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]

Keeping Promises

4.Keeping Promises (23 April 2017)

            Since Armenians found a safe haven here in Lebanon and other Arab countries, following their branding as an “undesirable element” in their ancient, ancestral homelands, the Armenian population has been “branded” as a positive, constructive, industrious, artistically-gifted element in their respective adoptive homes. I can’t count the number of times since I’ve arrived, when people ask my name, they say, “Oh, like the (local) television personality Nishan!” I smile and nod…

The very first Armenian Genocide monument in Lebanon (erected 1929), showing bullet damage from Lebanon’s civil war (Armenian Apostolic Cemetery, Furn el Shebbak)

            Once upon Ottoman times in Turkey, Armenians were known as the “loyal nation”. They didn’t have aspirations to take over the world – they just wanted to live and flourish in their various locations, whether villages or cities. They dreamed of being able to take a deep breath without being taxed for breathing too much. But Armenians made the mistake of thinking that their overlords would modernize their thinking. Now, a hundred and two years after the Armenian Genocide, and a week after Turkey acquiesced (by only a 51% majority) to its president’s power-grab, the whole world can see how ill-prepared Turkey is to abandon its repressive ways.

            But that 49% is a hopeful sign that things are changing in Turkey, albeit slowly. Turkey will continue to jail journalists and beat protesters. It will continue to allow the wanton destruction of Armenian cultural heritage in the eastern “interior” locations (i.e., western Armenia), far from where mainstream media employees like to hang out. Turkey will continue to play with fire, hosting and lending material support to radical movements like the foreign militias who today again (as they did in March 2014) attacked the Syrian-Armenian village of Kessab. Why attack today, and why attack a village where there is no military presence? Why, except to continue the Genocide that they began over a century ago?

            It is not outside the realm of possibility that this is a “Happy Armenian Genocide Day” card from Turkey, with a postscript “thank-you” for the release of the motion picture, “The Promise,” this weekend. If, as Jesus says in John 8.32, "the truth (i.e., his truth, in its completeness) will set you free," then those who deny the truth are in a prison of their own making. A pathetic, miserable prison. A prison from which those Turkish-sponsored extremists attacked Kessab again today.

Statues of Armenian orphans seated on the ground with their food bowls, outside the Bezikian Orphans’ Museum at the “Birds’ Nest” Orphanage in Jbeil (Byblos)

            Yet, the more inflamed with denialism the Turkish leadership and their radicalized citizens become, the clearer Turkey’s picture becomes to their “friends” (like the U.S.). And who knows? Maybe that awareness will translate into action for what is right, and true, and good… but I’m not holding my breath. Every U.S. presidential candidate, pandering to the Armenian constituency, has made the promise to call it a “Genocide”, and, once elected, they have all (except for Pres. Reagan) broken that promise, for reasons they find justifiable. And so, people groups, their languages and their cultures continue to be destroyed. And not just Armenians, either.

            Maria and I went to a cinema in Ashrafieh (Beirut) this weekend to see “The Promise,” currently playing throughout Lebanon. It is worth seeing, whether by someone completely uninformed about the subject, or by people like us, for whom the narrative was a painful reminder of a history we know all too well. It weaves through its dramatic story-line vignettes of actual events and persons. One of the most powerful aspects of the story was how the main character Mikael was determined to keep his promise to his betrothed, to his home village, and to his people. Do yourself a favor; go see it.

LebCat 3 has expensive taste in cars (1 Mar. 2017)

            Tomorrow morning, April 24, the entire Lebanese Armenian community will gather in the various churches of their various denominations to observe this somber anniversary. In the evening there will be a joint rally (organized by the three Armenian political parties) at Martyrs’ Square in the center of Beirut. Non-Armenian Lebanese will take note of how many Armenian businesses there are, because they will be shuttered tomorrow in observance of the day, and most (though not all) Lebanese will comment on how much the Armenian community has contributed to the well-being of Lebanon. Armenians have indeed been fortunate in Arab countries to maintain their Armenian identity while giving back to the places that welcomed them after the Genocide. It’s quite a different experience and a different outcome than where I grew up, with Armenians forever teetering on the edge of the “melting pot”.

            My next post will be something lighter. I promise.   [LNB]

Donkeys and Questions

3.Donkeys and Questions (11 April 2017)

A racehorse, far from the Beirut Hippodrome

            Two days ago, on Palm Sunday, as Maria and I were making our way by car on the coastal highway to a nearby Starbucks for a post-worship cappuccino, our driver (and friend) said, “Get your camera ready.” We were right next to a McDonalds restaurant when we saw what he meant: a jockey was leading a horse. With a saddle. On the highway. Why? That’s easy to answer. It’s because the sidewalk isn’t big enough for a horse to walk on, of course.

