A Hezbollah Christmas

We have entered the season of religious holidays.  Because Lebanon is a country that recognizes 18 religious sects, religious holidays seem to take place every other day.  For our kids this means that in the months of November and December there are as many religious holiday days as there are in-class days.  The holidays include Ashoura (which is the day that Shia Muslims mourn the death of the Prophet's grandson) and a couple Christmas's, as well as national days like Independence day.

Although we live in West Beirut, a region that is mostly Muslim, Christmas appears everywhere. Christmas trees can be found in every store and in most buildings at AUB.  There is a Christmas celebration at the kids' school.  There are Christmas trees in every store and Christmas holiday light parades downtown.  There are Christmas trees in front of Mosques.  In South Beirut, which is a Hezbollah stronghold, you can find yellow Hezbollah flags, billboards with photos of Hasan Nasrallah, and Christmas stores and trees.  There are very few real trees for Christmas, there are instead numerous fake tree options, as if to underscore the artifice of Christmas consumerism in the first place.

We are settled into home, work, and school.  We have passed the "new" phase of the experience and are just here.  The boys seem happy; their school is "fun" and they have a pack of boys at the playground they look forward to seeing after school.  Both kids have had parent/teacher conferences and all is fine.  Our oldest continues to be a chatterbox in school, but the teacher is very good about not focusing too much on behavior; she sees that he's smart.  Our youngest is beginning to read and it's very exciting to see the look on his face when he brings home a new book.

Both kids are developing soccer skills.  Solomon has a reputation for his speed.  He's impossible to catch in "tag," even when chased by much older kids with longer legs.  Eyob was the leading goal scorer on his team.  He's not big on defense, but he excels in offensive skills.  Solomon goes for Barcelona while Eyob prefers Arsenal.

A couple weeks ago, during Lebanon's Independence day, we left Beirut for a drive with friends into the Shuf.  We headed south to the town of Damour before turning into the mountain where we drove up to Deir al Qamar.  Today this is a Druze village high in the mountains.  The village has a huge open plaza in front of its municipal building.  The kids played a long game of tag as the adults wandered around the plaza.  Deir al Qamar represents the complexity of Lebanon's past under the Ottoman Empire.  The plaza contains a large structure that houses a mosque, a synagogue, and a church.  There is likely a Druze prayer room somewhere there as well.

Deir al Qamar was a polycultural village under Druze control for much of it's Ottoman history.  It was possible for many hundreds of years for Jews, Muslims, and Christians to be convivial in one place for a long time.  This is not to suggest that inter-ethnic relations were always equal or peaceful.  Under the Ottoman system, Muslims paid fewer taxes and had greater rights than Christians and Jews.  Deir al Qamar is also the site of the Druze massacre (1860) of Christians.  But for a much longer historical period, the religious groups coexisted in the same geography.

After Deir al Qamar we headed further up the mountain to one of the few remaining cedar forests.  The Cedars of Lebanon are famous.  The first temple in Jerusalem and "the Ark" were said to be built with the cedars of Lebanon.  The cedar tree is the national symbol of Lebanon.  Phoenician ships were built with the cedars.  The forest is at high altitude (maybe 6,000 feet) and the air was cold and wet.  Cedars grow very slowly and a small tree can be thousands of years old.  Unfortunately, the cedars are disappearing due to global warming.  Cedar seedlings require a good snow-fall in order to grow.  There is less snow in the region due to climate change, and hence fewer cedars. There's also the problem of pollution and excessive wood harvesting.

It was really nice to escape Beirut's noise.  Independence day in Lebanon was a time for the country to flex military muscle.  The  sky was filled with Lebanon's air-force (small as it is and consisting mostly of helicopters), and the downtown was closed for a military parade.  The unease in the region, especially in neighboring Syria, can be felt in Lebanon.  One day we experienced a relaxing village in the mountains, where we saw evidence of sectarian cohabitation; but one week later, a bomb exploded in the south, targeting UN soldiers enforcing the armistice signed at the end of the 2006 Israeli invasion of Lebanon and there are reports of kidnappings in the Bekaa region.

A student of mine told me about a drink she ordered at a local Beirut bar called a "Beirut car bomb."  It's a mixture of beer and arak.  Alcoholic drinks with ironic titles, like Christmas trees with plastic branches in Hezbollah strongholds, seems to underscore the precariousness and artifice of "holiday cheer" in Lebanon.

Revolts, Springs, Autumns, and Uprisings

Regional and internal conflicts play an important part of daily life in Lebanon, making it easy to feel as if one lives in a kind of parallel universe.  At one moment one feels as though Beirut represents the future of the world: a cosmopolitan crossroads in one of the most serene and bucolic environments.  The people are well educated, genuinely friendly, and worldly.  But at the same moment, one knows that political storm clouds are brewing and the scene could change instantly.  The newspaper is filled with bombasitic rhetoric, suggesting the sectarian strife brewing within and beyond Lebanon.

There are many unresolved political matters facing Lebanon (I don't claim to have expertise here or to suggest that the most recent conflicts are somehow more important that those that go back to Lebanon's fraught creation).  But two matters, Syria and the STL, seem especially prominent at the moment.  First, and perhaps most important, is the regional conflict in Syria.  Media outlets often dismissively refer to Lebanon as an appendage of Syria.  Hence, Lebanon's decision to reject the Arab League's sanctions against Syria are seen as predictable.  Last week, just a few blocks from the University, we ran into a pro-Syrian protest replete with Syrian and Hezbollah flags.  It was a protest against the Arab League's initial decision to possibly sanction Syria.  Many believe that the Arab League is a surrogate for Western powers.

Support for the Syrian government here can mean many things and it would be impossible to find one narrative to explain Lebanon or its stand vis a vis Syria.  Support for Syria can mean support for the "security" Syria provides for Hezbollah.  It can reflect Shia concerns about Sunni power in Syria.  It can mean anti-colonial protest against any foreign intervention, including within the "opposition parties," which are already receiving support from Turkey and other Western governments.  Similarly, advocacy for the downfall of the Syrian regime can also mean many things.  It can mean support for Sunni hegemony.  It can mean advocacy for Western-style neoliberalism in Syria.  It can mean advocacy of pan-Arab self-determination.  Lebanon is waiting to see what happens with Syria, while various sectarian groups within the country position themselves for what they predict will by the outcome of Syria's violence.

What's clear is just how unclear are the Arab rebellions, Springs, Uprisings, etc.  As Emanuel Wallerstein recently argued in Al Jazeera English, the Arab uprisings, as well as rebellions globally, might be best seen as global rebellions similar to those of 1968.  Hence, occupy wall street movements, protests across Europe against austerity measures, and the Arab rebellions may constitute a global wave of highly localized people-power against authoritarian regimes, whether those regime be an Arab dictator or the 1%.  But even with this interpretation, local conditions shaping each rebellion may be most important for understanding events.  Syria is not Tunisia.  Oakland is not New York.

