What I Really Meant Was

6.What I Really Meant Was… (16 July 2017)

Lebanese coffee manufacturer “Najjar” and its answer to the
single-serve coffee machines so popular in the west.
(30 April 2017 – Hamra, Beirut)

            For someone like me who considers coffee one of the basic food groups, being in a place like Beirut satisfies a deep longing in my heart. “Coffee hour” after church services does not consist of the watered-down version, but is simply, without question, Arabic coffee. If you want the other kind, generically called “nescafé” without the capital “n”, you have to ask specifically for it. And the reason that’s funny is because “nescafé” sounds like “half-coffee” in Arabic.

            In the U.S., someone came up with a single-service coffee machine you can put on the kitchen counter and generate fresh cups of various kinds of coffee, or if you like, various kinds of tea with a faint coffee residue flavor. And you can generate huge amounts of non-recyclable k-cups destined for landfills everywhere. The popular brand of this machine is something I pronounce “kouyrig”, which means “dear sister” in Armenian. I like my sister much, much more than these machines. Still, I was intrigued when, back in April, the local version of the “kouyrig” hit the market, claiming to consistently make the best cup of Lebanese coffee. With the same little trash-generating k-cups, in regular or cardamom flavor. As far as I know, the traditional method of cooking Arabic coffee in a pot over a fire is not in danger of being replaced.

The exact same type of Arabic coffee machine
at the place where I now take Arabic lessons!
(21 Mar. 2017 – U-Turn Center, Hamra)

            All of this brought to mind an experience I had seventeen years ago, way back in A.D. 2000, when we moved to Beirut as a family and I took up my new position as Campus Minister at Haigazian University. Imagine my delight in seeing something I had never encountered before: a hole-in-the-wall bakery on rue Mexique, next door to the University, which had a machine that brewed Arabic coffee! You put in a 500-lira coin (33 cents), chose what level of sugar you want, sat a disposable cup in the little ring (there we go with more trash-production…) and waited for the little “ibriq” (“coffee pot”) to fill with water, the correct measure of coffee, a touch of sugar, then cook the coffee, and when it was ready, it tilted on a hinge to fill up your cup! It became my new favorite hangout.

            I befriended with the woman who ran the bakery, me with my nearly non-existent Arabic, and her with her non-existent English. I found out that she was supporting her family, and that she was part Armenian, but didn't speak the language. We mostly used smiles, gestures and a few words to interact. One day I went to buy my usual cup of coffee, but when I tasted it I found it had no sugar. I drank it anyway, because you just don’t waste a good cup of coffee. Two days later, on my next visit to the baker, I decided I would be a proper customer (in my U.S. way of thinking) and inform the establishment owner of the problem with the coffee machine. And do so in Arabic (my only choice). So I said what I thought was, “The day before yesterday there was no sugar.” What actually came out of my mouth was: “There is no closed the day after tomorrow” (“Ma-fi sakkar ba3d bukra.”). I had changed “sukkar” into “sakkar”, and “the day before yesterday” wasn’t even in my Arabic vocabulary.

LebCat6 lives around the corner from our current
housing and keeps an eye… or two on comings
and goings. (2 Apr. 2017)

            Telling this story later that day caused much mirth in the Bakalian household, but generated no sympathy for my linguistic struggles. On another occasion a few years later, after Maria and I had dropped off our younger son Sevag at a summer camp, on our way back to Beirut we stopped at a bakery on the highway, and I went in to buy two bottles of water. Our older son Armen trailed behind me as I went up to the counter and asked for two bottles of water. Except that the two words I used were of two different languages: “tnayn tchoor”, one, the Arabic word for "two", and one, the Armenian word for "water". The employee looked at me puzzled as I repeated myself a bit more insistently. More puzzlement. Then he figured out what I wanted to say, and grabbed two cold bottles and set them on the counter. As I turned around, still oblivious to what I had said, I noticed my son walking away from me, back to the car where Maria was waiting, hand clasped over his mouth to prevent something from coming out. Once outside, he burst into hysterical laughter as he told his mother what I had just said. After I paid and joined them outside, I also found out. No sympathy whatsoever.

            Part of my current job description includes communications. I am supposed to facilitate connections between our church union and various groups near and far. Fortunately, this responsibility is based on my English proficiency. In English, and slightly less so in Armenian, I am usually able to say what I mean. So, I endeavor to help “decode” what others are saying, so that I understand their intent, even if the words don’t exactly match or make sense. Having been on the other side, and having had these and many other experiences of misstating what I had meant, helps me to be particularly sensitive to this. I am especially grateful that God is the One who by his Spirit “translates” our misstatements and even our frustration, exhaustion and pain into eloquent prayers. I believe that God calls us to do the same work of helping each other with our flawed attempts at communication, expressing the gentleness that is so often absent from the soulless “posts” and heartless declarations that comprise much of modern, instantaneous, worldwide “communication”.

LebCat6 (again) resting after an exhausting day on the
front-end loader. (15 Apr. 2017)

            Our summer in the city is hot and humid, and we try our best to seek out air-conditioned spaces as we do our part to serve, strengthen and encourage our friends here. We are working hard to prepare for the Christian Endeavor Youth Camp, where I am the main speaker, and the Children’s Camp, where Maria is the official “camp grandmom”. Additionally, we note that the refurbishing of our permanent living quarters has begun, and we expect that perhaps by summer’s end we will begin to make our move there. But more than all of this, we are excitedly awaiting our son Sevag’s arrival this week to spend 15 days with us here, and reconnect with the people and places that formed the world of much of his formative years.

