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.