The second matter shaping political life in Lebanon concerns debate within the country over whether to fund the UN Special Tribunal for Lebanon.  The STL is the UN established tribunal with a mission to prosecute the assassins of Lebanon's Rafik Hariri.  Like the case of Syria, the STL means many different things to different groups in Lebanon.  Supporting the UN's prosecution of Hariri's accused assassins means, for some, the realization that Lebanon participates in the conventions of international law.  Advocating compliance with the STL can also constitute an attempt to deligitimize, even further, Hezbollah.  For others the STL is a Western attempt at undermining Hezbollah, a plan hatched to benefit Israel, while leaving complely unexamined all sorts of assassinations in this region (by U.S. drones and Israeli soldiers, for example).

Syria, the STL, Arab rebellions and much more shape the student elections at AUB and other Lebanese higher ed. campuses.  On the anniversary of Rafik Hariri's assassination, rival student groups representing March 14 (the pro-Western Hariri bloc) and March 8 (the Hizbullah bloc), fought at the Lebanese American University (just a few blocks from AUB).  Last week I volunteered to serve as a faculty observer of AUB's student elections.  The "parties" represented Lebanon's national and sectarian parties.  It was a bit strange to see the famous (or notorious) names of Lebanon's sectarian leaders on our student roles (apparently the sectarian parties CAN agree that AUB is the best place for their kids' education).  The outcome of the elections are still being determined, but for now, the March 14 party seems to have won a majority of seats at the student council (where they will discuss things like library hours and tuition).  An important moment before the election occured when the  Progressive Socialist Party bloc (the Druze) broke away from the March 8 (Hezbollah) block to run an independent slate.

Student elections may seem a bit pedestrian given the larger, and more influential, national and regional conflicts.  However, AUB student elections are widely seen as a bellwether, of sorts, that often predict parliamentary elections.  If the PSP bloc were to separate from Hezbollah at the national level, it stands to reason that that the March 8 coalition (which just recently won majorities in Parliament) could already be in electoral trouble.  Once again the smallest minority party, the Druze, are the kingmakers between the March 8 and March 14 factions.  Notable, I should mention, is that the non-sectarian, independent bloc also picked up significant numbers of student votes.

Despite the complex and overlapping narratives of sectarian, regional and politcal factions and conflict, one event seemed to overshadow all other events for the last two weeks.  In a surprising upset, Lebanon's national football team defeated Asian powerhouse South Korea in the regional qualifying rounds of the Wold Cup.  The minister of education had encouraged schools to close early so that kids could watch the match.  Members of parliament attended the match.  The match seemed to briefly transcend national politics and reporting about the match seemed to confirm that football was an important glue of national belonging.  The minister of sports in Lebanon made a determined argument after the match that Lebanon ought to invest in national sports, because it was the only thing that could unite Lebanon's various factions.

The kids continue to do well at home and in school.  Our youngest enjoys art and has recently taken to making all sorts of Lebanese flags (with different kinds of cedar trees represented).  Both boys enjoy writing words in Arabic.  Because of our recent trip to Istanbul, the boys have a new game in which they open a rug bazaar in their bedroom.  They carefully roll-up and stack all of our blankets and pretend they are shop owners.  When their room is prepared for the Bazaar they invite us in to shop.  The game requires that the customer show interest in a rug and then ask, "how much for this"?  The shop-owners then confer with each other and come up with an outlandish price, "6 Million Turkish Lira!"  When we, as customers, roll our eyes and threaten to leave the oldest shop keeper says, "Well, for you, I have a special price."  It's a very funny game and it's interesting that the hour we spend in one rug shop in Istanbul made such an impression.

Istanbul

AUB and the kids' school were closed for a few days due to the Eid al-Adha.  We took the opportunity to travel to Istanbul which is about 1.5 hours by plane from Beirut.  Our youngest son, still confused about the nature of our recent move to Beirut, asked if we were bringing all of our bags and if I had a job waiting for me in Istanbul.

Istanbul meets expectations; it is a large urban city with good public transportation, a skyline filled with immense, beautiful mosques, and museums packed with interesting history (and much of the material culture of Lebanon, which was looted by the Ottomans).  It is a city of 20 million people and the only one in the world that sits on both the European and Asian continents.

We rented an apartment in the Sutanhamet neighborhood, the old part of the city.  We stayed in the Roman section.  Our living room window looked out onto the Blue Mosque.  This meant we were awaken at 6 AM by multiple calls to prayer from neighborhood mosques.  Our youngest son has taken to improvised singing whenever he hears the call to prayer.  I'm sure this is haraam, but it's entertaining for his secular parents.

If, as a "blended" transracial family, we are a curiosity in Beirut, in Istanbul we felt like an exhibit.  We got many long stares.  People came up to us to ask if the kids are ours.  In Turkish, we were told that the kids faces aren't the same color as ours; we know this because on many occasions the speaker pointed to our faces and then to the kids' faces.  The "stranger who feels compelled to touch African hair"-index is very high in Istanbul (it's about a 9 in Istanbul, 6 in Beirut, and a 5 in Albuquerque).  At the Blue Mosque I had to ask people not to photograph our kids.  While sitting at a bench people would walk by and snap photos of our kids.  On one occasion a man asked his daughter to pose in a photo with our kids (he didn't ask us) -- I rudely explained that this was not okay.  I admit that I have handsome sons, but I think something else is at work here.  I noticed an African American man in the crowd at the Blue Mosque was also the subject of photographs.  Our nine-year-old joked that he should wear a shirt saying, "we are not an exhibit!"  Istanbul is one of the few places where we all felt "different" as a family, even as many people were extremely kind and warm.

We learned quickly that much of the kindness we received, especially in Sutanhamet, was likely to be followed-up with, "why don't you come visit my rug store. . ."  Shopping the "orient" consumes many travelers to Istanbul and shop owners have made into an art the selling of rugs, blankets, and tiles.  It became annoying after two days to constantly question whether kindness was merely a sales pitch.

Our itinerary consisted of the following:

Day 1: The boys had been up late the previous night so we decided to do something that required little energy; we took the double-decker, hop-on/hop-off bus tour.  At night we ate a small restaurant down the street from our apartment.  I can say with confidence that Turkish food is not as good as Lebanese food.

Day 2: Public ferry tour of the Bosphorus.  Three hour stop at mouth of Black Sea for hike to castle and fried mussels.

Day 3: Unfortunately the grand bazaar was closed during our trip because of the Eid.  We did find many open shops and went for a long walk.  We also visited the Blue Mosque, which was amazing, but, in the boys estimation, equal in beauty to the "new mosque" near the Galata bridge.

Day 4: The Galata Tower, Taksim square, the Basilica Cistern, dinner at a British pub (by far our best meal in Istanbul).

The dogs stayed in Beirut with a kind colleague and seem to be doing well -- which is to say that they slept the afternoon away on our sofa.

