The Wayward Orientalist vs. Media Tropes

As previously mentioned, I read the news for a living*. This means I end up identifying a lot of recurring tropes—conventional storytelling devices—in mainstream media, whose goal is to simplify the narrative(s) about the Middle East in a way that is easily digestible for a (presumedly) Western audience.

As you can guess, the vast majority of these tropes are ridiculous, insulting and just plain stupid. Here are a handful that I happen to find extremely grating.

The Middle East is one big blob.

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.

A Season of Goodbyes

While spring has only indecisively tiptoed its way back to Beirut, the end of the school year is already inching closer, which means the inevitable graduation of the class with whom I began this master's degree endeavor. I would have been one of them, if I wasn't willingly delaying my thesis for a myriad of reasons—not least of which my desire to stay in Lebanon for as long as possible.

The ebb and flow of arrivals and departures in Beirut seems to follow a migration pattern mirroring the academic calendar. And while I have already seen some very dear friends leave Lebanon in the past year and a half, the next two months are filled with the exodus of many people I have grown to care about since I have come here.

I have come to the strange realization of how fragile the social nest I have built here can be, and how unwittingly reliant it has been on people who have always meant to leave, at some point or another.

On banning "Arab Spring" from your vocabulary

No one can tell how Arab, Spanish or American you are behind a Guy Fawkes mask.
Photo found on The Examiner.

I know what you're thinking, and yes, you're about to sit through another one of my rants. (It's still not too late to close the tab.)

One of the things that irk me when reading the news (and you must be aware by now that many things irk me) is this easy turn of phrase to summarize just about everything going on in the region for the past two years: the "Arab Spring." Here is my case for why you should stop using this term once and for all.

The Confused Wayward Orientalist

La mort de Sardanapale by Eugène Delacroix, or
Sensual Oppressed Ladiez and Violent Menz: the Middle East in a Nutshell, Y'all!

As many of you might know, my life calling is to scour the Internet for articles and cute animal pictures. And one of my favorite things to do—besides showing dog photos to my roommate to try and convince her that we should get a pet—is to become overly aggravated about offensive articles on a) women and b) the Middle East. Articles about idiotic Republican policies are a close third... and often tied to the two aforementioned topics.

For example, this perfect illustration of modern-day Orientalism is the sort of news that will send me down an inevitable spiral of angry ranting ("An Oriental adventure"? "The history and the culture of the region"? Monolithism much??? ARGH MY BLOOD PRESSURE).

But of course, not all articles on the region fall into the sort of oversimplifications barely worth the exertion of rolling one's eyes. Much of the news coming out of the Arab world deals with death, destruction and oppression, as if nothing positive and empowering ever came out of the Middle East. The early days of the Tunisian and Egyptian revolutions* might have been a short truce, if only because the Western media thought this meant the whole Middle East was going to become more like "us."

I have written in the past about my fear that, by writing this blog, I would either contribute to the vast canon of negative clichés on Lebanon and the Middle East, or go too far in the other direction and gloss over the problematic aspects of Middle Eastern cultures. This has led to numerous occasions when my feminist and anti-colonialist/orientalist beliefs have felt at odds.

Personal evolutions on Palestine

Across the border from Palestine

This reflection has been brought about, of course, by the landslide vote at the UN General Assembly to grant Palestine the status of "observer state." But most of all, this has been influenced by the recent attack on Gaza. The terrible images and news coming from the Strip were harrowing—I am haunted by these photos of the howling pain of grieving fathers.

I have considered myself to be a supporter of the Palestinian cause for a long time. But there is a specific privilege that comes with supporting the abstract notion of the rights of a given people from thousands of miles away. The privilege of oversimplification, of even-handed assignment of blame, and most of all, the privilege of being able to shut out information whenever needed or desired.

Coming to Lebanon hasn't completely taken that privilege away from me, but the consequences of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict have become realer to me—and the implications of my opinions, inescapable.

Who is innocent?

The story that has been shaking the world these past two weeks is the hateful, racist, and overall shitty movie called "The Innocence of Muslims," and the resulting uproar which has led to the death of at least 30 people, including the American ambassador to Libya, J. Christopher  Stevens.

