Walking on Diamonds

38.Walking on Diamonds (23 September 2020)

A ruined building not far from the destroyed grain silos
at the Beirut port (31 Aug. 2020 - Karantina, Beirut)

When walking around the nearby streets in our still sunny weather of the past weeks, glints and glimmers from the ground invariably would catch my eye, and prompt me to go over to investigate the reason for the unusual reflection of sunlight. Might it be something valuable? Some lost treasure? The sensation, especially when the sun is at a low angle, is that I am walking on cut diamonds, treading on treasure. And my reflexes would tell me to stop and pick them up. 

Broken glass gathered together to state clearly,

"We are still here" (31 Aug. 2020 - Mar Mikhael)

            Yet nowadays, in post-post-blast Beirut, the phenomenon of glittering asphalt and pavement has become so common that I hardly notice it. So much broken glass, so many tiny shards have been scattered everywhere that I no longer have that same reaction of walking on jewels, as in the days immediately following August 4. The glass has not decreased (because the winter rains have not yet washed them away); rather, my perception has adjusted to this reality, and I tune it out.

Flying glass daggers - now there's a gaming
challenge (8 Sept. 2020 - Geitawi, Beirut)

             Much as the windowpanes of some 300,000 homes in a 2 km radius were shattered that Tuesday evening, something else very important was shattered and scattered on the ground: the ability for people to see far, to envision, to dream, and to trust. They have eyes, but struggle to see; minds, but only partially perceive; hearts, but are afraid to hope. But unlike those glass shards in every crack and crevice of these streets, those battered thoughts and dreams are still diamonds, still of immense worth. And unless all of us move carefully, we will continue to treat those diamonds within peoples’ hearts as merely collateral damage, and carelessly tread them into the dirt of despair.

The view from our balcony after (another)
huge post-blast fire broke out at the port
(10 Sept. 2020 - Geitawi, Beirut)

            My outlook may not be a majority view. In fact, as the vehicle called “the Lebanese State” continues to happily barrel off the roadway toward ditches and cliffs, my outlook may well have sunk yet farther into the minority. Nonetheless, I consider the people of Lebanon, as well as the Armenian population here and across the Middle East, as diamonds. There is little regard for what has fallen to the ground. We hear energetic defenses of this or that community, for the ultimate good of their politico-religious or religio-political followings, and not for the reviving of the country as a whole.

             The Bible urges believers in God to pray for their leaders regardless of what country in which they reside (I Timothy 2.1-2). Interestingly, the prayers are not supposed to be for long life or extended terms for the ruling class, but for a peaceful, dignified and godly life for the people. With a thick wall insulating leaders of every land from the people in that land, I am not sure how easily those in authority can grasp that sacred task of serving their people. It’s what we prayed for two days ago (Republic of Armenia’s 29^th Independence Day), and it most definitely is what we continually pray for Lebanon.

A sidewalk prayer station outreach from a
nearby church (4 Sept. 2020 - Mar Mikhael)

            The true diamonds of Lebanon, the people you love to meet and talk to, in villages and cities, have simple needs, needs that those in authority find hard to grasp: the simple desire to live in some semblance of dignity and peace. That sort of environment would reawaken a drive to create and flourish in this land. It would remove the desire to flee halfway across the world to find some soil, somewhere, in which to place undisturbed roots and yield fruits.

Homeowners and shopkeepers are determined not to
be driven out (14 Aug. 2020 - Mar Mikhael, Beirut)

            But the drive to create and flourish has not vanished, as others (some inside, some outside Lebanon) have pointed out to me. It has helped me clear some of the funk enveloping my brain. There are some who are using their media platforms to share individual stories of hope and despair, showcasing the determination of some to rebuild and the needs of others for loving hands to support them. The beautifully-restored Sursock Museum with its delicate stained glass and hand-crafted interior, which was turned into splinters and glass powder, hosted a fund-raising concert in its gardens as an act of defiance, declaring, “I’ll be back!” The innovative Armenian band Garabala, which has been losing its members to emigration, one by one, prepared a most tender and even rejuvenating music video for the “For You, Beirut” online event. Friends who left Lebanon early in the year recently chose to return, knowing full well that they would be facing formidable challenges in their everyday lives. The middle-aged owner of what is arguably the best Arabic ice cream in Beirut, leaving his blast-damaged store of 71 years (it was his father’s before he took over) in an

