Lebanon
Submitted by Palmito on September 29, 2006 - 05:58
I was born in Beirut, in 1972, of US parents living abroad. I lived there until 1977, five years that I barely remember. When I was born, Beirut was still the Paris of the Mediterranean. My parents still remember it as such. For me, it's a bit more of a difficult thing to comprehend.
I'm not Lebanese, yet because of where and how I grew up, Mediterranean culture - and in particular specific things about Lebanese culture - are very familiar and even feel like "home" to me. Not a home I can physically visit, but how chicken soup is often thought of as "home" - for some people. This familiarity reinforced growing up in a series of Mediterranean as well as Middle Eastern countries while I was young.
As long as I can remember, the Lebanon I was born in is a place that no longer exists. And Lebanon's history is a complicated maze of contradictory truths that are inexorably linked to a cultural history and collective consiousness that is so complex, unknowable in it's entirety because it contains versions of the story that cannot exist in the same place and time, and so loaded with politics, religion, ethnicity, culture and language that ... that ... - how can I think to know anything about it having never been there since 1977?
When I was growing up, Lebanon was just an interesting asterisk on my personal history, a history with enough distractions for the average person I could just gloss over the Lebanon bit. My personal connection was purely and predictably the food - hummus, tabouleh, shawarma, kibbeh, the cookies and baklava. Almost every other apsect of Lebanese culture disappeared off my map, replaced by a panalopy of other cultural influences and references. The choice phrases like "yallah!" and "ensh'allah" stayed in the vocabulary because we stayed in the middle east for much of my youth.
But Lebanon was gone. When the US Embassy was bombed, I felt a vague tingling, but really, what did that have to do with me? And honestly, it still has little to do with me. But in the last decade, I've let my mind wander a bit more, and I've allowed myself before to consider what Lebanon does actually mean to me. I've even thought about visiting - my parents when back in 2000, and of course where disappointed because all their old haunts were - well, bombed out and replaced with malls. But since I didn't know _that_ Lebanon, I'm not sure I would care. I just wanted to get a feel for the people, the vibe, the source....
Source of... what? Not me. But something that went into creating me - something that fed my parents.
A story my mother likes to tell is that I learned Arabic before I learned English. As is common for foreign Western households, particularly at the time, my parents had a semi-board housekeeper. This housekeeper adopted me almost as her own - not because I was in any way special, but because she was a loving young woman who was planning on a child of her own soon. She bought me my first prayer rug - my only ever prayer rug - and whether or not I was speaking arabic, and whether or not I knew what I was saying, I was on the mat with her during prayer times.
I don't remember any of this. I _do_ remember the bullet through the window, smashing the light bulb - and thinking it was neat until I saw the looks on my brother's and father's faces. And I think that's about it.
I avoided thinking about this topic during the recent war. But there's a tug - something calling me back. Maybe not to the place per se, but to closure - or an ongoing relationship?
I'm not Lebanese, yet because of where and how I grew up, Mediterranean culture - and in particular specific things about Lebanese culture - are very familiar and even feel like "home" to me. Not a home I can physically visit, but how chicken soup is often thought of as "home" - for some people. This familiarity reinforced growing up in a series of Mediterranean as well as Middle Eastern countries while I was young.
As long as I can remember, the Lebanon I was born in is a place that no longer exists. And Lebanon's history is a complicated maze of contradictory truths that are inexorably linked to a cultural history and collective consiousness that is so complex, unknowable in it's entirety because it contains versions of the story that cannot exist in the same place and time, and so loaded with politics, religion, ethnicity, culture and language that ... that ... - how can I think to know anything about it having never been there since 1977?
When I was growing up, Lebanon was just an interesting asterisk on my personal history, a history with enough distractions for the average person I could just gloss over the Lebanon bit. My personal connection was purely and predictably the food - hummus, tabouleh, shawarma, kibbeh, the cookies and baklava. Almost every other apsect of Lebanese culture disappeared off my map, replaced by a panalopy of other cultural influences and references. The choice phrases like "yallah!" and "ensh'allah" stayed in the vocabulary because we stayed in the middle east for much of my youth.
But Lebanon was gone. When the US Embassy was bombed, I felt a vague tingling, but really, what did that have to do with me? And honestly, it still has little to do with me. But in the last decade, I've let my mind wander a bit more, and I've allowed myself before to consider what Lebanon does actually mean to me. I've even thought about visiting - my parents when back in 2000, and of course where disappointed because all their old haunts were - well, bombed out and replaced with malls. But since I didn't know _that_ Lebanon, I'm not sure I would care. I just wanted to get a feel for the people, the vibe, the source....
Source of... what? Not me. But something that went into creating me - something that fed my parents.
A story my mother likes to tell is that I learned Arabic before I learned English. As is common for foreign Western households, particularly at the time, my parents had a semi-board housekeeper. This housekeeper adopted me almost as her own - not because I was in any way special, but because she was a loving young woman who was planning on a child of her own soon. She bought me my first prayer rug - my only ever prayer rug - and whether or not I was speaking arabic, and whether or not I knew what I was saying, I was on the mat with her during prayer times.
I don't remember any of this. I _do_ remember the bullet through the window, smashing the light bulb - and thinking it was neat until I saw the looks on my brother's and father's faces. And I think that's about it.
I avoided thinking about this topic during the recent war. But there's a tug - something calling me back. Maybe not to the place per se, but to closure - or an ongoing relationship?
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