The Post-Thesis Zombie

Where's my medal?

Hello dear readers,

It has been a while, I know. Some of you undoubtedly thought my procrastinatory instincts had finally gotten the best of me and that I had abandoned this blog. True, The Wayward Orientalist has been on an extended hiatus while I was busy with the writing I was paid to do (yay journalism!) and the writing I was paying to do (yay grad school!).

But finally, after about a year of trials and tribulations (some of which were documented here), the thesis beast has finally been slain, thus ending my academic career once and (hopefully) for all. This victory, however, came at a price. I have had to sacrifice many things over the past year, including:

A Cruel Winter

A Syrian child, wearing sandals in the snow. Photo from Facebook.

Winter made it way to Lebanon last week in the most drastic way. A winter storm, dubbed Alexa, swept through the region, bringing gusty winds, rain, and snow to what had so far been a mild end to fall. In an area already fraught with disaster, the weather has turned out to be the latest violence inflicted on us all, but most especially on the Syrian refugees.

On Wednesday evening, my roommate and I found ourselves in the dark as the storm cut off our electricity for four hours, leaving us shaking from the cold in the living room despite wearing two layers of every item of clothing. And yet, we had a roof over our heads, and walls around us, no matter how poorly isolated they might have been. Across Lebanon, hundreds of thousands of Syrians were trying to survive the night under tents and flimsy shelters.

Two years on

Yesterday marked two years since I first came to Lebanon. It’s still surreal to think of all the factors that contributed to my being here. If I hadn’t felt unfulfilled with my job, if I hadn’t gone through a big break-up, if my mother hadn’t mentioned an article about AUB, if I hadn’t had coffee with my friend L. who had just moved to Beirut… my life would be much different. Much blander.

These two years have felt both very short and very long. I have seen so many things change progressively throughout my stay here: friends came and went, bars opened and closed, buildings rose from the ground and other were demolished. I have seen children slowly crowd the streets of Hamra trying to peddle gum and plastic roses as thousands upon thousands of Syrians took refuge in Lebanon only to live in abject poverty.

A year ago, I had no doubt whatsoever that I would still be here by the time September 2013 rolled around. But now, I'm not so sure. Beyond my yearning to explore somewhere else in a year's time, the situation seems hard to predict on the short term.

Trouble in the land of the lotus eaters

Credit: Tumblr

In Homer's Odyssey, Ulysses and his men spend ten years lost at sea on their way home after the Trojan War. One day, they land in the realm of the lotus eaters, whose inhabitants subsist on a flower so intoxicating those who consume it lose all sense of purpose.

Those who ate the honey-sweet lotus fruit no longer wished to bring back word to us, or sail for home. They wanted to stay with the Lotus eaters, eating the lotus, forgetting all thoughts of return.

Who knows what the lotus eaters were trying to forget? There is a certain comfort in letting go of reality, focusing only on the hedonistic pleasures of life, even if it means ignoring the omens of impending catastrophe.

Lebanon has often felt to me like this mythological land of lotus. Life in Beirut can sometimes seem so easy, an oasis of carefree festivity mere kilometers away from the unrelenting Syrian conflict. For some, obliviousness is a survival instinct after having experienced the trauma of war and its consequences up close. Many foreigners are also seduced by Beirut's heady insouciance, its levity in spite of everything. Beirut can feel like the eye of the storm.

Has anyone seen Lebanon's sovereignty?

Nope, it's definitely not here! (Photo: Mohammed Zaatari, AP) 

In the almost two years I've lived in Lebanon, I have witnessed quite a few ups and downs in terms of politics and national security. But these past several weeks have witnessed a series of events which show that, for all the leaders' grand speeches, the nation's sovereignty and political legitimacy are being hacked at with a chainsaw.

Lebanon's sovereignty has long been the source of wry jokes. Between the French Mandate (1920-1943), the civil war (1975-1990), the Israeli occupation (1982-2000), and decades of steadfast Syrian military presence in the country (1976-2005), the country has barely had a break from conflict and external interventions. Similarly, and despite its high visibility in the streets of Beirut, the army is a weak institution which few Lebanese seriously trust to take care of their security.

But no matter how fragile these foundations are, the flagrant disregard for the basic elements of Lebanon's statehood are spelling serious trouble.

The shameful case of Georges Abdallah

"Free Georges"—Protester at the French embassy in Beirut. Photo from assawra.info.

