Here and There

9.Here and There (22 October 2017)

            “Oh, so you’re from Armenia?”

            When they hear I'm Armenian, what seems to them like an easy question to answer isn’t at all. It’s asked by people who do not have a circle of Armenian friends who will eagerly fill them in on the finer points of what an Armenian is, where Armenians are from, why the Armenian Genocide is such a crucial issue to Armenians and should be to as non-Armenians, where the language is on the Indo-European language tree, what Armenians typically eat (all of which they, of course, invented), why there are fifty times (Armenian hyperbole) more Armenians outside Armenia than inside, why there has been a steady decrease of Armenians from the Armenian Republic since independence in 1991, and on and on. Really, I can’t imagine how people can get through their lives without having an Armenian tutoring them on all these issues, and so many more!

You could probably seat 5 people across in this classic
at Republic Square (4 Oct. 2017 – Yerevan)

            This summer I visited Armenia on two occasions. A mere hour and some change flight from capital to capital, Beirut to Yerevan.

            My first trip, in August, was a six-day visit, during which I led a retreat for Armenian Evangelical pastors. I was delighted to discover that the retreat was going to be held in Artsakh, in the town of Shushi, a place I have not visited in 18 years. The second trip Maria and I did together, ten days at the end of September until early October, and I was the speaker at the annual assembly of the Evangelical Church of Armenia. And this was only Maria’s second visit to Armenia, the first one having been 16 years ago. Both trips were great experiences, challenging, enjoyable, friend-filled, refreshing.

Open-air performance of Armenian folk dance
and song, “Koutan”, at the foot of the Cascade,
on the day we arrived! (28 Sept. 2017 – Yerevan)

            But the question remains: am I “from Armenia”? When I’m in Armenia, am I from “here” or “there”? “There”, of course, is the gaping hole left in the lives, culture and heritage of Western Armenia, the region that the Ottoman Empire/Turkish nationalists attempted to scrub clean of its pollutants, the Armenian people. They did a pretty good job, too, because they ruined an ancient civilization and left them to die a drawn-out, confusing death scattered across the Middle East (to be finished off later by attrition and emigration), throughout Europe (to maintain an exotic, “oriental” flavor while being re-oriented), and across the Americas (to be tossed alive into the “melting pot” while forever arguing with each other over “American-Armenian” vs. “Armenian-American”). For Western Armenians such as myself, there is an inevitable longing for something irrecoverable, bewilderment over what “Armenia” means, and the clash of familiarity with foreignness when hearing Armenian spoken in the “homeland”.

Supplying the missing “N” to the mini-market’s
name, “Bakalia” – according to Eastern Armenian
pronunciation (5 Oct. 2017 – Yerevan)

            Here’s an example: before leaving Beirut, we borrowed two SIM cards in order to use our telephones in Armenia. While feeding some money to a payment kiosk on a Yerevan street, I must have said “ayo” (yes) to something related to one of the numbers, because after congratulating me via SMS for paying that amount, it then claimed that I had only half of the amount left on that SIM card. Hmm. Time to investigate. First, I asked an acquaintance what might have happened. Was there an unpaid debt on the card that I had just paid off? He didn’t know. So I asked another acquaintance if she could call the company and ask about it. (I wanted someone who could actually understand Eastern Armenian over the phone, something I find very difficult.) She spoke to the agent, then explained something to me that I thought I understood: yes, the missing amount went to pay for something or other. But I needed to know what that something or other was, so I found an actual store run by that phone company, took a ticket, and waited my turn to speak to a live human being behind a counter. When my turn came, I asked her to explain why only half of the amount I paid was shown, and although she spoke in Armenian, it was littered with various foreign (Russian and European) words, much like the litter of Turkish, French, English, Arabic and even Kurdish words blow about our Western Armenian speech. So I asked her if she could explain it again, which she did, with a bit less patience. Then I apologized, and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t really understand what you’re explaining. Thanks for your trouble.” And I left.

            Later on, as I mulled this over instead of going back to sleep, I figured out what had happened to the missing amount. I suppose the jumble of explanations and the various words from various languages finally sorted themselves out, and I concluded (correctly) that I had purchased a calling plan – the amount hadn’t just vanished. But it was emotionally exhausting to be in a place that didn’t exactly feel like I belonged.