Our Istanbul photo album can be found at: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.793836603037.2226783.11610611&type=1&l=663af72ec5.

Departures and Arrivals

During the last week I traveled back to the U.S. to attend the American Studies Association annual meeting.  It's always good to see friends. I was on a panel with very bright colleagues.  Since this blog is about life in Beirut I'm going to write about my experiences in transit, and not about the conference.

Despite U.S. State Department travel warnings that caution against traveling to Lebanon, the U.S. passport entitles one to incredible privileges.  Even in Lebanon -- especially in Lebanon, perhaps -- the U.S. passport "speaks" volumes.  Having a U.S. passport means that you don't get pulled aside at the Hariri airport for extra inspection (like the many Palestinians traveling with me); it means you are invited to the ticket counter even when there's a long line cued up in front of you; and it means that you go through immigration checkpoints in under a minute, and not after detailed questioning by suspicious officials.

There's nothing especially surprising about the privileges that come with the U.S. passport, but it is somewhat surprising that these privileges extend to countries with which the U.S. has poor diplomatic relations.

Entering the United States was a strange experience, since I now am a legal resident of Lebanon although my citizenship is U.S.  I was asked to fill out a customs form that asked which countries I had visited on my trip and about my place of residence in the U.S.

On the way home from the conference I found myself sitting next to an older gentlemen on the flight from London to Beirut.  The man was unshaven and slouched his slight body in his chair.  We made eye contact after take-off, when we both learned that our audio/video system didn't work.  After our food arrived the man began talking to me in a quite voice, almost a whisper.  He spoke in Arabic but was almost inaudible.  Since I don't speak Arabic, I didn't think it mattered that he didn't speak loudly; I just smiled, inserted a few "uh huh's" and let him testify for about an hour.  His speech was animated and as he talked, I could see the dentures dislodge from his gums and rotate as he spoke.  At one point, he clearly turned to me to ask a question.  In this pause I would have to acknowledge that I had been ignoring him for the last hour.  "I only understand English."  Without any self-consciousness about my inability to understand his lengthy story he switched to a soft-English and asked, "what's your name?"  He is Mahmood.

And so began a second hour-long dissertation, but one that required my attention because I had confessed my ability to comprehend.  "Are you Christian of Muslim?" he asked.  Although Lebanon officially recognizes 18 religious sects -- and takes pride in it's religious heterogeneity -- in polite conversation there are only two that matter: Christian or Muslim.  I have been advised to keep my Jewish identity to myself (which is easy since I'm an atheist and only Jewish in the sense that I have a pessimistic outlook on life and prefer my potato shredded, fried, and pancake shaped).  I pause before answering "nothing."  The old man smiles and begins a long story about how he had left Lebanon as a child after witnessing a variety of violent atrocities.  He remembers one incident at his mosque when fighting broke out after prayer.  At that point, he said, he no longer considerer himself "anything."  "If people can kill themselves in a mosque, then there's no point in religion."  He now lives in Los Angeles where he is retired but lifts weights daily (he flexed his 87-year-old arms for me).

My travel companion was kind and interesting (if way too talkative).  As our flight began its descent into Beirut he pulled out a piece of paper and wrote detailed directions (in Arabic) to his village in the hopes that I might visit during his two week stay in Lebanon.  I've received many of these invitations from people I just meet; I have yet to take anyone up on their offer.

As I exit the airplane at midnight and walk down the long corridor leading to the immigration check-point, I witness a long line of more than 100 Ethiopian women.  The Ethiopian Airlines flight had just arrived from Addis Ababa and new and returning domestic servants were cued up at the work visa desk.  There were no men or children, just women, standing silently.  Given the slow pace of the immigration officer and the length of the line I estimated that the women would be there for at least three hours.

And so, entering Beirut that evening was Mahmood, returning from his expatiate life in Los Angeles for two weeks; me, coming to a home, of sorts, with my Lebanese resident visa and U.S. passport; and over a hundred migrant workers, entering a life of non-recognition away from family and friends.

Bekaa Valley and Migration

There's less "adventure" to report as we are settling into our routines.  I'll spend a bit of time describing the kids routines and then give some updates on our activities.

The kids are adapting to their new life here.  Our youngest son, as was his practice in Albuquerque, is glued to a best friend to such an extent that he ignores everyone else around him.  We don't get much feedback on his day, but we can tell that he's learning.  He has begun to spell new words and he is also sounding out English words he sees on signs.  We can also tell that he's learning Arabic, although he doesn't give much indication of how much he knows.  The other day we heard him singing "happy birthday" in Arabic.

Our older son is doing really well.  He's made some friends at school and has had two play-dates.  He's also on a school soccer team and scored a goal during the first game.  Although he doesn't have advanced soccer skills, he's fast and can control the ball.  At school he is very conscious of economic class differences.  After returning from one friends' penthouse suite, his first words to us were, "He is so rich!"  He has described teams of servants and chauffeurs at his friends' houses.  He's also very cognizant of the Ethiopian maids (all of his friends have maids) with whom he says he has quick and quite conversations about his own Ethiopian status.

I can't imagine how complex this move all seems to my kids; not only are they in a new society and culture, but they are also encountering new questions about their adoptions and race.  They are regularly asked why they have white parents.  Our older son brushes off the questions, and doesn't seem interested.  Our younger son, who has not articulated many thoughts about his adoption, will usually respond with a discussion about how his family's skin colors are different varieties of brown.   While some of the questions seem abrupt and annoying, there doesn't seem to be any judgement behind the questions and the kids haven't expressed any displeasure about them.  But, there do seem to be more questions about adoptions.

We are meeting new people and getting used to new patterns of daily life.  An AUB colleague of mine invited our family over to dinner at his house.  Dinner began after 8pm.  This "early" time was a concession to us.  This is all to say that the Lebanese day extends far beyond our own.  We usually have the kids in bed by 8:00 so that we can more easily heard them to school by 7:30 am the next day (and this is still a difficult task).  I have no doubt that we are missing 90% of the scene in Beirut because we are asleep by 11pm.  Kelly and I went out to dinner a week ago and we were the only people in the restaurant (at 7pm).  We asked if we could get the early-bird special (as an homage to my Palm Beach County, Florida retirement community roots).

Over the weekend we rented a car and drove to the Bekaa valley.  For those who haven't been here before, Lebanon is a tiny country whose geography, moving from West to East, is marked by the Mediterranean Sea, the Shuf mountains, the Bekaa valley, and the anti-Lebanon mountain range that borders Syria.  The drive from Beirut to the (Eastern-Lebanese) Syrian border might take an hour and a half (given that one has to drive no more than 30-40 miles per hour due to traffic and small roads).  We visited a farm in the Southern-ish part of the Bekaa, where one of the Eyob's classmates has a weekend retreat.