Our living room/dining room, almost ready to move
back into (23 Sept. 2020 - Geitawi, Beirut)

already crumbling house, has decided to open at a new location and keep innovating. A young couple realized that if they wait for the “right time” to have their wedding, set for 2021, it might never happen, so they held a simple and elegant church service and reception this month. So many diamonds, here and there, and I’m training myself to see them, hold them up to the light, and rejoice in the hope that each one represents. This does not minimize the pain of saying goodbyes on a regular basis to people we treasure. Nor will it necessarily alter the plans of those who have decided to seek their fortunes elsewhere. But it reminds us of our calling to care for those right around us.

            For the past three weeks we’ve been living/eating/working in a single room, the bedroom Sevag occupies when he’s here with us. We’ve been sleeping in our own bed, or at least we will until its time to repair the bedrooms. Renovations to our apartment are ongoing, and with any luck it will be completed in a week or two, along with the renovation of the Union offices (including mine) and the entire building.

LebCat 38: Is it safe to come out yet?
(9 Sept. 2020 - Geitawi, Beirut)

            Walking around the city one notices not only the proliferation of scaffolding and the constant activity of construction workers, but a fair amount of homes and businesses that have been left undisturbed since the explosion. We know it will be years before they are touched, if ever. Yet we have chosen to focus on that which is changing, and to harken to the voices of those who openly declare, “Lebanon belongs to me, and not to the criminals who allowed this to happen.” There is still a long road ahead. Rebuilding will not fix all that needs fixing here. But it’s a start.  [LNB]

Drip Drip Drip

22.Drip, Drip, Drip (23 January 2019)

A brief respite from the rain, the city, the daily grind… at the
Pastors’ Retreat at KCHAG. (11 Jan. 2019 – Monteverde)

            For the past two weeks, for more days than not, all we had been hearing was the sound of rain. Morning and daytime and evening and morning. Sometimes we had breaks from the wet, but we accepted the steady “drip, drip, drip” as a necessary part of the winter season. Each dark and dismal morning I would get up and look out the window to see if it were really morning, and if it were raining… again. Once we had ascertained the day had started, and once the haze had cleared for a brief respite, we would look out the other window to see a brighter, whiter quilting over Mount Sannine. What we experienced as drip, drip, drip, they received silently, in the form of heavy snowfalls.

Norma paying a visit to our balcony/rooftop.
(23 Jan. 2019 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            Our “early warning device” in our bathroom is the best indicator of the precipitation. When a single drop of rain falls, it pings on the “tarbouche” or “fez”, the cover on top of the vent pipe, giving us a more accurate weather picture than the TV or our phone apps. But it doesn’t show us the damage caused by the heavy rains, in a country whose infrastructure is not in optimal condition, and which won’t see improvement any time soon. All of this rain brought landslides to a number of areas, closing highways and causing traffic delays at every turn.

            Not only were the roads, drains and rivers unable to handle all of this, but the refugee camps, most of which are in the central portion of the country, were turned into swamp-like conditions. In some situations, the water flowing through them resembled whitewater rapids, which would not have been a problem for that farmland-turned-tent-city in “normal” days, but where in today’s world does “normal” exist?

            Schools, which closed for several days because of the storms, are now adding makeup “rain days” to the end of the school calendar. We in the city are awaiting the next deluge, and whose name will be heard over and over in the news. The big storm was “Norma”, followed by one with another Western name (which the Arab media changed to “Maryam”). Some are guessing that next, Norma’s husband, or boyfriend, or maybe even her “ex-” will show up…

The “tarbouche” on our roof. Actually looks more like a
Japanese-style wicker “kasa” hat. Which sounds pretty European
to me. But then the Japanese call Euro-style hats “boushi”.
Go figure. (10 Mar. 2018 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            Over last weekend, “drip, drip, drip” was replaced by “thump, thump, thump” – the familiar sounds of the Huey helicopters, audible from miles and miles away. Lebanon hosted an economic summit of Arab leaders earlier this month. Considering the ever-worsening economic state of Lebanon, this was probably a good thing to host, to give visibility to the problems the country and immediate region is facing. Most of those leaders said they were coming, but then after some locals tore down and burned one of the flags near the venue (and posted a video of themselves doing it, of course) to express a decades-old grievance, they canceled and sent lower-level ministers to represent them.