            Perhaps this gave me a glimpse of the travails encountered by the latest group of “returnees” to Armenia, the Syrian-Armenians. Many sought refuge from the war in Syria, beginning in 2012, and in the intervening years some have gone on to places like Canada, others have returned to Syria, following the subsiding of military activity, and the rest have settled in Armenia. They have brought a distinct, yet Armenian, culture to the place, and one can sense it – if one happens to also be a “Western Armenian”.

Lara and us at the “Haleb” social aid organization, operating
out of a Northern Blvd. basement (6 Oct. 2017 – Yerevan)

            Maria and I met up with a young woman, Lara, from our former church in the U.S., who is now working through Birthright Armenia at an agency helping Syrian Armenians with various social needs. The restaurant we had chosen was not accepting people without reservations, so we went to one a couple of doors down. The waiter who greeted us seemed to speak a more intelligible version of Armenian, though not the Western dialect. Perhaps he was just accommodating us as Diasporan Armenians, something quite a few Yerevan natives are able to do.

            When he came to our table to take our order, he asked where we were from. “I know she (Lara) is from the U.S., but what about the two of you?” I said, “From Lebanon.” “Where in Lebanon?” “From Beirut.” “Where in Beirut?” “From Ashrafieh” (the eastern half of the city). “Where in Ashrafieh?” “From Geitawi” (a section of Ashrafieh). “Where in Geitawi?” The conversation was getting stranger by the second. “Uhhh… we live in the former CMC (Christian Medical Center) building.” “I was born in that building!” And so three Western Armenians connected on a sidewalk in Yerevan, feeling at home with each other because of the “there” that joined us together.

LebCat 8: “Excuse me, is there a law that says I have
to be inside the box?” (30 Mar. 2017 – Beirut)

            Often, when encountering people disgruntled at life in the Middle East (and in Armenia), we hear them complain about the “here” of their lives today: “This place will never straighten out.” “You can’t get anywhere if you don’t have powerful friends.” “Why bother? This isn’t our homeland anyway.” This multitude of comments are all a way of disengaging with one’s environment, and are usually followed by an announcement of departure to pursue a life “there”, far away from this region. We are amazed at how people can feel more connected to that distant, western environment than to what they consider the corrupt, future-less land of their birth, unable to see any redeeming qualities. I have no ability to read people’s minds, much less see what only God can see – their hearts. But I wonder if people can connect in a different way to the “here” of this part of the world, to experience joy and contentment in the midst of struggles, and find meaning in investing in people, albeit while dealing with undeniable hardships.

            This is something that matches our experiences “here” and “there” – when talking with those who are devotedly working to help others, they note, as we do, that the greatest need is to prepare people – leaders, especially – who will love their homeland(s) and serve with their strength, skills and wisdom for the betterment of all.

            So, Armenia, we’ll be back! We’ve made our home here, close by. We consider both places our own, and trust that they might also consider us their own. [LNB]

Resource Management

8.Resource Management (26 September 2017)

Water delivery to NEST (22 Aug. 2017 – Beirut)

            If I were to choose one thing to invest in here in Lebanon (something from which I could easily get rich), it would be water. I would go out and buy a fleet of those big tanker trucks that were ubiquitous all over the city during the hottest days of summer, and sell water to all of these meaninglessly tall buildings that are filling up every inch of open space in Beirut. You might ask, “Are there no water pipes in the city? Aren’t buildings connected to the public water supply? Shouldn’t there be plenty of water, as the city is right on the sea?”

            Well, yes, yes, and yes. Lebanon is a country rich in water resources. It has rivers and rainfall, lakes and, of course, the Mediterranean. But it suffers from resource mismanagement. And not just the water, but all of its resources, natural, man-made and human. For example, in 2019 I’ll be writing a post about waste mismanagement, because there is a trash collection crisis scheduled for that year. But for now, I’m just going to talk about water.

The Mediterranean Sea, as seen from the American
University campus (7 Aug. 2017 – Beirut)

            A recent study by the United Nations noted that despite the surplus of water sources in the country, people are still obliged to buy water or dig private (and mostly unlicensed) wells, or both. And all of that is resulting in an ever-increasing salinity of the water that comes out of the tap. So, late each night, and early each morning, and throughout each day this summer, one could hear the rumbling of water tanker trucks through the streets of the city, parking in front of this building or that, hoisting its hose up to the rooftop cisterns, and emptying its precious cargo. Not to forget, this is just washing and bathing water.