For the past two weeks, the usually bon chic bon genre neighborhood surrounding the French embassy in Beirut has gone through quite a makeover. Graffiti has covered every nook and cranny of the once pristine walls. A tent set up across the street from the embassy hosted keffieh-clad protesters day and night who demanded one thing: the liberation of Georges Abdallah.

For the past 28 years, Georges Abdallah has been rotting in prison in France for a crime he most likely did not commit.

Déja-vu

How do you even start talking about tragedies? How can you write personally about events that take lives, shake some people's worlds intensely and intimately without sounding callous, cold, or even reappropriating them by talking at length about your personal feelings on the matter?

I have been trying to think of how I can possibly discuss the car bomb that happened almost two weeks ago near Sassine Square in the east Beirut. How the immediate aftermath was one of panic, incomprehension and solidarity, before once again falling prey to the ugliness of political divisions.

It's during moments like these that I hate politics the most—the indecency of politicians tripping over themselves to get on television first and try to spin death and destruction to their advantage. When it was revealed that the attack targeted Wissam al-Hassan, dread set in the pit of my stomach. There was no escaping the political now.

On Race and Racism: "Arabness" and the Lebanese identity

The thing about discussions on race and identity is that nothing is as straightforward as it might seem. While the world seems to have clear-cut notions of what being "black," "Asian" or "French" might mean or look like, in practice, it is a completely different story. As I quickly found out, this is also the case with the notion of "Arabness" in Lebanon.

From a complete outsider's perspective, the question of whether Lebanon is an Arab state seems like an easy one: its population speaks Arabic and the country is situated in a historically Arab region (current Zionist neighbor notwithstanding). What else could it be? So why is there such a debate on Lebanon's Arab identity?

On Race and Racism: Immigrants in Lebanon

The topic of race in Lebanon is one I've wanted to bring up for a while. It's not an easy issue, but one I don't think is often brought up when talking about Lebanon, at least in the media abroad. There's a lot to say, so consider this part one of several posts on the issue.

This is not to say that all Lebanese people are racist. This is not to say that Lebanon is uniquely plagued by racism; being a raging progressive who has lived in France and the US, I've seen how ugly and insidious racism can be on an institutional  and societal level. But perceptions of race are shaped by culture and society, influenced by local and external factors. Coming to Lebanon has shown me new and, at times, blunt aspects of race relations that I think are worth discussing.

Peaking Inside Pandora's Box

It's been a while since my last post, and I apologize for having left on such a somber note. The week following the death of Sheikh Ahmad Abd-al-Wahad, which sparked the Tarek al-Jdideh clashes, was a weird one in Beirut, one that definitely showed a new aspect of Lebanon I had yet to see.

Hamra was uncharacteristically quiet. The usual traffic jams on the neighborhood's main street were conspicuously absent. The parking lot outside of my apartment, usually filled to the brim with haphazardly parked cars, was eerily empty. The café I holed myself in daily to work suddenly got a security person at the entrance. Small details that might have gone unnoticed to someone unfamiliar with my neighborhood, but showed that apprehension was shifting uneasily under the surface.

Waiting for the storm

The rumor has been going around for a while; hushed tones of confidentiality, with the gravity of a doctor giving a solemn diagnosis: This summer, it's happening. Lebanon is going to blow up.

At first, I shrugged it off, if a little uneasily. In the darkness of winter, the prospect of conflict months away seemed like a distant, unlikely possibility; so many things could change until then. But as word came of clashes in Tripoli, pitting Lebanese supporters of al-Assad against those supporting the Syrian rebels, it became that much harder to ignore the long-known fact that Lebanon absorbs every conflict, every tension from the region like a sponge.

But still, even as this revelation started setting in with incoming news of several deaths in the north last week, we began bargaining with fate: As long as this just stays in Tripoli, the country can be okay. Just some clashes at the Syrian border, Lebanon can handle that. As long as it doesn't get to Beirut, we'll be fine. Lebanon will be fine.

But these negotiations were over very soon. Last night, by text message, the news came: sporadic shootings in the southern Beirut neighborhood of Tarek el-Jdideh. In cause, the recent death of Sunni cleric Ahmad Abdel-Wahed, killed by Lebanese soldiers in the north.

Trying to fall asleep last night, I hung to this word, "sporadic," like a buoy. This didn't have to be big. One night of burning tires and shooting didn't have to mean the beginning of war. It couldn't. Lebanon has been through too much, it doesn't need this again.