Beirut 2010

The last time I was in Beirut was in 2006 while helping with the evacuation of Canadian civilians. That experience was, to say the least, mind-blowing on too many levels. But even with the blowing of one’s mind, Beirut was still a beauty to behold, and though we were working insane hours and running on very little sleep, we still managed to make it out in the late evenings; ultimately, I think, it was in attempt to forget about what was happening around us.

This reality is something which may very well be specific to Beirut because it has seen so much war. A clear example of this would be us, sitting atop Sky Bar watching and feeling the shake of Israeli bombs dropping on the country. Ultimately, the human mind and body does what it needs to do in order to create a semblance of normalcy even in the most insane circumstance. The blow-back comes only once you’re pulled out of the situation itself and you’re left reliving its brutality.

In 2006, the airport had been blown to shit by Israel. It was a tactical move, the same as the blowing up of several bridges which linked many parts of the country to one another. Because there was no airport to land at, we were flown in via military helicopter. This time, I came in through the gleaming airport – all of which looked entirely new, for obvious reasons.

I am staying at the same hotel, and maybe even in the same room. Everything appears to be the same.

Only it’s not. Where the billboards were then of Nasrallah declaring ‘The Divine Victory’, they are now of Scarlett Johansson selling Dolce & Gabbana; where the sounds of dropping and exploding bombs would then quiet a conversation, the sounds of car horns and home-made fireworks serve as typically Middle Eastern compliment; where the shaking of this country wouldn’t then let me sleep, the peace of the bed now lulls me into sinking away from the outside; and, where the sky over Beirut was previously covered by the air of Israeli bombs and fighter planes, it is today saturated with the density of humidity.

When I stepped outside of the airport, I was met by the smell of sand and humidity and welcomed by al-athan, the Muslim call to prayer. I was momentarily overwhelmed by what I had experienced in 2006 and had to push back unexpected and surprising tears, saving them instead for the privacy of the taxi…until we were nearly hit by a crazed man in a van who honked his horn and declared – with a fierce waving of his hand – that my taxi driver was a ’7ayawaan’ (translation: ‘an animal’, and not the cute and cuddly variety), even though he was the one at fault.

I am giddy with pleasure to be back. Beirut, you have been missed.

++++++++++
Note: Written while seated outside at Le Royal, overlooking the Mediterranean sea.

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Every Girl Should Have ‘One’

Initial Aside: The boy discussed below is a good friend of mine and is single; if you are in the UK and wish to meet him, let me know! Am not at all beyond pimping my single friends…and have I mentioned? He’s single…

By ‘One’, I mean her very own personal British Special Air Service Officer. I found Mine last year in Beirut – he is of the Air Troop variety, flying out of planes, doing ‘stuff’ which he can not even allude to, and then somehow super-leaping back to the airplane.

I nicknamed him ‘Killer’. Only I didn’t tell him about his nickname, for fear that he would parachute into my hotel room, ‘Killer’ me, and then leave without a trace. (He’ll know now that it’s on here; Hi Killer!)

How to meet and nab an SAS Boy for yourself
Obviously, you will need to be located in a war torn region. Look for the boys jogging and smiling as bombs drop around them; quite likely, they are of the SAS variety.

If you are really adventurous, hang out near cubby holes where ‘insurgents’ (but only those defined as such by the lucky few not belonging to The Axis of Evil) hide and make chai.

If you are not too adventurous, there’s always the internet café of said war torn region. Spy the only boys who are reading neither the news nor the most recent updates titled Where Can You Hide Today?; they will be wearing shorts, t-shirts, sporting a tan and using a British tongue nearly incomprehensible. If you listen closely, they will make subtle ‘vrooming’ sounds as they move their mouse.

My Own SAS Boy and I met in the business centre of his hotel (my hotel sat across the street with a sick internet connection). I didn’t know how to work the computer, he helped me manage and we got to chatting. He had seen me the night prior – a memory I do not hold – when I was lost and asked him if he was Australian. (In my proper defence, I was told that we (Canadians) were to be hanging out with them (Australians); I saw a blonde, heard an accent and so approached. Very simple equation if ever there was one, little did I know the level of treachery I had committed when I asked a Brit – an SAS one, to boot – if he was an Aussie.)