The drive to the Bekaa was uneventful and slow.  The mountains outside of Beirut rise quickly and are steep, but the road is densely populated the whole way with cars and villages.  Thus, the drive doesn't have the feel of crossing a mountain pass because, in actuality, you are driving slowly through an assortment of towns the entire way.  Directions are difficult to come by, because a) we can't read Arabic, and b) there're aren't always signs in the first place.  Thus, our directions consisted of landmarks like: go to the Beirut forum building and take the second on-ramp next to the Beirut river (which is really an empty diversion channel).  Go with the flow of the traffic.  When you get to the bottom of the mountain look for the Mc Donald's and turn before then.  When you see the billboard for Pepino's snacks, turn left.  Go to the church and call again for your next instructions.  Despite the treasure hunt aspect of the drive, we made it to our destination in about two hours (it would have been faster had I been willing to enter advancing traffic in order to pass slow trucks).

The summit of the Shuf has impressive views of the Bekaa valley below.  The Bekaa is a high, flat plateau that has been the place of Roman settlement (and now ruins), as well as various overlapping histories of Christian, Muslim, Druze, etc. communities.  The Bekaa is also incredibly fertile and all sorts of vegetables and fruits can be grown year-round (it reminds me of the year-round production of California's central valley).  We headed to a small town near the Kufraya winery.  The house is a large villa with a landscaped backyard and pool.  The owners spend weekends there with family and friends, as well as a staff of five servants.   We were immediately struck by the wealth of the party-goers, which is a reflection of the wealth at the kids' school.  The party consisted of the children of hotel owners, lawyers, corporate heads.  Everyone had cosmopolitan lifestyles that take them regularly through Europe, the Gulf, and the United States.  There was discussion of weekend trips to Dubai, five-star hotels, etc.   The kids had a great time; but they are both aware of class differences and understand that we have less money and things than most of their friends from school.

While driving through the Bekaa, we saw many encampments of bedouins tending to sheep and small plots of land.  Our oldest son observed that the bedouins look like refugees.  This opened up a conversation about varieties of sovereignty and different forms of land-ownership and belonging.  It's a complex story that we don't yet have a grasp of, but our trip to the Bekaa inspired a conversation about migratory people: those forced to leave their homes; those who choose to migrate seasonally; those who have wealth to migrate between the Bekaa, Beirut, Dubai, and Paris; and those, like us, who have the privilege of migrating as "visitors."

On Higher Ed. and "Outcomes"

Having attending the new faculty orientation for the American University of Beirut, I can now say something about the structure of higher education at AUB.  Like higher education in the United States, AUB is shaped by the mandates of neoliberalism.  This is partly because AUB is accreddited in the United States and must fulfill the requirements of U.S. educational consortiums (the Middle State's Association) in order to continue being accredited.  The mandates of accreditation are that learning be quantified and the labor of teaching be converted into statistical measurements and "outcomes."  Thus, at AUB, as in the United States, higher education is partitioned into quatifiable tasks with measurable statistical results.

AUB has a center for teaching effectiveness that encourages faculty to write clear learning objectives (termed, internationally, as "Student Learning Outcomes" or "SLO's") and to have measurable assessment "tools" such as an exam.  Individual class assessments get collated across the University so that AUB can ultimately demonstrate to its accreditors that students have learned X amount as shown in their outcomes assessment.

These assessment requirements turn the qualitative nature of humanist thinking and learning into something that can be quantified.  Education moves away from personal enlightement and critical inquiry, into a measurable substance.  Students are rendered as vessels waiting to be filled with knowledge until that knowledge reaches the vessel's "red-line" and we can say that student is "full."  In the U.S., the rush to quantify education has been extended to increased quatificaiton and suveilance of faculty workloads and "productivity."  Texas A&M, for example, has assigned a "productivity index" to each faculty member.  Presumably, there are a team of administrators working, like sound technicians to establish the most productive mix of faculty productivity ("a bit more finance and accounting education. . . ease off on the ethnic studies and literature. . . more athletics . . .")

In other ways, however, AUB is very different in structure than U.S. higher education.  Whereas public higher education in the U.S. is now dominated by the rush to hire vice presidents and other adminstrators who can manage all of the new "data" within higher ed., at AUB the leadership of the University is largely comprised of people who maintain their scholarly commitments to teach and research.  Moreover, there is a very small leadership team (although it is slowly growing).  This means that faculty are close to their Dean and Provost, without a layer of dean-lets and VP's to mediate.  I'm told that the University of California system has one administrator for every ladder-rank faculty member; this certainly is not the case at AUB.

Another distinct feature of AUB (compared to the public higher ed. system's I know in the U.S.) are that faculty are still in control of decision making at the University.  Faculty senate, I'm told, is powerful at AUB -- sometimes dominated by the factions that shape Lebanese society -- and shared governance is treated not as a concession to disgruntled faculty, but as the norm.

I am still regularly asked why I would come to the Middle East to teach and study American Studies.  I find this a curious question (especially at AUB, which is an institution founded by U.S. protestant missionaries).  Would anyone doubt the usefulness of getting a degree in Middle East Studies in the U.S.?  Do we doubt the scholarly enterprise of area studies in the U.S.?  Of course not; in fact, the U.S.-based area studies scholar is accorded privileged status within her field.  The point is that we assume the exceptionalism of the United States when we treat American Studies as something that can only be understood IN the U.S.  A more critical approach, in my view, would be to undermine this exceptionalism by treating American Studies as an area study; and to view "America" not as the U.S., but as an imaginary that is sometimes linked to the U.S. nation/state, but sometimes is detached.

Okay, enough about higher education.  Boys still doing well.  Tae Kwon Do begins regularly this weekend.  Dogs: recovering from their humiliating hair cuts, enjoying taunting cats.  Kelly: enjoying time away from a job, very busy nevertheless.  Next adventure: public transportation to kids soccer classes and car rental to travel to the Bekaa in two weeks.

Bedlingtons and the Decline of U.S. Influence in the Arab World

Anybody who knows us, knows that our Bedlington Terriers, Simon and Lucy, are beloved members of the family.  We have had them for all 11-years of their life.  Bedlington's are hypo-allergenic; they don't shed and they have hair instead of fur.  This means that they need to be groomed regularly.  After a month in Beirut, it was time to take the dogs to the groomer.  Dog ownership is not common in the Arab world and many Muslim's believe that dogs are inherently dirty animals that don't belong in homes.  But in Beirut, where there are many secular Muslims and Christians, dog ownership is on the rise and many people are interested in them.

Because dog ownership is not common, there are very few places to get a dog groomed.  However, there is a vet clinic in Hamra that caters to those few dog owners in the neighborhood by selling food and offering grooming services.  In order to get the dogs to the groomer, we have to walk them; we've been told that taxi's won't permit dogs (just incessant chain smoking).

So, Thursday, Lucy and Simon walked to the groomers.  The challenge of getting to the office included crossing busy streets and herding the dogs through narrow sidewalks amidst dense foot and car traffic.  Simon escaped his collar on the busy Bliss street, but made it across without incident.