            Drinking water is a different story. You have to either buy single-use plastic bottles of water (more about plastic below), or subscribe to a local or multi-national drinking water company, whose trucks trundle through the streets all year round, delivering 18.9 litre jugs of water for your home or office water cooler/heater. We trust that these companies have done the necessary purification and filtration work, so that we do not also have to install a carbon or ultraviolet or some other type of purification system. Hopefully.

            Another study has noted that Lebanon only has the capacity to store 6% of its total water resources. In so many ways, Lebanon is a land of contradictions, and water is no exception. It has the highest average rainfall of any Middle Eastern country, has more water than it needs, yet has the least water storage capacity of any Middle Eastern country. And the impact of a couple million Syrian refugees in a country of four million significantly reduces the possibility of averting the projected “chronic water crisis” due to arrive in 2020 [info. from “Far off the target”, p. 70, Executive Magazine (Beirut), April 2017 issue]. Yet there are individuals and embassies that have a vision for a verdant Lebanon, and are working on projects that will help it reach that goal.

Some of the wetlands in the Ainjar spring, as seen from
an Armenian-owned restaurant (10 Sept. 2017 – Ainjar)

            So what about plastic and water? Or plastic in water? A news report in The Guardian on Sept. 6 of this year quoted an investigation done by Orb Media concerning plastic microfibers found in the water used and drunk in cities all over the world. Guess what? Lebanon came in #2 in contamination rates (93.8%), slightly behind the “winner”, the U.S., whose contamination rate is 94.4%, but well ahead of #3, India, at 82.4%... a race I wish we'd lose. The study recommends further research into the effect of ingesting, breathing and drinking plastic microfibers, but also suggests that in the meantime, until the results are back, the use of plastic be decreased the world over. “Plastic is forever” is a helpful, though simplistic, reminder of the challenge we face in responsible resource management. But what do you do when there are virtually no facilities in your country for recycling plastic and so many other materials? Ah… another topic for another blog entry.

            The most precious resource of all, however, is human, without denigrating the natural and other resources that cry out for careful management. We are seeing up-close the constant hemorrhaging of young, talented youth from the country. Some, though not all, make a wholehearted effort to establish themselves in a career, to plan marriage and family, but find the entrenched interests here an impregnable wall above them and around them. They often promise that they will only go away to work for a few years at a decent wage, and then return in order to help Lebanon progress, but we have yet to see that happen. What we have seen in our eight months here is several of our young friends make that move, to the Arabian Gulf countries, to Australia or Europe, or to the U.S. and Canada.

            As one of the most important (and last viable) centers for the Armenian diaspora, and a bastion of the cultural life and language of Western Armenia, the issue of human resource management here in Lebanon is not merely important; it is a life-and-death issue. Schools here are trying valiantly to continue their essential work of inculcating Armenian identity in the young, while all too many families are distancing themselves from that culture and pursuing a French, or Arabic, or English environment in which to steep their children’s inner worlds. This, too, is a form of mismanagement, based on the view that one must sacrifice one’s identity to live a “successful” life.

There’s a reason why you don’t hear
the term “watchcat”. Behold, LebCat 7.
(25 Aug. 2017 – Beirut)

            While Maria and I pour ourselves into our work, we are mindful that we are also doing “resource management”. Our aim is to inspire young people to live a life of purpose, and to fuel that, to live a life based on vision. In order to do something that matters, something that will strengthen others as human beings, and as members of a specific culture group (like Armenians), you have to first have an aim far above yourself, and thereafter you can make your daily choices and sacrifices. We try to show by example that, “Let’s try this path and see where it takes us” is a poor option for those who truly care about their people’s future. We are learning new lessons about trusting God in all of this.

            Enough musing. For now.

            There’s an expression in English, “Never send a boy to do a man’s job.” I’d like to coin a new expression, “Never send a cat to do a dog’s job.” Take a look at LebCat 7, and you’ll know what I mean.

            Our time as permanent residents of the Hamra area of Beirut has come to an end. We’ve been living here at the Near East School of Theology since our arrival on Feb. 1. Tomorrow we’ll be moving to the Ashrafieh area, to start a new set of adventures. More stuff to write about! [LNB]

Humans

7.Humans (27 August 2017)

Random human, being
confused by his electronic
device. (28 July 2017 –
Brummana, Lebanon)

            Humans, especially in recent years, have forgotten the importance of networks. Things like “social media” have clumsily reintroduced the concept to people in the thrall of their electronic devices. But it is still not networking at its optimal, because it eliminates the face-to-face element that is the foundation of any society, human or otherwise. Like that thing called “church”, and those who pretend that their on-line gatherings are an appropriate substitute for fellowship. Or like that fellow, Mark Whatsisberg, who thinks that Facebook is going to replace community groups like churches and associations.