On the physical size of The SAS Boy
They appear ‘small’ (please don’t Killer me) – My Own being perhaps 5’9”, but they’re packed with strong fibre goodness which allows them to take out a man thrice their height and ten times their weight. Upon great reflection, I do think the compact nature of the SAS Boy has to do with the agility required to leap tall buildings and propel oneself from planes, landing squarely in cubby holes 10,000 feet below.

They are, for those of you interested in knowing, rock hard. I threw random items at Mine and they bounced off as though hitting a brick wall. Eventually, Mine asked me to stop being a child and to stop throwing random objects at him. I mumbled and pouted and he finally let me throw a tire at him as a farewell to the activity of throwing.

On the character trait of The SAS Boy
Focussed.
Determined.
Alpha.
Male.
Fear-LESS.

These are not Boys with whom one should mess about. While walking around Beirut with My Own SAS Boy, I can tell you that I felt very safe. Very safe, indeed; the safest, in fact. There’s something about their line of duty that makes them radiate an aura of complete and total blanket safety (unless, of course, you’re their target).

The word ‘hesitate’ does not exist in their vocabulary, and for that they are to be admired, as it runs into all aspects of their lives, not just the physical embodiment of their ‘work’. Case in point: Within moments of teaching your BlogMistress how to work her computer, My Own SAS Boy asked to take me for a coffee. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so I accepted.)

After coffee was over, he asked to take me for dinner. Right then and there on the spot. (I thought: If I don’t accept, he may Killer me…and so goes the rest of the story.)

Nothing stands in their way and if an SAS Boy wants something, he does what is needed to make certain he gets it. And this I mean literally; nothing stops them, neither physically nor spiritually – it’s a pretty spectacular thing to watch as it drips from them and engages all aspects of everything they do and touch.

On the nature of conversation with The SAS Boy
You will not be surprised to learn that among one of the first lines of conversation I had with My Own SAS Boy was “So…do you ever wonder if what you’re doing is wrong?” and then “So…uhm…will I, like, one day be sitting in my living room in Palestine and you’ll fly through a window and Killer me MEANING you may one day get wrong orders MEANING have you ever wondered if you’ve already received wrong orders MEANING have you ever Killered anyone?”

Lucky I that Mine has a sense of humour and answered all of my questions, even if it was a mere “I really can’t answer that!” which I think is code for That’s The Line That Wins Most Chicks. But I’m relentless and he nicknamed me ‘Unnie Ot’ which is Canadian to the British ‘Honey Pot’. I stared in wonder and confusion, looking for a translation on the wall, the floor and even the window as I had no idea what that was. Nowhere was there closed captioning for the British Hearing Impaired. (Stupid, Beirut.) Mine was nice enough to finally tell me that ‘Honey Pot’ is, apparently, a term of endearment used to describe someone who can pull secrets from people very easily. Upon hearing this definition, I smiled and asked: “So, was it you who caught Saddam? And have you Killered anyone? And can you fix the World Cup?”

On the reliability / loyalty of The SAS Boy
Apparently, SAS Boys have to be at the ready at the drop of a pin, throw of a hat and wiggle of a bum. They all have a special beeper that, when it beeps, they have to meet at a certain location, are given their orders and then flown out. My Own SAS Boy was riding his motorcycle when he got beeped; he had to leave it and his keys with his friend so he could fly to Beirut within two hours. This would mislead one to believe they are unreliable to anyone but Her Majesty. As I can attest, I’ve had Mine for over a year now and even though we did lose touch for some small amount of time, he has always been kind enough to ping a Hello email and send others with winning titles such as ‘Photographs Only Men Would Take’.

Quite honestly, more of an effort made than most, and for that, My Own SAS Boy is special.