These events were tragic enough on their own, but on Wednesday, French satirical paper Charlie Hebdo decided to publish caricatures of the Prophet Muhammad. This is not the first time this publication has targeted Islam. Their offices were bombed a year ago in response to an issue they had renamed "Sharia Hebdo," and the infamous Danish cartoon also graced its pages in 2007. To say that Charlie Hebdo is no stranger to controversy is quite an understatement, but this instance smacks of gross opportunism and recklessness.

It's been a year

A year in Lebanon... and what a year it's been. Rarely before have I felt like I was right where I needed to be, yet felt so constantly challenged in my assumptions, for the best.

I have learned so much in this past year, what better way once again to celebrate an anniversary than by a list?

I am thankful that...

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?

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.

Political bullshit, an excerpt

Today I had the chance to attend an event at AUB featuring Lebanon's very own prime minister, Najib Mikati. I do feel very lucky that I have had so many opportunities to be in the presence of prominent politicians since my arrival in Lebanon. However, said exposure to politicians up close has led to many nasty —dare I even call them this?—surprises. Let's just say the tepidity of political speeches never ceases to simultaneously amaze and depress me.

[Before I go on, I must note that my impressions discussed further down apply to the experience I have had today listening to Mikati himself speak, and that I am well aware that politicians, on every side of the political spectrum, in Lebanon, or in any other nation, are guilty of the same rhetorical emptiness. Fortunately for you all, I don't have enough time to detail my impressions of every shitty politician in France, the US or elsewhere. All that is to say that: please don't interpret this as me being pro-Occidental, pro-March 14 or what have you. These are systemic problems in politics, which I am addressing through one given personal experience. Make of it what you will.]

Happy three-month anniversary Lebanon! I wrote you a poem list.

It's hard to believe it's been three months since I first set foot in Lebanon. In some ways, it feels like I have been here forever, but I still have so much to learn. I've passed the point of being submerged in the unfamiliar, and some of my initial impressions now seem laughably inaccurate.

So now, instead of listing things that seem out of the ordinary, here is a list of things that might have seemed odd three months ago, but to which I am now accustomed:

"Wait your turn"

A story that has made the rounds on this side of the Internet has been that of Aliaa el-Mahdy, a 20-year-old Egyptian activist, who posted nude pictures of herself on her blog with the stated goal of exercizing her freedom of speech and denouncing "a society of violence, racism, sexism, sexual harassment and hypocrisy."

The backlash has been intense, with her blog garnering several million page views, and a vast number of insults and death threats. Conservatives have glommed onto her as a sign that the secular movement in Egypt has no moral values and will corrupt Egyptian society. In turn, Egyptian liberals have distanced themselves from her, and many ask whether she has hurt the cause.

That social and religious conservatives attack el-Mahdy does not surprise me. That misogynists hurl degrading insults at her does not surprise me. But I was surprised not too long ago to hear a friend of mine vitriolically criticize her, striking a low blow with one sentence:

"Now is not the time for feminist demands, they need to wait their turn."

Al-Janub, Part II

From my last post, my trip to the South might sound like it was a sad meditation on life in a war zone—and undoubtedly it was partially that—but it was also an eye-opener on how unexpectedly normal (if such a word can be said about anything) my stay was there.

Al-Janub, Part I

Two weeks ago, during the four day week-end for Aid Al-Adha (a major Muslim holiday), two friends, H. and K., and I were invited by a Lebanese acquaintance, Kh., to go on a two-day road trip in the South (Al-Janub), where he is originally from, down to the frontier with Israel*.

If you know a little about contemporary Lebanese history, "The South" is also known as "Hezbollah Land," a portion of Lebanon more or less outside of Lebanese government control and administrated by the Shi'a Party of God (literal translation of "Hezb-Allah"), and the site of the 2006 war with Israel. Depending on who I would talk to, the South was either someplace I absolutely needed to go or had to avoid at all costs. "You'll be kidnapped!" some said. "Hezbollah people are crazy, you can't go there as a foreigner!"

The Hezbollah flag.

In short, there was no way I could turn down an opportunity to see this for myself.

