61. Time and Flies (3 February 2024)
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A cloudy sunset in a cold and rainy winter
(1 Feb. 2024 - Manara-Beirut)
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Among the unavoidables
one encounters in life are time and flies. Both tend to fly, and in ways one
would rather not experience. For example, all the miserable events of the past
months rendered me incapable of harboring anything but angry thoughts, and the time
for writing flew away just like that. Events like the brutal takeover of
Artsakh, the desperate emptying of that Armenian homeland, and the disgraceful
leadership of Armenia drained me of any desire or ability to express myself
cogently. Sweeping the ethnic cleansing of Artsakh out of the news cycle was the
brutal military incursion from Gaza into Israel, the unsurprising outcome of
brutal occupation, repression and dehumanization by “the only democracy in the
Middle East” and “the most moral army in the world,” the darling of the United
States government. It added nothing but fuel to my desire to express nothing but
outrage, and left me to watch time circle round and round above me like a
vulture and regularly relieve itself on my head and shoulders. And through it
all, having to witness the mendacity of world powers acting as if they are the
defenders of the forgotten and downtrodden of the world caused yet more writer’s
paralysis to freeze my fingers.
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Planting hope at KCHAG conference center
(9 Dec. 2023 - Monteverde)
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What a trajectory: from our cautious
optimism of this day seven years ago when we arrived in Lebanon (actual date: Feb.
1 – cf. Nshanakir No. 1), to today, when the humanity of humanity appears on the
verge of collapse. People quickly get worked up about the potential threat “Artificial
Intelligence” presents, robbing human beings of their agency and independence;
yet the thirst and lust for destruction swirling about us springs directly from
human hearts – no computer algorithms needed. A maelstrom is encompassing
Lebanon, from the storms within, the self-serving “public servants”, the clash
of a multiplicity of loyalties, the hopelessness of the population and the endemic
lack of vision, to the simmering flames of war purposely being stoked in a
country unable to deal with yet another crisis. Together these may form the “perfect
storm” that will whip up winds to drive yet more of the youth and vitality Lebanon
needs far from her shores.
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How to tell you're not in Kansas anymore.
That and the McKafta burger (3 Sept. 2023 -
Nahr el Mawt)
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Speaking of storms, the abundant
rain that has fallen (and continues to fall) this winter has brought about the
collapse of infrastructure in every region of the country, with landslides,
mudslides, and even Pigeon Rock-slides (the sidewalk alongside the road, that
is). Recently, main roads flooded enough to cover the bottom half of the fire
trucks sent out to rescue motorists from their cars. Long chains of trash wended
their way down the Beirut River, flowing into the Mediterranean to join the
trash sliding off of coastal “landfills”. These are just a few of the features
of “Lebanon Winter Waterwonderland”.
Since I’ve only gone skiing once in
my life, and that was more than enough to eliminate any desire to continue
skiing, I have adopted a new winter pastime: emptying water from car doors. It’s
unlikely to be adopted as a sport at the Winter Olympics, but if it is, I may
end up on the medals’ platform. Since the car’s rubber window seals are cracked
and broken, heavy rains end up inside the doors, and when I do my usual evasive
maneuvering while driving, the sloshing sound tells me it’s time to drain the
doors. It’s a very small drain hole with an un-removable cover, so I stand,
bent over, and hold it open for as long as 15 minutes until the trickle
subsides. A couple of weeks ago the rain also ended up under the floorboards,
so I got to sop up even more water. I just keep thinking about the medal that
will one day hang around my neck.
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From Quebec? Must have missed the turn
at Albequerque (18 Dec. 2023 - Beirut)
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Also on the subject of water, the other day the
neighborhood dry cleaner, shaking his head at the nonexistent public works,
remarked that Lebanon is a place where there is an abundance of water
(referring to the rain and the flooding) but at the same time no water (the
kind that is supposed to come out of the tap).
Last week there was a yawn-worthy
announcement in the news about driving in Lebanon. Apparently Lebanon has the
most dangerous roadways in the world. Unmaintained roadways, poorly designed
roadways, aggressive drivers, pedestrians crossing highways, pedestrians unschooled
in the meaning of red lights, people at the edges of roadways (sidewalks? what sidewalks?)
who are run over, increasing numbers of car thefts, cockroaches (actually motor
scooters) weaving in and out of traffic in every direction, lack of proper
signage, lack of people obeying what signage there is… the list just flies by
at breakneck speed. While people behind you blast their horns because you are inconsiderately
stopping for a red light.
It was a cheerful moment last
October, in an otherwise bleak year, to bring the Armiss choir back to the
stage, even if only for two songs. Although it was a significantly smaller group
than has performed in recent years, their musicianship and sincerity produced beauty
in their singing. The occasion was the release of a book, “A Hundred Years of
Lebanese-Armenian Choral Art” by Roubina Artinian. As we continue pursuing such
artistic efforts as choral singing in these lean days it’s crucial to keep that
longer perspective at the fore. We are part of a continuum in Armenian life and
culture, and we must take advantage of that momentum so as not to lose heart
and leave a legacy for those yet unborn.
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A different view of the Genocide Memorial
and Research Institute
(25 Oct. 2023 - Yerevan)
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Not only has a hundred years flown by
for Lebanese-Armenian choirs, the church Union in which we are serving is also begun
its centennial year, joining a processional of centennials of Armenian churches,
schools and institutions in the Middle East. For the Union, a June celebration
is in the works that will be the next target event for me and the Armiss Choir.
But it will be tinged with a bittersweet taste due to the reason behind the
founding of all these community structures, namely the Armenian Genocide. It is
there, lurking in the shadows of everything we do, not just as an historical
memory from the early 20th century, but also through the ongoing,
contemporary annihilation of Armenian presence from its own homeland by
perpetrators such as Turkey and Azerbaijan, and through the passivity of “friendly
powers” that provide little more than pity to the ongoing human and cultural destruction
of people groups (not just Armenians) in their native lands.
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LebCat 61 - "Won't one of you
put down your phone long
enough to pet me?" (1 Feb.
2024 - Mar Mikhael-Beirut)
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I made a short trip to Armenia in October
to see my sister and brother-in-law, and at every turn was faced with concern
over Lebanon. “Is it safe there? Aren’t you going back to the U.S.?” And the least-informed
question, “Why don’t they just stop bothering Israel?” Many people were sure
that Lebanon was on the threshold of war, and few people accepted my
observation that all was not as it appeared on the surface… just as the preoccupation
with shopping and night life in Yerevan are not indicative of the precarious status
of Armenia. Looking around while I was there, the impression I got was that Armenia
has not a care in the world, even though Azerbaijan is preparing to wipe it off
the map to claim what it brazenly calls “Western Azerbaijan”.
Lest I forget, yes, there are the flies:
drain flies, that is. Our building’s staircase has been infested with them for
several months, and they occasionally find their way into our apartment. They
aren’t disease-carriers, thankfully. But they are annoying. And since I can’t seem
to locate where they are breeding and deal a deadly blow by dumping a bucket of
hot water down their drain, all I can do is squish them on the walls where they
alight. Too bad every intractable problem can’t be managed so easily. [LNB]
