TED conference is happening in the Arab world, and another of its goals, besides creating a forum for progressive ideas from around the region, is to bring in speakers from the Palestinian refugee camps. The hope is to spread the message that despite the bleak conditions of the camps, plenty of ambitious, creative thinkers and entrepreneurs are living there and undertaking projects the rest of the world rarely gets to hear about.
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