The Wayward Orientalist

So, from the beginning I have been thinking about a catchy title for this blog, something that could sum up what I want to convey here, and, lacking inspiration, I had settled temporarily for the most obvious way to describe what I was going through: In Beirut.

I have been struggling with what I should write here. How do I sum up my experience? There are many clichés and easy generalizations to make about Beirut or Lebanon, and while they might contain a kernel of truth (which stereotype doesn’t?), I can’t help but bristle with annoyance when I hear “They” statements:

Day 3: The luxury of getting lost

Written a couple of days ago, but I've been too busy to post until now.

I have been thinking about "L'Auberge Espagnole" for the past couple of days. In one of the early scenes, as Romain Duris' character arrives in Barcelona, he describes those peculiar first moments when places and names sound so alien, before becoming a part of the familiar.

Quand on arrive dans une ville, on voit des rues en perspective. Des suites de bâtiments vides de sens. Tout est inconnu, vierge. Voilà, plus tard on aura marché dans ces rues, on aura été au bout des perspectives, on aura connu ces bâtiments, on aura vécu des histoires avec des gens. Quand on aura vécu dans cette ville, cette rue on l’aura prise dix, vingt, mille fois.


Urquinaona, Passeig de Gràcia, Laietana. Au bout d’un moment tout ça vous appartient, parce qu’on y a vécu. C’est ce qui allait m’arriver, et je ne le savais pas encore.

(When arriving in a city, we see streets in perspective. Sequences of buildings empty of meaning. Everything is unknown, virgin territory. Later we'll have walked these streets. We'll have been to the end of the perspectives, we'll know these buildings. We'll have lived things with people. Once we'll have lived in this city, we'll have walked down this street ten, twenty, a thousand times.

Urquinaona, Passeig de Gracia, Laietana. After a while, they all become yours because you've lived there. This was going to happen to me, but I didn't know it yet.)

Beirut, with its harmonies of car horns and prayer calls, its omnipresent construction, a language so infuriatingly out of my reach... Beirut is intimidating. Part of me wants to stay inside when I am alone because I can't help but feel that I don't belong yet; and I wish that I could skip this part and go straight to mastering the place with assurance, to making it mine.

But that's not how things work. And in order to reach that level of intimacy with the city, I have no choice but to go outside and act like I belong here until I finally do.

D minus five days, or: let there be rambling

So here it goes, the quasi-mandatory abroad blog, where I will discuss my adventures in the Land of Cedars for as long as possible before I get bored of this writing venture and decide to move on to co-author yet another unfinished novel with LKat. Long-term writing goals have never really been my strong suit, but I keep going back to them as if I can somehow distract myself from the inevitable premature demise of one project by starting another.

Anyway... I'm on the road again, off to another location where I barely know anyone... although I think I've topped myself this time. I've never before made plans to stay this long in a country as unfamiliar... and it is a little scary. It took me a while to get used to New York (although a lot of factors that made that particular move difficult are thankfully no longer relevant...), so I definitely have some apprehension about starting from scratch again. But somehow, relocating across the world to Beirut is the most sense-full decision at this point in my life—and this despite the looks of genuine concern regarding my mental health which might indicate to the contrary.

I definitely have concerns; my Arabic is terrifyingly rusty, and I know practically nothing of the Lebanese dialect. My longest stay in the Middle East thus far has been an hour spent in the Qatar airport, and what I know of Lebanon (and the Arab world in general), I gathered from books, movies, second-hand accounts... which is to say, in a sense, that I know nothing.

But knowing nothing... is strangely freeing. I am looking forward to no longer being labeled a "Middle East expert" by people around me who think I am somehow qualified enough to make assessments about an entire region based on a couple of classes I've taken or articles I've read. I want to finally experience firsthand what day-to-day life is like in Lebanon—well, day-to-day life as I can observe it from my privileged and self-consciously orientalist point of view...

Hopefully, I'll have some interesting/not-so-stupid things to share with you all (Hopefully, I will also learn to use fewer ellipses). I've been waiting for this moment for a year, and it's so hard to realize that less than a week from now, this will no longer be projections, scenarios and hypotheses; this will be real.

So here's to my new beginning.