I have already secured the following from Mine, as he graciously accepted the responsibility should the need arise (and to which he is beholden until I drop dead). If ever I am in a state of terror and I need to be saved, then he shall do the saving. Because if we’re talking true loyalty, it never hurts to have that loyalty come from a friend who knows how to disentangle a b*mb, make one, crash through a window, leap off a building, outrun and outfight most all other men, make ‘vrooming’ noises as he uses a mouse, ride a motorcycle, and look good in a suit. (I knew you’d agree.)

*****
If My Own SAS Boy doesn’t Killer me for this entry, then perhaps he will allow me to post a photo of him as he flies out of an airplane. Check back later…

Minister Peter MacKay

Oh mon dieu. If ever there was a sh*tty shot of me, this is most definitely it:

In my defense:
1st. I take poor profile pictures.
2nd. That’s what I look like after working an 18 hour shift.
3rd. Compound that 18 hour shift by adding for nearly three weeks in a row.

The Honourable Minister Peter MacKay (technically, my boss) has got a photo blog, which is pretty cool.

You have my permission to look closely at my boobs where you will see a yellow sticky note. It read: Hi! I’m Maha ) because I thought that was a really cool thing to do. I’m sure The Honourable Peter MacKay thought I was some sort of a mental retard because of it.

Circumstances leading up to this shot (which was taken in early August)? His office had asked us to take care of one particular case (in terms of evacuation) and I was charged with said case. After working with his cool Exec Assistant Christopher Gorman**, The Honourable Him came down to meet me and say thank you which was quite nice and completely unnecessary. He’s tall and has a great tan, n’est pas? Nice hands, too.

Watch me get fired for objectifying His Honourableness.

**from whose blackberry I attempted to send a text message to Beirut but failed miserably. After trying for a whole two seconds, I very nearly threw it at him with a simple: “I don’t know how to do this or work this thing. Take it.” (18 hour shifts make you weird.)

Beirut Reunion no. 2

Among the many people who worked together in Beirut (many of whom came in from our Embassies abroad), eight of us are based at Headquarters, and one miscellaneous who resides in the same city. Unlikely but true, we all got along and genuinely enjoyed one another’s company. While in Beirut and after coming back from a lengthy workday, our evenings started at 7 or 8 and ran until all hours of the morning.

Coming home at staggered times, we’d promised to keep in touch and see one another on a relatively regular basis. Last evening was our second ‘Beirut Reunion’, which at our last dinner, we agreed to hold on the first Friday of each month. Best about last night was that the MCO of the Beirut Embassy (the beautiful girl in pic no 5) was in town and joined us. It was quite surreal to see everyone in Ottawa, more so with her there because she really is Beirut.

Because of the nature of our work, conversations that run the course of our evenings are exceptionally politically charged, very aware, relatively progressive and always well articulated. Last night provided 4 hours of the same…

Although not everyone’s photographed, here are a few of the people involved.

S&G

G & A

JG

S& Maha; Look, I have a bald spot that no one ever knew about and that seems to have only appeared in this one photo. We spent the next five takes trying to figure out what was wrong with my camera that it made me appear to have a bald spot. Notice all the laughing which ensued post the “there’s treatment for that sort of thing Maha” & “it’s not too late to remedy the problem” & “receeding hairlines among women is all the rage in Europe. It’s totally hot!”.

"As a Jewish atheist…

…, I do not intend to enter the fray of this debate. It is much beyond my humble abilities to understand the logic of the Pope. But I cannot overlook one passage, which concerns me too, as an Israeli living near the fault-line of this ‘war of civilizations’.”

For those of you familiar with Uri Avnery’s writing, it will come as no surprise that he provides the best response to the Pope’s recent quote (quote-unquote)** mistake.

Please take a moment to read the article.

**thanks, Espy.

Self Reflection: Beirut’s fingerprints

I’ve begun writing the Wrap Up on Beirut and I realize I’m not ready to do it just yet. It’s really too heavy for me to deal with at the moment, and I’m currently more inclined to deal with me than I am to deal with politics. What else is new?

But, I finally responded to each and every one of your emails and I’ve started (backwards) responding to the comments you’ve all left (up to and including the blog entry No 8: Sabra & Shatila; In the coming week, I’ll get to all comments posted after that date).