            Asking the question “why” is not only one of the most valuable ways of learning, it is also the key concept of the past several weeks in my Arabic class. We are learning that in order to answer “why”, there are at least six ways of saying “because” in Arabic. Why? Because there are so many different reasons things happen. And because we are practicing our becauses just because. There’s so much more to learn . . .

My Arabic study-buddy, Hilmar, at a café (in Ain Mreisse), which uses old sewing-machine legs as tables

            You know the claim (or hoax) that there are a hundred different words for “snow” in some Eskimo languages. Why? Supporters of this claim say that it’s because snow is an important part of their lives (global warming notwithstanding). Well, we found out that there are five (and counting) ways of saying “friend” in Arabic. Why? Because friendships and relationships are so important in this culture. People you know and people you don’t know all get involved in your life, and some become your friends. Whether they are helping you park a car or stopping you on the street so you can help them find an address, I’m learning to value those relationships over what I used to consider my “rights”. Like the right to walk on a sidewalk without finding a car parked on it, or the right to pull out of a parking lot without finding a parked car blocking the exit. Or the right to have things go my way, or that my way is of course the right way. Did all of that sound very Western? It should, because that’s where I learned about “rights”, but not so much about the surpassing value of relationships. In this new environment it’s time for me to tell myself, as that arbiter of world conformity, Apple, used to say in its advertisements: “Think Different”.

            So why did we see a horse, and not a donkey, on Palm Sunday here in Lebanon? Well, it’s a fine horse, don’t you think? And anyway, we’re going to learn a children’s song in Arabic class that tells us “everybody has a car, but grandfather (jiddo) has a donkey.”

            We saw something else, too, this Palm Sunday. This unholy week. Blood and death in Egypt, attacks intended to exterminate Christians from a land that has been their home since Christianity was new. We have dear friends there, and we mourn, and we ask “why”. Especially, we ask “why” in our prayers to God, because we know that the only satisfactory answer to that question is something that doesn’t sound much like an answer: “Why? Rely on my grace. It’s sufficient.” (Check it out in II Corinthians 12.8-10.)

            And only a few days before that, we heard of a chemical attack in Syria, that was followed by an aerial attack on Syria. Why? Lots of answers are being offered, but little proof or sound reasoning. Why? Who needs proof when you’ve got bombs? No matter which of the five words for “friends” in Arabic we use, we nonetheless have many of them in Syria. What will come next, and how will they endure the unrelenting pressure on them to abandon their homes, livelihoods and roots. And why should they have to?

            In the aftermath of this week of horror, Pope Francis’ words this Palm Sunday are the sanest and most sobering thoughts I can pass along: “May the Lord convert the heart of those who sow terror, violence and death… and also the heart of those who make weapons and trade in them.”

LebCat 2 (11 Feb. 2017)

            Now it’s spring in Beirut, which means before long the snow will melt from atop Mount Sannine, and we probably won’t see rain (to speak of) until the fall. Yet since it’s early spring, everything is still green – a delight to the eye, and a balm for the soul.

            So, I offer you the next LebCat, caught in action (cat-action, that is) atop a car, a couple of streets over from where we live. I’d love to know what you think is in its “thought balloon”! [LNB]

Nuts, Tents and Trees

2.Nuts, Tents and Trees (20 March 2017)

            You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression, as the saying goes. Since I find myself in a very different environment than the usual church circles (i.e., I’m with 20- and 30-somethings in language school each morning), I have to get used to being a normal guy, and take care not to unconsciously put on “clerical” airs. It’s stretching me, and I think it’s also helping me be a “real” Christian person, not a stereotypical “religious type”. Hearing them ask me if I knew why people were walking around the city with ashes on their foreheads told me that these young Europeans have next to no religious or faith background.

The view looking south from our living room balcony.

            Our section consists of a class of six students and one teacher, and I win the prize of oldest student, hands down. Oldest student means that I’m the one who gets to struggle the most with learning the verb forms, subjunctives and adjectives and who knows what else in spoken Arabic. When called upon to say, “He wants to swim,” I easily mix up my hes and shes, and my singulars and plurals. Quite a lot of fun. Except when I realize that I’m making the same mistake time and again. In one of those moments of frustration last week I appended my fumbled Arabic sentence with one of my favorite interjections: “Nuts!”