When we entered the vet clinic, we were met by the groomer who, unlike almost everyone else in the neighborhood, spoke not one word of English.  In order to receive directions about how to cut the dogs hair, he called a friend of his who could work as translator.

In the U.S., I might say, "we want a Bedlington cut, with the exception of x,y, and z.  Here, I had to wing it; I told the groomer's buddy, "make it short all around, but leave the top of the head longer."  For a classic bedlington cut, look here:(Bedlington Terrier).  Later in the day, we returned to the groomer to find our dogs with short hair over their body, but the top of their head had been combed out and styled to look like an eight inch bowl of hair had been velcro'd to their top of their head.  Our son couldn't contain his laughter when he saw the dogs.  As for Simon and Lucy, they've clearly never been so humiliated in their lives.  They've been withdrawn ever since the grooming incident.  I purchased scissors and removed the hair bowls from their heads.

The boys are doing really well.  Our oldest son is feeling better about life here and he's making many friends, including a friend who is a girl (but not a girlfriend!).  He's been invited to a birthday party at a friends' farm in the Bekaa valley.  Our youngest son is also doing well, and turns six tomorrow (the 25th).  For his birthday we are taking him bowling and then having a friend of his come over for cake.  Kelly and I have found a babysitter for the kids and last night we bought birthday presents and had a nice dinner of Lebanese mezze at a Jazz club in Hamra.

It's been fascinating to follow the Palestinian UN bid from the vantage point of Lebanon.  Lebanese newspapers are very critical of the U.S. position on Palestinian statehood -- obviously -- but what may be less obvious is the extent to which U.S. policy on Palestine illustrates the fading influence of the U.S. in the region.  To many here, the Arab rebellions in Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, and to some, in Syria, represent a movement for dignity and self-determination.  The uprisings are not merely against domestic dictators, but against a world-order that all to often oppresses the Arab world.  Thus, while the U.S. and Israel still determine the fate of Palestine -- for now -- there's a sense that a new future is possible because countries in the region, such as Turkey and Egypt, have broken away from the colonial powers.

Palestinian politics are complex and fraught in Lebanon.  I can't describe it all now, but it's obvious that while there is widespread support for a free and sovereign Palestine, there is also public disdain for the 450,000 Palestinian refugees living in Lebanon.  The Palestinians are blamed for many social problems and are also blamed for inviting both Israeli aggression and Hezbollah.   Thus, one of the reasons that some Lebanese support a Palestinian state is because they want to return the refugees to Palestine (and shift the demographic balance of sectarian politics in Lebanon).  This reminds me of the American colonization society of the mid-nineteenth century, that sought to send free Blacks in the North to Africa, not because they cared about them and wanted to guarantee their freedom, but because they didn't want free-blacks in American society.

While it has been interesting to watch how the U.S./Israel obstruction has been represented in Lebanon, it has been sad to see the execution of Troy Davis in the newspapers here.  I can remember what it felt like to read, from the U.S., about an unfair execution in the Arab world.  These stories have been used to condemn Islamic society and to undermine the authority of Islamic politics.  Yet, one has to wonder whether the unfair execution of Troy Davis might also suggest something about the normative violence of U.S. society.

So, this week, from Lebanon, I witnessed the U.S. execution of a black man whose guilt is in doubt and the U.S. turning its back on the forward flow of history in the Arab world.

homesickness and flora

This week we've continued to settle into our new routines.  I have been going to work each day to prepare my syllabus, to write a proposal for a new MA in American Studies at AUB, and to write my book (I've actually resumed the process of writing the book).  I'm teaching a course called, "America in the Middle East, the Middle East in America."  I'm organizing this course to focus on imagined geographies as a means to show how both the "Middle East" and "America" are imagined spaces that are produced through culture artifacts.  Moreover, I want students to understand how both regions produce each other.

The MA in American Studies will be the first of its kind in the Middle East.  It will recruit students from across the Middle East, as well as U.S. and European students who will pursue dual degrees with AUB and their "home" institution.  Locating American Studies in the Middle East poses a really interesting issue for the discipline of American Studies: what does American Studies become when it is an area studies?  And, what does American Studies look like from a part of the world that has directly experienced the consequences of U.S. empire.

The boys are still enjoying school but our oldest son is experiencing a deep sense of home-sickness and what can only be called "culture shock."  More than anyone else in our family, he is attached to his things and his "house."  We are talking to him about how "home" is the place where we're all together, and is not defined by the objects within our Albuquerque house, but he is not buying what we're selling.  I think I need to download for him the Burt Bacharach song, "A house is not a home."

We're confident he'll establish attachments here over time, but for now he's sad and somewhat anxious about everything.  "Will there be war here?"  "Will we have enough money to get back to the United States?"  Although much of his fantasy play involves guns and other weapons, he is terrified of the soldiers we encounter almost everywhere in Beirut.  He's also very sensitive to all of the noise in the city; car horns, construction, fireworks, etc.  He has a much-anticipated play-date after school on Monday; we are hoping that having a friend will ease his fears.

Our youngest son, (who turns 6 next week), has made a good friend (Lebanese) at his school. Apparently when this kid described Solomon to his parents he told them, "his name is Solomon, and he is of the brown-skin people."  A few days later, the friend asked Solomon why "you have black skin and your parents don't."  Solomon shrugged his shoulders and responded, "my parents have light skin, and, actually, I have brown skin."  There weren't any followup questions.

We took both boys to a Tae Kwon Do school here in Beirut.  I think it's going to be good for them (they've done TKD for the last year and have really love it). After the class we walked from the TKD club to our house (about three miles).  Along the way we stopped downtown for ice-cream.  The recently-redeveloped downtown has hopping with couples, families, and many. many children with their domestics.  Downtown has a mix of new and old mosques and churches (and one synagogue that I have yet to see).  There are also many upscale shops and restaurants.  It was nice to see such a lively public culture.  There were also many people strolling along the corniche.

Guilty pleasure of the week: chicken tawouk sandwich with garlic sauce, pickle, french fries, coleslaw, and ketchup.

Here are some photos of AUB's flora.  The sunset picture was taken from our balcony.

Jeita and Byblos (Jbeil)

This weekend we rented a small car and drove north along the coastal highway to the Jeita Grotto and then further north to Byblos (Jbeil).  Half of the adventure was the drive.  Actually, despite my initial hesitation about entering Beirut car traffic, I found that there was some rhythm and rule to the traffic.  Sure, we all ignored lane lines and I was honked at in friendly, cautious, and angry manners regularly.  But, after a while, I realized that driving in Beirut is much like walking in Beirut.  You have to squeeze through tight spaces.  You have to watch out for deep potholes.  And, you're likely to circle the same block many times while trying to find a place.  We frequently found ourselves squeezed between four cars on a two-lane road.  We shared the freeway with mopeds driving the wrong way, pedestrians waiting for buses, and trucks driving at a snail's pace.