Right. So more about me, hurrah! While in Beirut taking photos and being a scardey cat working, I thought it was the ideal time to engage in a most exhausting personal battle. Because, you know, aerial bombings are such a bore and leave you with quite a bit of time on your hands and energy to think.

The only words I can use to describe me are ‘reckless’ and ‘defensive’, and until Beirut happened, I never realized just how reckless I am, and how the bizarre flipside of that is the reality that I am, in fact, completely defensive. It plays itself out in a strange hypocritical script where I equal parts open myself up completely, while setting up a situation in a way that ensures it will fail (& where I don’t set it up myself, I look for the situation that’s already set up in that manner). Not that I aim for failure, but rather that should ‘circumstance’ dictate failure, then it’s not a reflection on me but on circumstance. I remain intact and safe and secure and can throw my hands into the air and squeal “it’s out of my hands”, when in fact, I’ve obviously created a situation in the likeness I wish to see it. I have no idea what the last part of that sentence means, but I’m leaving it in there because it makes me giggle.

In the past, this has backfired and the scenario of failure ends up being a recipe for success. That’s been fun, in a strange twilighty sort of way.

I can guarantee that any psychoanalysis of this girl would conclude that: on a much deeper level, I actively seek out what’s reckless and what’s difficult and complicated, dramatic and maybe even devastating to a certain degree. A part of me must enjoy the twisted ends that come of my own doing…

Hey, at least I’m not into self-mutilation yet.

OH MY GOD, have you seen Nip/Tuck season 3? Holy moly, it’s crazy and ya ilahi thank you for Christian Troy. Because I obviously have a weird fetish I picked up Season 3 on Sunday and have managed to already watch it. SEE IT. Godspeed, kitties.

Right. So we were at: I’ve always understood that I’d much rather live hard and feel and hurt equally hard, than to be numb. Isn’t that where we were?

But clearly, I’m only willing to engage hurt when I’ve inflicted it by my own hands (e.g. not me giving 100% percent to something good and healthy and then having it fail; but, rather me giving 100% to something meant to break down, hence me actually seeking it out).

And for the record, although I don’t know what this does mean, I do know it doesn’t mean that I don’t want something to succeed, and it doesn’t mean I don’t want things to work out. It’s sort of messy, but to a great extent, it allows me a semblance of control and order in an otherwise messy situation, oui? Engage in and expect failure, and when you fail to receive failure and instead receive success, then even better…

In other speak, this means my willingness (& affinity) for taking really stupid risks. Did I not have the cultural and religious graces of my family, my risks taken would be much greater. This is somewhat of a double-edged sword for although it’s kept me safe from much, it’s also held me back from so much more.

Anyway, what I haven’t been able to understand is where the defensiveness comes in. Seriously, I’ve been thinking a lot about this in the past couple of weeks and I’m happy I’ve figured out the first half, because I like that half. I actually enjoy being reckless. What I need now is a means to understand where and why the defensiveness kicks in and how to ensure I stop allowing it to be a part of my life. Because ultimately, I’m still getting hurt even though it is by my own hand, so I think that it’s time for me to stop being defensive. I think I’ve hit a new level of maturity and I’m really looking forward to engaging it and those around me based on this new principle…

…while wearing this spectacular new shirt I picked up in Dubai. Isn’t it stunning?

I’m not entirely sure I know what this blog entry’s about. I just have a lot to say and thought I’d throw it out there for you to laugh at. Being in Beirut forced me to face it because thinking you may die makes you a very large weirdo.

Uzi almost made me cry

This very nearly moved me to tears, only I was seated between my family and I had to swallow my heart down a little. I’m not often left speechless, but…

…thank you, ya Uzi.

Notes from a pouty day

As soon as I sat on the helicopter, the pilot charged over and shoved a floatation device over my head and strapped it around my waist. He didn’t ask if he could touch me, but perhaps this is an airborne allowance which is universal? Needless to say, he pointed at me and said “It would be nice to not use this but you never know. Thank you. May I take a photo?”

