Welcome Home

65. Welcome Home (14 April 2025)

"MLGA" - doesn't roll off the tongue very
nicely. I wonder how it would look on a cap?
(14 Apr. 2025 - Bourj Hammoud)

It has been almost four weeks since our return to Beirut from our “home assignment”, and we are relieved to be back. Not because everything is rosy or easy, but because we have a sense that we are where we are supposed to be, where we are called to be. Yes, the electricity and water supply is still unstable. Yes, the Internet is sometimes there, sometimes not, but always slow. Yes, the roads are full of people who care even less than before about how they drive. Yes, they still think that their car horns will magically cause the traffic in front of them to disappear. Yes, buildings continue to ascend to serve those who do not feel the pain of ordinary Lebanese. Yes, the economy is still in tatters, banks are continuing to abuse depositors, and we have to carry around dollars for larger purchases (such as groceries at the supermarket). Yes, the disparity between rich and poor is stark, and people mostly don’t notice the poor around them. Yes, drones still ply the skies overhead on behalf of “The Chosen”, to take note of and eliminate “The Rejected” and crush and kill “The Unlucky”. And, yes, the attacks by our war-mongering southern “neighbor” continues to be cheered on by the Machiavellian foreign policy of our home country. After we shared the news of the first attack on Beirut since our return, our son Sevag wrote to us: “Welcome home.” Sincere and ironic at the same time.

The end of another old building,
the beginning of another high-rise.
(25 Mar. 2025 - Ras Beirut)

            Sunday, April 13, marked a half-century since the Lebanese Civil War. It was a war, for sure, but the “civil” moniker is a debatable point. Wars are never polite, but more than that, it was not merely the outcome of local, societal tensions, but rather a product of regional conflicts, fueled by powers outside the region. In recent days we watched and read some remembrances and news commentaries, with lots of archival footage reminding us of that era in Lebanon. We lived through just a few – nine months’ worth – of the Civil War, when I was a theology student at NEST and Maria was a nurse at the American University Hospital. Perhaps it was at that time when Beirut started to occupy the quality of “home” in my thoughts and feelings. It was then that I had connected to something deeper than the misery and uncertainty of the war, something which some of my friends, now emigrated to the West, found puzzling. They would express their wonder: “You love this place more than us!”

The joy of children's "Hosannas"!
(13 Apr. 2025 - Qantari, Beirut

            But “home” is more than geography. It is geography plus people plus meaning. That is something we have found here, in this battered scrap of the remnant of Western Armenia. We regularly hear the comment, “Lebanon is such a beautiful country, but the people are trash! That’s the problem with this country.” Upon hearing this, a friend of ours countered, “But the people are beautiful, too! We have such dear ones around us, like you, to share a cup of coffee with!” Yesterday, during Palm Sunday services, I reminded myself that the presence of the children singing God’s praises, right before us, is more valuable than the memories of past Palm Sundays when there were so many more children, or when times were “better”.

Beirut ProTip: You can always find a place to
park if you look for the "No Parking" signs.
(11 Apr. 2025 - Hamra, Beirut)

            Living with contrasts and contradictions; that’s what it’s like to live in Lebanon. Some of the most beautiful springtime flowers in Beirut are the variegated orange blooms that come up amidst bright green leaves [Nasturtiums, for you gardeners] – and they are often seen proliferating… around garbage dumpsters. Or, to keep people from parking on sidewalks and to open up a place to walk instead of the streets, bollards are installed everywhere, to the point where you can’t walk on the sidewalks because the bollards take up all the space. Or, on Bliss Street, at the crosswalk across from the Main Gate of the American University, concrete blocks were placed in the street to keep people from double and triple parking and to improve the traffic flow. The result is that people double and triple park next to the obstacles, and so traffic on Bliss Street crawls more slowly in the narrow path remaining. And then there are the rubble-filled lots, or the bullet-ridden buildings that have been abandoned since the Civil War, that, thanks to nature, have given a bit of extra greenery to the crowded streets, while also serving as public toilets for taxi drivers. None of this is new to me, but it showed itself afresh as I reinstituted my daily walks, something I had scant opportunity to do while in the U.S.

 

Is Beirut still screaming? Shouldn't it be
louder? (28 Mar. 2025 - Gemmayzeh, Beirut)

           Last week while driving to the dojo where I work out I found myself stuck in a traffic jam, different than the usual evening rush hour. Motorbikes were weaving in and out of the rows of cars, some of them on delivery routes, but others of them with flags and Palestinian scarves. As I inched forward, I realized that I was headed into a demonstration. The wide sidewalk at Ain el Mraisseh was crowded with people, likely both Lebanese and Palestinians, protesting the war on Gaza. It seemed that those driving by were more in number than those on the sidewalk, though I didn’t stop and count. But as with all crises, including all the abuses perpetrated upon the Lebanese by their leaders, along with the rampant corruption infecting all spheres of life, things that may prove too entrenched to eradicate any time soon, those who just want to get on with their business (like me) will remain in the majority. Instead of resisting and raising our voices, we will merely complain and move on. But if it’s your home that’s at risk, shouldn’t you try to do more?

LebCat 65: Waiting for that one phone call,
that big break that will turn everything
around! (12 Apr. 2025 - Geitawi, Beirut)

            And so, my thoughts inevitably go to Armenia, both the part that the international community sort-of recognizes as well as the parts that are either ignored or considered inconvenient (even by some in Armenia’s officialdom). Calling Armenia “home” or “homeland” should lead us to do more than simply to hold a remembrance event on April 24. It must unite – in our thoughts, feelings and especially our actions – land, people and meaning, in the pursuit of what is just, not what is convenient. To that end, for the sake of “our homeland,” what am I doing? And what are you doing?   [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]

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]