Graffiti that blesses and challenges passersby, long after the
artist’s death (Samuel Pashgian’s home,
22 Jan. 2019 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            But the summit went on, and again roads were closed (for security purposes), and people stayed home. So, instead of traffic jams on the ground, there was the incessant “thump, thump, thump” of the Hueys overhead. For soldiers in Vietnam in the 1960s, this meant that help was on the way. For us here in Lebanon, I’m not sure what it means.

            But the dripping sound is more analogous of things that we face, such as the steady closure of small businesses in favor of “outlet”-style stores in western-style shopping malls, and the emigration of their owners to Armenia. Like a slow leak under the kitchen sink, you don’t notice it until it’s already damaged the floor. This is just one of the indicators of how a sub-group of Lebanese society, such as the Armenian community, is being stressed. The society overall will be the worse if these small, industrious communities disintegrate.

A pointed message on an electrical post
(6 Jan. 2019 – Geitawi, Beirut)

            The slow attrition of church members, something seen around the world, can be seen here as well. People, for whatever reason, tend to leave very silently, such that only the very alert notice, and then have a window of opportunity to reach out to them. Fortunately, there is an active and committed group of church members, including many young people, who are taking note and trying to think of ways of keeping people connected and integrated to their churches and communities. They’re even thinking of ways to keep young people who find work in other regions of the Middle East to stay involved in the life of their local church, possibly making use of new technologies to bridge the physical distance. It’s exciting, and I’m looking forward to ideas that will emerge.

            I’ve resumed rehearsals for the Armiss choir, and we’re preparing to give a full concert in June. It will be hard work, especially to build their cohesion. Drop by drop (not drip by drip) we’re gathering singers, young and young-ish (my peers) to be a part of this, and hopefully for all four voices. Notice I did not liken the choir to a bucket. That was on purpose.

LebCat 21: A fat-cat, similar to the non-feline
variety so prevalent in the country, waiting for
a burger to fall to the ground.
(17 Jan. 2019 – Mar Mikhael, Beirut)

            There’s some very interesting graffiti around the city, and I don’t pretend to understand all of it. Some is ominous. Some is humorous. Some is objectionable. Some is a nuisance. And some is thought-provoking, like the wall in Hamra on which is scrawled “Free your mind – Kill your television”.

            It has been two years since we moved to Lebanon, and the excitement, the challenges and the rewards continue. It’s exciting that I am resuming my Arabic studies, after a 20-month “break”. It’s challenging to focus on just a few things, work- and personal-related, and to say “no” to a bunch of other things that legitimately need someone’s attention. (Something about praying to the Lord of the harvest…) Meanwhile, it’s rewarding to be part of a network of friends and colleagues who do their best to support each other. Early in the month I was part of our semi-annual Armenian Evangelical pastor’s retreat, in which colleagues from Syria and Lebanon came together for a 48-hour experience. It’s things like this that keep me grateful for God opening up the way for us to be here.   [LNB]

Strange New World

20.Strange New World (29 November 2018)

The Legend: Jim’s Steaks. Worth the wait in the cold
in a line out the door and around the corner.
(23 Nov. 2018 – Philadelphia, Pa.)

            Last night we flew back in to Lebanon, back to the familiar yet strange place we call home, returning from a “strange, New World,” to borrow the words spoken by Captain James T. Kirk of the starship Enterprise.

            Several weeks ago an opportunity opened up for Maria to receive some software training for her work at Haigazian University, so we decided it was time to take some vacation, making this our first trip back to the U.S. and to my family there since we moved to Lebanon early in 2017. It was also our first trip to Toronto (and to Maria’s family) since then.

Family reunion! Lara K. and her “Beirut family”. Thanks, Dan,
for taking the photo. (20 Nov. 2018 – Broomall, Pa.)

            The first strange thing to me was how “un-strange” so much of it was, right down to the roadways and the potholes, in the same spots I had left them in January 2017. It seemed as if I had only been away from the U.S. for two months, not almost two years. And worshiping with the congregation and singing in the choir at the Armenian Martyrs’ Congregational Church in Havertown, Pa., where I used to be the pastor, only strengthened my feeling of never having been away.