Way to infuse my morning with a little sunshine, Mr. Pilot.

*****

Because I’m a tool, I made the mistake of wearing Strawberry Body Lotion en route between Beirut & Dubai. Everyone but yours truly knows not to do this in the heat and humidity of these countries.

Why?

Because your constant companions are flies and mosquitoes, who are drawn to the scent of the product.

I was walking around like an open can of strawberry jam, swatting away the world’s stickiest frigging flies and mosquitoes, neither of which were the least bit put off by my very obvious distaste for them. Some serious god damn nerve; I could hear them making fun of me while buzzing around my body.

Sitting with the former Swedish Ambassador to Ryadh, he was talking calmly while I was swatting and spinning and very nearly falling off my stool trying to get the flies off me. At one point, he stopped in mid sentence and asked “what are you doing?”
“FLIES & MOSQUITOES.”
“Where?”
“HERE! ALL OVER ME.”
“Right. Ok. *beat:silence* So tell me again, Maha, why is it that Canada decided to so blindly support Israel?”
“Oh my GOD. What do you mean you can’t FEEL THE FLIES?”

…for an otherwise intelligent girl, I made certain to completely under represent Canada. Eventually, he stopped talking and just stared at me as I did the wild dance of Swat.

*****

While in Larnaca, I desperately wanted to speak to my best friend.

With flies around my head, I stood staring sadly at the telephone machines that had refused the advances of my just purchased phone cards. ’But the girl who sold these to me promised me I could call Canada,’ I thought. Not so, she exclaimed when I went back to tell her; “I no tell you call Canada”, she said and refused to make eye contact.

I was standing in front of an Orthodox Priest when I mumbled “You’re lying. And liars go to hell, isn’t that so, padre?”
“We can’t tell who goes to hell or heaven, child. Except all Muslims, Jews, Roman Catholics, Protestants, Lutherans, Buddhists, Taoists, fornicators and pedophiles. Oh! Hookers, too.”

And with my defunct calling cards in hand, I walked out of the hell hole that is a store and I made the following sign in protest: I BOYCOTT YOU

And stood holding it over my head for half an hour before I decided to leave, me and my flies.

*****

To cool off, I went to the washroom to splash cold water on my face.

I have a few questions about the toilettes:
(1) Why aren’t they air conditioned, when they’re the one place where you’re negotiating life or death between bags, toilette seats, dirty floors, and wiping your bum (I mean, really)?

If there is one place that should be air conditioned, it’s the place where you’re trying to pull off your pants while not touching anything that’s within cm of your body.

(2) Why don’t people flush?
You don’t need a high IQ to reach out and flush the freaking toilette, so why don’t you? Is it a game? Do you people hide behind other stalls cackling when someone is forced to walk into a toilette which you havn’t flushed?

(3) How can you miss the gigantic hole that serves to swallow your pee?
I will never understand how it is that women miss the hole in which they’re supposed to plant their arse and wee. HOW DOES YOUR PEE LAND ON THE TOILETTE SEAT? And why don’t you take a small piece of tissue and clean it?

No matter what kind of poor hand/eye coordination you may have, that doesn’t account for missing the toilette seat.

All this to say that I was in a pouty mood while en route between Larnaca and Dubai. And…I’m looking forward to getting back to Ottawa.

At least the rabbit hole’s comfy

I was supposed to leave this morning until they asked me to stay on one more day. Coming to Beirut is like falling into the rabbit hole; not that I mind that one bit, but I do wish there were some mind altering drugs to be had. Shut up! I’m kidding.

The rumour is that I leave tomorrow morning and so have one more sunset before Larnaca & Dubai.

Guess what?
The current report is that Israel has kidnapped two civilians and is bombing the South again. Phoque! Fakku! Fuck! Fokk! Fak! Fok! Lezayen! (Thanks for the variations, Wikipedia.)

Hurrah for the ceasefire.

Will try to be back and update in this same blog entry; when you return, just scroll down and see if I’ve added anything below here.