Our first destination was Jeita Grotto.  This is an impressive stalactite cave about 12 miles north of Beirut.  After taking a gondola a short distance up a hill, we entered the upper cave,  It was otherworldly, with 25-foot high stalactites and stalagmites in various alien shapes and sizes.  The outgrowths look variously like coral or like the folds found on the underside of a portobello mushroom.  After walking through the upper cave, we walked down the hill to the lower cave, which can only be explored by boat.  Here we floated on crystal clear water with the cave ceiling just feet above our heads in places.  The kids kept asking if the cave was real; it was so unlike anything we'd ever seen that the they thought it must be an amusement park creation. http://www.jeitagrotto.com/

After Jeita, we drove another 30 minutes north to the port city of Byblos, a city that claims to be the oldest inhabited city in the world.  It is the place where the alphabet was invented and where Phoenician and Roman ruins are ubiquitous.  We walked around the souk, had lunch at an open air cafe, and visited the historic Byblos port.  The boys, who have been saving Lebanese money in order to buy treats, each purchased small fish fossils, which were unearthed 20km from Byblos.  The fish fossils are over 100,000 million years old.  Once again, the boys speculated about how one could easily fabricate fake fossils and pawn them off on unsuspecting children.  They are such skeptics!

This kids' school continues to be going well.  We attended an open house in which we were impressed with the teachers.  Our older son has taken to his Arabic teacher, and is already beginning to use fairly elaborate Arabic greetings.

We were surprised to discover that the entire team of teachers, including the art, French, PE, and music teachers, are all incredibly competent.  The PE teacher talked about educating kids about eating, sleeping, and healthy emotional well being.  He is having the kids research their favorite athletes and writing short stories about make-believe sports and games.  Who knew that PE could be more than humiliating?

We have noticed that parenting at the kids' school is far more intense than we've experienced in the States.  At the open house and at meetings with teachers, parents assume the tone of interrogators, demanding that the teacher explain how their little prince will move from kindergarten to first grade if he's not already reading Tolstoy (or Gibran, I suppose).  The parents, many of whom are incredibly privileged and are paying top dollar for their kids' education, are demanding of the teachers to the point of being almost rude.  We've experienced dedicated parents advocating for their children, but this is something different; it's an anxiety that their children won't be ready for the fortune 500 job if their kindergarten stresses fun and emotional well-being over reading and math.

A telling moment occurred in the French teacher's classroom.  This was the context in which most of the parents' anxieties emerged most powerfully.  The parents wanted to know what French texts their kids would read, how quickly they would write in French, and how rigorous could the teacher become.  I am just beginning to understand the extent to which certain classes of Lebanese embrace their Francophilia.  France, to some, is not a colonial power, but is the guarantor of European acceptance.  Having children become expert French speakers is about much more than language acquisition; it is about social mobility and, especially for Christian Lebanese, about affirming European roots to Lebanese nationalism.

While the parents we've seen have high demands for the school, we've also noticed that much of the actual "parenting" takes place by"helpers," "maids," and live-in domestic workers.  These women are migrants primarily from the Philippians and Ethiopia, who work and send remittances to their home country.

Domestic labor and nannies are not unheard of in the U.S., but the Lebanese domestic labor scene compares, in many ways, to the era of the Jim Crow South.  Domestic workers are part of the family in that they care for the children, do the shopping, cleaning, and cooking.  But they have no rights in public and enter Lebanon only at the whim of their sponsor/employer.

It's not uncommon to see a mother at the park watching her child and its nanny on the playground.  When the child has a snack, the domestic worker will turn her back to the family, as if doing so makes her invisible.  There's a strange intimacy in that the migrant woman is part of the family unit, but there's also a clear barrier, as she is expected to become invisible during tender moments between parent and child.  These sorts of relations are not unique to Lebanon, of course.

Phoenician and Roman ruins

Phoenician

Spice market

Spice market

Romans, of course

A New Normal

We are beginning our third week in our new home and are beginning to transition to the new normal.  The boys have begun school and I have started to go my office.  Kelly is also beginning a new life without paid labor.  She is making good use of her time by training for the Beirut International Marathon, a race that one of my friend's jokingly titled the "run for your life!" marathon.

The boys attend the American Community School, which is a private institution that offers an international baccalaureate.  It was very competitive to get them into the school.  During years when Lebanon is not at war or under attack, the Diaspora returns home and spots at private schools become especially competitive.  I'm sure that arms were twisted in order to get our kids in to the school.

ACS began in the early 20th Century as an American school for U.S. oil executives who based their corporate offices in Beirut.  In the last few decades, as fewer Americans lived in Beirut, ACS became an international school catering to the wealthy elite of Lebanon, as well as to the families of international diplomats and aid workers.

The boys will spend two-hours per day learning Arabic, as well as a few hours per week learning French.  Most of the instruction is in English.  All of the classrooms have two teachers, one who is primarily the homeroom teacher and a second that offers instruction in Arabic.  Most of the kids at the school are Lebanese, although there are many nationalities represented in the student body.  There are a few other Ethiopian children, as well as a few children from Nigeria.

We don't yet have a sense of what goes on during the school day, in part because the kids usually register their feedback about school in terms of "thumbs up" or "thumbs down."  (There is also a sideways thumb, representing indifference).  Both boys gave two thumbs up after the first day.  Our nine-year old can write his name in Arabic and is beginning to use Arabic greetings in public.  Our youngest one can only say, "no" in Arabic.  He also likes to give "Levanon kisses" when we drop him at school (code for three pecks on alternating cheeks).

My older son's teacher wears a head scarf.  He's mildly curious about why she does this.  I said he should ask her, and he said he thought it was probably a personal matter about which he shouldn't inquire.  But then he proceeded to tell me that he imagines that his teacher is like Professor Quirrell, (from Harry Potter) whose head scarf conceals Voldemort's withered body on top of his own head.  Westerners have made all sorts of derogatory assumptions about why some women wear head scarves; my son's reading, however, suggests all sorts of transgressive potential in the head cover.

We are very pleased to send the kids to a school that is only three minutes away from our apartment.  The school is so close to our home that we can see the kid's P.E. class from our balcony.  We're also cognizant of the amount of time we've reclaimed by not having to commute.

For the last few days, I've been getting to know a colleague I'll never meet.  Last week Kamal Salibi, a noted Lebanese historian at AUB, passed away.  Partly because of my interest in Lebanese history, and partly because of the sorts of respect Salibi garnered in his memorials, I picked up a copy of Salibi's, A House With Many Mansions: The History of Lebanon Reconsidered.  It's an elegant monograph that focuses on competing national and transnational histories in this small country.  Salibi argues that while Lebanon is a complex web of sectarian histories and politics, the most significant conflict in Lebanon is between a (primarily Christian) understanding of Lebanese nationalism, rooted to memories of the Phoenicians and Romans, versus a larger and transnational Arabism that links former Ottoman territories under Islam.  Lebanon, therefore, is to the Christians a natural and obvious formation, while for many Muslims, Lebanon is a colonial construct that bifurcates more meaningful collectivities and national formations (greater Syria, for example).  Salibi's writing is lucid and the narrative enacts theory, rather than talking about theory.  I'm sorry I'll never meet Salibi in person.