            Being with family was another one of those strange-but-not situations. I suppose that if our separation had been five years it would not have felt like it had been only a short while. But then I wonder about those dear to me, from whom I am separated by death, whose faces carry that almost-forgotten quality to my eye. Yet because of our common faith in Jesus we have the hope of an everlasting reunion. Now that will be a strange feeling!

New car “vending machines”. Order online, and the lift
brings  your order, as if it were a bottle of soda.
(27 Nov. 2018 – Philadelphia, Pa.)

            When Maria and I went into the supermarket in suburban Philadelphia, we were bewildered by the varieties and sub-varieties of practically everything one could imagine, in a store with enough floor space and stock to contain several of the largest supermarkets in Lebanon. We also felt the intensity of advertising in the U.S., and how it shapes you into someone who consumes and buys and buys more as a way of life. It is something we were able to clearly perceive as strange only because of the distance we had had from America these two years.

            But also strange – yet not – were the tents sitting on city sidewalks, which our son Sevag pointed out to us in the neighborhood where he is a high school teacher. In Lebanon I would have accepted that sight as something quite normal in present-day Lebanon – refugees are a part of life in the “new Middle East” promised us by an earlier U.S. administration. There in that section of Philadelphia the tents on city sidewalks belonged to the homeless, refugees of a different sort, indicative of a societal malaise that gets little attention.

Homeless encampment on a sidewalk in the
Kensington area. (27 Nov. 2018 – Philadelphia, Pa.)

            After only a few days in the U.S., another strange feeling beset me: I was forgetting who I was as an Armenian. In that short time my environment was so decidedly American that it was very easy for me to “revert” to the identity I grew up with and maintained, that is, until the 8^th grade when I chose for a book report that so shocked me (my grandmother’s copy of Rev. Abraham Hartunian’s Neither to Laugh nor to Weep) that I realized I had to learn what it meant to be Armenian, and then relentlessly pursue it. I know that some prefer to reconcile everything into everything else, to find the “both/and” in every situation, but when you are part of a minority culture, that melding means the obliteration of your culture. Your existence becomes a mere “decoration” or something “exotic” for the majority culture to enjoy, and otherwise ignore. And that is a hard road to travel if you are a young person wanting to be true to his language and heritage.

A snowstorm welcoming us to Canada. And almost keeping our
plane from landing. (16 Nov. 2018 – Toronto, Ont.)

            What sadly wasn’t so strange to me was the refrain heard over and over, wherever we went (and wherever we are): “We need leaders. Where are the new leaders?” Churches need pastors. Schools need teachers. Community and cultural organizations need visionaries. And they all need donors who believe in their mission and will give generously. I told people that they will not appear magically from some far-away place, but will grow up from within the Armenian churches, schools and community, if they are taught and learn to value their faith and heritage in the face of the intoxicating effect of the “new” and “exciting” all around them.

The best place to be – with children and youth. Thanks, John P.,
for the photo. (25 Nov. 2018 – Havertown, Pa.)

            The most joyful moment I spent occurred during the worship service at my former church. As I had done for nearly 10 years when serving there, I piped a tune to bring the children to the chancel steps, where I would sit and give the children’s message. There are only a few children in that church, so I expected two or three. But some of the high-schoolers, who years ago had been part of this group of little ones, got up, and then others, and before long a big group of “kids” was gathered around me, sitting on the floor in front of me. I was floored… and thankful to God for the seeds of faith growing in those youth, who love their church and their faith so much.

LebCat 19: Double surveillance, with LebCat 17 checking out
the lower level (28 Oct. 2018 – Nor Amanos, Bouchrieh)

            When Lebanon celebrated its 75^th Independence Day, following the news from afar we experienced a strange mix of emotions: wishing we were there, glad we weren’t caught in the incredible traffic jams from closed roads into the capital, as the army practiced for the parade, hearing the pain in so many social media posts about the day-to-day struggles of regular people, while the elite classes disregard their role in creating misery and hopelessness and a lack of desire to celebrate anything.

            Engagement in life’s challenges should not be a strange thing for a Christian (or for any human being), whether Armenian or not. The Apostle Peter in I Peter 2.11-12 was on to something when he exhorted the church to live as “strangers and sojourners” regarding fleshly entrapments, which is a far cry from advocating for a disengaged, “holy huddle” in order to wait for Christ’s Second Coming. That engagement is what will keep us vital and focused as we interface with the strangeness of the worlds we inhabit.   [LNB]