            Finally, an encouraging event from a week ago. Following the annual general assembly of our church union, a small delegation traveled to Kessab, Syria, to rededicate the refurbished Armenian Evangelical Church in the town center. Kessab is the last remaining Armenian village from the myriad towns and cities inhabited wholly or in part by our ancestors prior to the 1915 Genocide. It is right inside the border with Turkey, and was overrun by militants entering from Turkey in March 2014, resulting in much destruction and widespread looting. Churches were especially targeted, so the reopening of this historic building was a day of celebration for all, Christian and Muslim alike, involving religious and governmental leaders. So we pray for the continued peace (or cessation of armed actions) that will promote the rebuilding of lives, homes and livelihoods across Syria and the region. [LNB]

Habibi, It's Ganatch!

5.Habibi, It’s Ganatch! (20 May 2017)

 

Why not make use of all the alphabets at your disposal? The
restaurant’s (now defunct) name, “Kammoun” (which means
cumin), uses the Arabic doubling symbol over the English “m”,
and uses the English letter “u” at the end, puts a dot over it, which
makes it into the Arabic “n”. That’s a lot to explain for a one-word
restaurant! (11 May 2016 – Mar Mikhael)

            One night recently a young friend was driving me home, after I had spoken at her church’s youth group meeting. She lives on the same side of the city as I, so I appreciated not having to wrangle a taxi or service car driver, with my limited Arabic, to take me where I wanted to go without also claiming possession of one of my arms and/or legs. At that hour it wasn’t too congested, relatively speaking, when we drove up to an intersection to wait for the traffic light. (Oh yes, when people ask me if I have noticed any changes in Beirut, I always mention how ten years ago it was rare for drivers to pay attention to the traffic signals, few as they were; now it is common for people to obey the lights. What’s more, they will sit in traffic without constantly beeping their horns. Most of them. Most of the time.)

            So, there we were, sitting at this red light on a Saturday night, waiting behind one other car. The light turned green and… we continued sitting there. I guess the driver ahead of us had an important WhatsApp message to send or read. So, my youthful driver looked through the windshield at the traffic light and then at the unconscious driver in front of her and pleaded through the windshield, “Habibi, it’s ganatch!” (“My dear, it’s green!”) And after about a half-millisecond pause, all of us in the car burst out laughing. We laughed about it the rest of the way.

 

One of the more creative uses of multilingualism I’ve seen. It
includes Armenian words in English letters, Armenian letters,
and a combination of both. I wonder if the “artist” realized
what he was doing. (11 May 2016 – Mar Mikhael)

           One of the reasons we were laughing so much was because it was such a Lebanese moment. People here are multilingual – you can’t survive without being that way. Of course, this event had a Lebanese-Armenian twist, with one word being in Arabic, one in English, and one in Armenian. And because we understood all three languages, it took us a while – a split-second – before we realized it. Usually it takes less time…

            You’ve probably heard this joke before (stop me if you’ve heard this already): Q: “What do you call someone who knows two languages?” A: “Bilingual.” Q: “What about someone who knows three languages?” A: “Trilingual.” Q: “How about someone who knows one language?” A: “American.” It’s well known that the languages you speak help to shape your ability to think about the world. It helps you to enter the world of those around you. And to better understand it. And when you lack that understanding, it leads to… well, things like warmly welcoming a dictator/ally and his goons to the White House.

            The world around here in Beirut is filled with daily reminders that the region is in turmoil. There is a linguistic hodge-podge of tongues and dialects, including Lebanese Arabic, Syrian Arabic, Palestinian Arabic, Iraqi Arabic, various African dialects of Arabic, Kurdish, Turkish, Ethiopian, Sinhalese, Tagalog, most European languages, and of course, Armenian. Certain groupings of languages are identified with certain strata of people: southern hemisphere languages among domestic workers (servants); northern hemisphere languages among tourists, aid workers, and private school students; regional (non-Lebanese) Arabic dialects among day workers or bus drivers; and so forth.

LebCat4 stakes out its position in the same spot, under whatever
car is parked here every afternoon, much like the regular beggars
on our street. (25 Apr. 2017)

            The hardest speech for me to decipher, though, is the speech of the beggars. Often I think I understand what they’re saying, but mostly I don’t. Sometimes it’s not even Arabic they are speaking. So, it is nearly impossible for me to “enter their world”. But one thing that I am able to notice is that each of them has a certain “territory”. From that vantage point, they see me pass by every day, and I see them occupying their workplace every day. Their words and gestures to passersby never change, because this is their “job”. And they have “managers” (whom I have seen), who expect a certain amount of money from them at the end of each day.

            Yet the truly impoverished, and the ones for whom local churches and other agencies have organized outreach to help with aid, education, and hope, are those I don’t see in the course of my day in the city. They are the ones scattered elsewhere in Lebanon, living in makeshift camps. The official numbers are quite low, perhaps 4:1 Lebanese to refugees. But the actual amount is likely closer to 1:1. For now, all I can do to help is to assist, encourage and pray for those who are hands-on and hearts-on with them.

LebCat 5 is determined to make use of the very last bit of the
sun’s rays for as long as possible (19 Mar. 2017)

            We’ve entered graduation season, which is also governmental exam season, and many young people are completely focused on these upcoming exams. Ninth and twelfth graders, to be specific. Our social life consists of going to this or that commencement event, and sometimes (as is the case with the Near East School of Theology, where we are living) we are even asked to be the speaker! Well, that’s what I’ve been asked to do. For her part, Maria was asked to be the speaker at the Armenian Evangelical women’s joint Ascension Day service, which will take place in a scenic destination in the north of the country next week.

            We finally were able to present our application for residency last Monday, and, if all goes well, we’ll receive the permits in a few days. That same day, the day we were called to appear at General Security to be photographed and fingerprinted, we received notice that our household goods had arrived at the port. Coincidence? Or perhaps it was God’s timing, to encourage us and remind us that he is guiding us in this new venture.   [LNB]