This weekend we plan to brave Lebanese car traffic and to head North.  We will rent a car in order to visit the Jeita Grotto, Jounieh, and Byblos.  I'm both exhilarated and nervous about Lebanese traffic.  It's not just that cars don't observe lane lines and traffic signals; or that turn-signals are treated as unnecessary appendages on a car; it's the fact that maps and directions are so imprecise.  I anticipate getting lost with regularity.

Stan Smith in Beirut

Having said that I would try to avoid all of the imperial nonsense of much international writing, I must digress for just one moment to respectfully extol the wonders of Lebanese food.  It's just a fact that Lebanese food is amazingly good.  Everyone knows this.  But it is even more amazingly outstanding for those of us who are lactose intolerant, vegetarian-leaning, with a committed sweet tooth.  I am learning the wonders of manakish, the thin vegetable or meat pies that are roasted in brick ovens.  These thin pies melt in our mouth and burst with the flavors of lemon and thyme.  They can be found everywhere in our neighborhood.  Street food in Beirut consists of flat breads warmed on large, half-spherical cast iron skillets.  The bread is cooked and then smothered with fillings like shwarma, vegetables, or a variety of cheeses like halloum or lebnah.

Lebanese sweets are ornate, delicate, and intricately constructed.  It would be too easy to call these treats, baklava, because they are so much more.  They lack the stickiness and bulk of U.S. versions.  Tiny pastry bird's nests are assembled from paper-thin dough which are then filled with pistachios, honey, and rose water.  Layered bite-sized pastries have different nut, honey, and fruit-essence combinations, each with distinct flavors and textures.  The bakeries have huge varieties of sweets, usually presented in towering pyramids reaching three to five feet in height.

Produce in groceries and in farmer's markets are inexpensive and excellent.  While we lean toward organic produce, we've noticed that much of the non-organic produce is also local and regional, and just tastes better than conventional produce in the U.S.

Our stomachs, while enjoying the new food, have been in rebellion against the new bacteria in Lebanese water.  We were warned about "Beirut belly" and now some of us have been afflicted.  I've been spared at this point, in part because I caught the Palestinian version just a few months ago and may have developed some resistance. 

As I have come to Lebanon to teach and study U.S./Middle East relations, I should mention something about my sense of U.S. culture in Lebanon.  We might conceive of U.S. culture via the ubiquitous golden arches, KFC's, Hardee's, Krispy Kreme's etc.  Or, we might think of the ways that U.S. music, art, aesthetics circulate abroad.  Or, we might think about U.S. policies, international relations, imperial interventions in the region, etc.  For now, I'm thinking about Stan Smith, the U.S. tennis champ who won two grand-slam tournaments in the 1970s and who, along with Bob Lutz, had an illustrious doubles career.  If you're not familiar with Stan the tennis player, you are likely familiar with the Stan Smith Adidas tennis shoe.  Throughout the 1980s, the all white leather-with green heel, tennis shoe was my favorite, not only because of matters of comfort but because they were the coolest.  But, like all consumer products, the Stan Smith shoe went out of production, as consumers moved to more high-tech shoes made of durable, yet breathable, nylon.

Today, while shopping for back-to-school shoes with the kids, I was pleased to see my old Stan Smith Adidas on sale in a Beirut shoe store presented, not as a nostalgic retro-item, but as a legitimate new shoe.  It was at this moment that I realized that the cafe in which we had just had snacks played the greatest U.S. pop hits from the 1980s.   I was totally unprepared for the ways that Beirut would allow me to relive my teenage years (thankfully I haven't found any acid-washed jeans).  We purchased some Van's for the kids.

"American culture" is not just something that radiates out from the United States, but is also something that is simulated outside the United States and, in the process, made into something new.  It circulates globally and gets resignified -- given new meanings -- in new contexts.  I don't claim to know what Stan Smith means in Beirut, it likely means something I will never know.  The same can be said of jazz music, which seems ubiquitous in Beirut (in advertising, on the radio, in clubs with names like Harlem).

If certain products here gain new meaning through translation, we've learned that some products mean the same things regardless of context and language.  While we walked passed an upscale Western hotel on Hamra street today, a valet for the hotel looked at us and said, with a big smile, "the united color's of Benetton!"  It was an innocent comment, but one that suggests ways that Benetton's multiculturalism had traveled globally.  I don't yet know enough about racial thinking in Lebanon to understand what a mixed-race or "blended" family means here. 

The kids are doing things here that they've never been able to do the U.S.  They leave the house on their own to play in a playground.  They play with neighbor boys who come over to our house to gawk at the dogs.  They dive to the bottom of the sea with their goggles and poke at sea life.  This is not typical here; it is, rather, the sort of life made available in a protected and guarded bubble that is an American University in Beirut.

And yet, the boys are also missing friends and familiar things in Albuquerque.  Rather than relishing a different sort of cultural life, they seem outraged that drivers here go through red-lights, that moped's drive on the side-walk, and that taxi drivers honk regularly at them (because they are making themselves available to us).  We've tried to convince the boys that people do things differently in different places and that this is an opportunity to see something that's different than what we know.  But to them, certain behaviors that in Albuquerque would be "illegal" (like running a red light) are just plain outrageous.  Period.  It's amazing to see the extent to which they've developed identities as law abiding citizens, even before age 10.  I wonder at what age cultural relativism develops.

Next week more photos and a description of the first week of school for the boys.

AUB and Homemaking

We are living on the campus of the American University of Beirut.  The University is located in an area called Ras Beirut.  The campus is walled with entrances guarded by AUB security and paid police/soldiers.  The campus is one of the only green spaces in the city; it's one of the most beautiful campuses I've ever seen, with huge banyan trees, views of the sea, and lush vegetation.  I won't go into the history of AUB, except to say that it began as Syrian Protestant College in the mid-nineteenth century and that it represents the first attempt by Americans to "transform" the Middle East.  The pioneers of the college were Protestant missionaries who thought they could convert Maronite and Greek Orthodox Catholics in the Mt. Lebanon region of Syria to Protestantism.  They failed miserably, (see Ussama Makdisi's Artillery of Heaven for a full account of this history) but left in their wake the Syrian Protestant College, which would ultimately become AUB.  AUB is accredited in the United States, but is also a Lebanese institution that fashions itself as the [insert Ivy league school here]-on-the-Mediterranean.

I have come to AUB to Direct the Prince Alwaleed Bin Talal Center for American Studies and Research (CASAR), a center I have visited annually for the last five years.  CASAR also has a complex origin in the fraught politics of U.S./Middle East relations.  In the aftermath of 9/11, Prince Alwaleed offered a $10 Million gift to the city of New York.  During the donation ceremony, the Prince suggested that the U.S. may want to reconsider its policies in the Middle East, especially in relation to Palestine.  Then-Mayor Rudy Guilliani immediately rejected Prince Alwaleed's donation.