            Well, talk about making an impression on others. (In Christian lingo, that’s called “your witness”… showing how God lives in a regular person.) The three Dutch, one German and one American, plus the young Lebanese woman teaching us, immediately burst out laughing. Why? They loved the expression, “Nuts”. They hadn’t heard that before (except for the American). One of them said to the other, “That’s great – I’m going to use that expression! ‘Nuts!’” My witness, indeed…

My shortcut to work, with rainwater gently cascading down the picturesque slope.

            Winter is the rainy season here, and one recent, rainy day I had left my umbrella open to dry in the passageway to the classrooms. It’s another of my American cultural artifacts – a very large, collapsible type. Seeing it there turned the head of one of the teachers on the way to her class, and she good-naturedly muttered (in Arabic), “Two or three refugees could fit under that tent!” My teacher laughed, and translated the comment for us. So, the following few (rainy) days that teacher asked me if I had brought my tent to class. Yet another witness…

LebCats 1 (a, b, c and d) – “Shajra Bsaynat"

            After work one day (yes, I do have a job besides learning Arabic) I was walking down the hill to catch the bus back to our residence at the Near East School of Theology in West Beirut when I heard some impolite yowling ahead of me. I turned the corner and looked around to locate its source. It was a tree… with two, no three, wait… with four cats on it, each with its own complaint. They were quite focused on each other, so they did not even bother glancing at me as I approached them to snap a picture. I chuckled all the way home. Then it occurred to me that I could tell this story the next day in Arabic class when asked to say what we did the previous day. All I would need to do is invent a new Arabic word. The next day I said, “I was walking to the bus after work when I saw a Cat Tree (shajra bsaynat).” The teacher pursed her lips quizzically, as she racked her brain to decipher what name of a Lebanese tree her student was mangling. So I took out my phone and showed her the picture. She laughed and cringed at the same time, handed back my phone as if I had just sneezed on it, and said, “Oh no … shajra bsaynat! ... I don't like, I hate cats!” But even though cats disgust her, she still (to this day) repeats the name of that new variety of Lebanese tree to the class and to her fellow teachers – and laughs!

            So here they are… the LebCats! Hope you enjoy them. [LNB]

Blinders

The view of the Mediterranean Sea from our kitchen window

1.Blinders (8 March 2017)

            It’s been five weeks and a day since Maria and I landed in the new place we call “home”. It’s a brand-new, familiar place. Beirut has been our home for nearly eleven years of our married life, and for Maria another seventeen from her birth until her emigration to Canada. We’ve been working pretty hard to fit ourselves in to the pace and style of life here. But there’s got to be a lot more retooling of our lives as we move along.

            It’s been four weeks minus a day since I started taking Conversational Arabic lessons, and today I had an experience that revealed just how much retooling I need. I’m in a class with mostly Europeans, and a few Americans thrown in there just for fun. We were reading a paragraph about “Karim”, and his work and eating schedule, something that could plausibly be part of any conversation outside the classroom as well. In Lebanon there’s very little that remains “private” (in the Western sense). The teacher had us write answers to questions about the text, in order to see just how much we were comprehending. “Karim goes to work at 7:14 each day.” I think to myself, why does she keep saying “a quarter after 7” when the text clearly states 7:14? Ah… my first bit of retooling for the day. Even if it says “7:14”, in Lebanon you don’t say the exact time – just the approximate time. OK, 7:15 it is.

            We went on to answer other questions. How long Karim works each day. When he comes home. With whom he eats. His meal times. The text says that he goes to work at “7:15”, then has his breakfast at 8. But my (Western) brain turned that around, and so I wrote: “Karim has breakfast at 7:15 and goes to work at 8.” Our teacher looked at me and said, “No…! of course not! He goes to work shee (“let’s say”) a half-hour early, and then he has his breakfast. When you get up, don’t you have your coffee (Arabic, of course)? Then you get hungry about 8.”

            Well, it’s true. In the mornings, I don’t eat breakfast because I’m hungry. I eat because that’s “what you’re supposed to do” (read: “what Americans do”). And then I get hungry mid-morning anyway, and go buy a man2ouché.

            This knocked me for a loop this morning. My cultural blinders got in the way of my learning. Over the years I’ve worked hard to teach people not to impose their cultural biases on biblical texts, but rather to let the Bible speak for itself. But here I was, thirty-six days after landing in our new life, messing with Karim’s life/work schedule, and implicitly telling all of Lebanon what it “should” be doing. I’d better include more deep breaths in my daily routine…

            Since Beirut is literally crawling with cats, and since most of my family is allergic to all but the digital kind, I’m going to include my photos of “LebCats” with my posts, as often as I can. Feel free to caption or even name them! [LNB]