Human bringing goods to
his apartment. He didn’t
have any food; I sniffed
as he walked past. (26
Jul. 2017 – NEST, Beirut)

            Anyway, humans are like that. I should know. I’ve been following one of them for the past eight months… I and my network here in Beirut, that is. You see, we cats look like loners, but we’re really very much in touch (especially when we’re hissing at each other). In case you were wondering, I’m “LebCat 6”, according to Human, who’s been following me and my network.

Human sitting on a chair,
as he does for hours each day.
(18 Aug. 2017, Geitawi, Beirut)

            A couple months back, when a fellow cat sleeping on someone’s keyboard in the U.S. caught a glimpse of this page, and my photos, out of the corner of his eye (you thought he was snoring, didn’t you?), he alerted me, and we immediately informed our teams to increase their surveillance of Human. And we “borrowed”, shall we say, this blog in order to make our voice heard to all of you “socially-networked” humans.

Human carrying Clanging
Metal Thing (3 Aug. 2017 –
Monteverde, Lebanon)

            Since our street has been dug up for the past two months (the street next to where Human lives), my routine has been messed up, to say the least. I’ve had to rely on my colleagues to keep tabs on what’s been going on. And we’ve noticed that Human has been harder to track, harder than usual. My contacts have noted his comings and goings, sometimes in another part of the city, sometimes outside the city, and sometimes pretty far away. He was sighted in Canada a couple of months ago, blowing into some curved yellow metal thing, and just a few weeks back Human callously interrupted my colleague in Shushi (in Artsakh) while she was grooming herself, simply because he wanted to take her picture. Canada, Armenia, Lebanon – seems he’s been getting around. Sometime in late July/early August, he was also spotted in the hills outside Beirut, with a group of other humans, wearing short pants. I don’t know if he was trying to evade us with a clever disguise, but we don’t bother with externals. Smell is what matters, not looks.

Fuzzy Human attempting to deceive
one of our agents with buza 3rabi.
(7 Aug. 2017 – Ashrafieh, Beirut)

            We’ve also noted that Human spends a lot of time going back and forth in the city. And wiping off his sweat with a piece of cloth. They haven’t learned the secret of wearing a fur coat the whole year. It’s a built-in, grow-it-yourself sweat rag – pure genius, whoever thought it up. Humans have so much to learn about what true genius is.

           Human lives with Another Human, about whom we don’t know much, because she keeps avoiding us. But we keep tabs on her, too. For a few weeks this summer a third one appeared at their apartment, Fuzzy Human; the three of them were spotted in and around the city quite a bit. Fuzzy Human tried to offer his “buza 3rabi” (Arabic ice cream) to our colleague, but, come on, everyone knows that there’s no milk in it, so what’s the point? Meats and dairy products – that’s the stuff we like. We also like whatever else you humans feed us, like canned food or table scraps. Anything that will spare us from having to hunt for our own food. You may call it “lazy”. We call it “smart”. Smarter than those phones you clutch all the time.

Our colleague, after being rudely interrupted
while grooming, by Human seeking a photo
op. (15 Aug. 2017, Shushi, Artsakh)

            Our network has been following the news, and is convinced that humans are having increased difficulties because they do not truly network. Theirs is a utilitarian motivation, and they rely on each other only when they need something from another human. In our recent information-gathering operations, the only time we noticed a change in this mode of relation was this summer, according to our agent in KCHAG, the humans’ conference center in the hills above Mansourieh. There humans would sit together, talk and laugh, seemingly just for the enjoyment of being together. And they would also sit in groups and read from a thick Book, and gather inside a building and sing songs to Someone. Nothing significant for them to gain from doing all that, yet they looked like they were actually enjoying life, for a change.

            So, there may be hope for them after all. As long as they keep their networks healthy. And that’s all I have to say.

            Pretty soon Human will have figured out that we’ve hacked his blog. And he’ll change his password, and think he’s locked us cats out.

            That’s OK. Let him think that. We know better. [LNBCAT]

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]