Eventually, the Prince was persuaded to donate his $10 million to higher-education institutions that could expand understanding between the U.S. and the Middle East.  Edward Said was instrumental in getting an American Studies center founded at AUB.  Alwaleed gave initial endowments to American Studies Centers at the American University of Beirut and the American University of Cairo.  He would latter help endow centers for understanding Islam in the West at Cambridge, Edinburgh, Georgetown and Harvard Universities.  I'll save my discussion of what American Studies looks like in the Middle East for another time.

This is the first time I've worked at a private University.  As a welcome gift from the Provost, we received four bags of groceries with many essential household items.  Today I enrolled in the University's health plan, which costs about $125 per month for our family of four (the similar coverage in New Mexico costs us about $500 per month).  Co-payments for doctor's visits are $2.  At UNM, I've paid up to $30 to see a specialist.  I've purchased prescription drugs (Statins) over the counter (without prescriptions) for a few dollars.  I realize that very few Lebanese have the privilege of using AUB's medical center (at AUB rates) but I'm also fascinated to see a different sort of health system in which costs for preventative care are relatively low and where neighborhood pharmacists have considerable diagnostic authority and skill.

Other things are very expensive here.  El Paso brand Enchilada sauce and burrito kit costs around $7. 

We are beginning to adjust to the new time zone.  Hiking up to the neighborhood has become easier as we've developed new calf muscles and are acclimating to the humidity.  The campus guards know us, making it unnecessary for us to show identification when we enter campus.  We are also familiar with some of the shop-owners in our neighborhood, all of whom have been warm and kind.  We've figured out how to get certain provisions (like propane for our stove and filtered water) delivered.

The boys have free range of the campus, which has been really fun for them.  They've named many of the cats and enjoy AUB's playground (which, we've learned, is one of the very few playgrounds in Beirut).  They are definitely behind the other kids in soccer skills, a sport with which they have had only fleeting interest in the U.S.  But, of course, soccer is king here and all of the kids have skills.  At the elementary school, the Principal told us that the only thing our boys could not wear to school are team soccer jersey's, as these cause conflicts on the playground.  I wonder if an Oakland Raider's jersey would be acceptable.

Yesterday we attended a street festival in Hamra.  The street had been closed to cars for the event.  Dozens of vendors set-up kiosks for the length of about five blocks where they sold everything from keychains, to toys, to local honey and other produce.  The scene was typical of any large street festival, with the exception of the military vehicles on every corner.  We were drawn to the local foods, which were fabulous, of course.

It's the last few days of what has been a very long summer.  We moved out of our house in Albuquerque on June 1, spent six-weeks in Albuquerque in five different homes, and then spent four weeks in California and Washington in four different homes.  Needless to say, we are looking forward to creating new routines and beginning the process of making home.

Week One

Let me begin by saying that I don't read blogs and I generally dislike the blog format.  They are overly narcissistic and tend to reproduce the worst aspects of the "holiday letter" ad nauseum.  I don't presume that anyone is really interested in hearing the minor details about our days here in Beirut.  I refuse to render our move here in terms of the normative tropes of internationalism; I mean terms like "culture shock," "difference," or "strange-ness."  Yet, I do see the utility of creating a singular site where those who want to know what we're up to here in Beirut can find information.  The blog also has the benefit of allowing me to write once about what we're up to and not to write the same details in multiple emails.

This blog will be something of a catalogue of what we're up to, as well as some comments about what I'm learning about Beirut, about Lebanon, about the Middle East, and about U.S./Middle East relations (conceived politically and culturally).

Here's the skinny: we moved to Beirut last week so that I could begin a faculty appointment at the American University of Beirut.  My wife and I have two sons, adopted from Ethiopia, and two 11-year-old Bedlington Terriers (adopted from Denver).  The boys, ages 9 and 5, will attend the American Community School which is across the street from our apartment (which is on the campus of the American University).  My wife, a certified nurse midwife, is still considering her work options, while also helping kids and dogs get used to the new scene.

We arrived a bit more than one week ago to hot and humid Beirut.  After one night at our friends' house, we moved to our apartment, which has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, air conditioning, and a balcony/patio with amazing views of the Mediterranean.  In the first days, we worked hard to outfit our apartment with kitchen items, bedding, etc.  Doing so meant hiking up a steep hill into the Hamra neighborhood, where the University is located.  The Hamra neighborhood contains a mixture of long-time shop-owners mixed with Arab and European import stores.  The buildings are a mix of styles, ranging from neglected-but-beautiful Ottoman to concrete-soviet-era-utilitarian.  All of the buildings, regardless of style, show the scars of the 15-year civil war; they have bullet marks extending from the roof to the street.  The neighborhood's namesake, Hamra street, has everything from money-exchange stores, to book stores, to American diners, to kitchen-appliance stores, to high-end jewelry and clothing stores.

 

We are quite the scene in our neighborhood.  We are white parents with black children.  And we are  white parents with black children, with two sheep-like dogs in tow.  We get many long looks; but it's not always clear whether its our kids or our dogs that are the targets.  We've been asked, "are they yours" about the kids; and we've been asked, "are they lamb," about the dogs.  While we recognize the long looks, we haven't yet felt anything malicious or contemptuous about them.  We are just a curious family.

We have encountered many Ethiopian women who have taken special interest in our boys.  Ethiopian women enter Lebanon on work visa's where they labor for menial wages as domestics (and sometimes as prostitutes).  Many of these women probably have children at home in Ethiopia, and the sight of our children must cause ambivalent feelings.  Yet, to our boys, the Ethiopian women have been nothing but loving. . . too loving if you ask the boys.  In one encounter, our boys were surrounded by women who kissed them and rubbed their heads.  The boys ran home and washed their faces multiple times.

In general, our boys have been treated well.  The soldiers in the neighborhood give high-fives when they walk by.  The old-men lifeguards at the beach rub their head and talk to them in Arabic.  Kids living on campus have also been kind; although I heard one boy refer to my sons as the "blackface" boys; but there didn't seem to be malice in this.  I'm on guard, however.

We have spent part of nearly every day at the University's beach.  The boys have loved looking at underwater sea life and watching the fisherman dive for their baskets of crab and fish.  The water is bath-water warm, and clear to the bottom of the sea.  But it's an odd feeling, swimming in the sea while watching cargo tankers and United Nation's patrol ships floating on the same sea just a few miles away.  It's also strange to swim in a sea that I know is so heavily policed and militarized.

At this point we are just getting used to everything: the time, the food, shopping, taxis, etc.  It's been Ramadan during the last week, which has made the neighborhood especially quite and slow.  Next week Beirut will pulse again with construction noise, honking taxis, and simmering local and regional conflict.