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Labels: Beirut 2006
posted by one female canuck at 6:53 PM
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
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…
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…
Labels: Beirut 2006, Every Girl, Friendship, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 3:09 PM
10 comments
Friday, November 10, 2006
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 :o) 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.)
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 :o) 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.)
Labels: Beirut 2006, Photos
posted by one female canuck at 6:14 PM
5 comments
Saturday, October 07, 2006
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!".
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!".
Labels: Beirut 2006, Photos
posted by one female canuck at 3:28 PM
7 comments
Monday, September 25, 2006
"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.
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.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Books / Reading, Faith
posted by one female canuck at 7:43 PM
7 comments
Sunday, September 10, 2006
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 Beiruttaking 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-mutilationyet.
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.
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
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
OH MY GOD, have you seen Nip/Tuck season 3? Holy moly, it’s crazy and ya ilahi thank you for Christian Troy.
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.
Labels: Beirut 2006
posted by one female canuck at 10:08 AM
11 comments
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
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.
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.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 2:53 PM
7 comments
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
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.
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.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 5:42 AM
4 comments
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
A sad goodbye to Lebanon
I can't say it enough; Lebanon is a beautiful and breathtaking country and tonight I'll be graced with it's last sunset. I quickly learned that the best way to wrap up my day and unwrap my evening was to wave a little goodbye to the sun.
Heading out to Larnaca tomorrow and on to Dubai the following day, it's been sad and a little difficult for me to find it in my heart to leave. I don't want to walk away from the people, the environment, everything and anything which brought me and kept me here with a smile on my face and a full heart.
My two favourite pictures from this trip are the first sunset I met in Lebanon:
& this moment captured was one of the happiest I had while Beirut served as a mistress; on this particular day, my emotions had run the spectrum available to them and as you should be able to see on my face, I was happiest when the photo was taken. With me are Thunder, an Arabian race horse, and its rider Ahmed:
I'll also leave you with my favourite poem, penned by Gibran Kahlil Gibran, one of the greatest poets to grace us, born in Bsharri, North Lebanon...
The Playground of Life XIX
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
And Love is worth a full century of glory
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man's Truth; and
During that century Truth sleeps between
The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself
The Natural Law, and for that century she
Imprisons herself behind the law of man;
And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a
Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is
Purified by flaming sorrow and
Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth
Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent
On self-investment taken solely from
Earthly substance.
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages;
Recorded earthly for centuries;
Lived in strangeness for years;
Sung as a hymn for days;
Exalted but for an hour, but the
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.
To those of you who have sent hundreds of emails, thank you for your kind words and prayers and encouragement (& occasional 'what the fuck are you thinking?'). You're all in a special folder and I promise to respond to each and every one of you individually. Once more, you have moved me to no end.
Heading out to Larnaca tomorrow and on to Dubai the following day, it's been sad and a little difficult for me to find it in my heart to leave. I don't want to walk away from the people, the environment, everything and anything which brought me and kept me here with a smile on my face and a full heart.
My two favourite pictures from this trip are the first sunset I met in Lebanon:
& this moment captured was one of the happiest I had while Beirut served as a mistress; on this particular day, my emotions had run the spectrum available to them and as you should be able to see on my face, I was happiest when the photo was taken. With me are Thunder, an Arabian race horse, and its rider Ahmed:
I'll also leave you with my favourite poem, penned by Gibran Kahlil Gibran, one of the greatest poets to grace us, born in Bsharri, North Lebanon...
The Playground of Life XIX
One hour devoted to the pursuit of Beauty
And Love is worth a full century of glory
Given by the frightened weak to the strong.
From that hour comes man's Truth; and
During that century Truth sleeps between
The restless arms of disturbing dreams.
In that hour the soul sees for herself
The Natural Law, and for that century she
Imprisons herself behind the law of man;
And she is shackled with irons of oppression.
That hour was the inspiration of the Songs
Of Solomon, an that century was the blind
Power which destroyed the temple of Baalbek.
That hour was the birth of the Sermon on the
Mount, and that century wrecked the castles of
Palmyra and the Tower of Babylon.
That hour was the Hegira of Mohammed and that
Century forgot Allah, Golgotha, and Sinai.
One hour devoted to mourning and lamenting the
Stolen equality of the weak is nobler than a
Century filled with greed and usurpation.
It is at that hour when the heart is
Purified by flaming sorrow and
Illuminated by the torch of Love.
And in that century, desires for Truth
Are buried in the bosom of the earth.
That hour is the root which must flourish.
That hour of meditation, the hour of
Prayer, and the hour of a new era of good.
And that century is a life of Nero spent
On self-investment taken solely from
Earthly substance.
This is life.
Portrayed on the stage for ages;
Recorded earthly for centuries;
Lived in strangeness for years;
Sung as a hymn for days;
Exalted but for an hour, but the
Hour is treasured by Eternity as a jewel.
To those of you who have sent hundreds of emails, thank you for your kind words and prayers and encouragement (& occasional 'what the fuck are you thinking?'). You're all in a special folder and I promise to respond to each and every one of you individually. Once more, you have moved me to no end.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 9:06 AM
6 comments
Monday, August 21, 2006
No 11: Funnies are a must
A few funny stories to tell, in order to keep with the spirit of my usual blogging.
Special Guest
Friday evening was a long one. Four of us got to sleep at approximately 4:45 am, and two of us had to be awake by 8 am. I was of the lucky who didn't roll out of bed before 12:55 pm.
We all breakfast together in the mornings and so I rang my colleague , who has been nicknamed 'Man-Boy' because he's sort of an adult, but not really. Hands down, he's one of the funniest people I've ever met and has a beautiful girlfriend with whom I hit it off immediately. She likes crack, and who am I to deny the beauty of crack?
So I rang Man-Boy and we met in the lobby for 'breakfast' (cream of mushroom soup & coffee). He owed me a wee bit of money so covered my tab. By that time, all of our other colleagues were out being productive and touristy. We decided to go bathing suit shopping and come back to the pool to lay around like large carrots.
So until this point, the visual was as thus:
- We had breakfast together
- We left the hotel together
- We came back together
- We hung out at the pool together
...What the hotel staff couldn't hear was that Man-Boy called his girlfriend and chit chatted with her about the evening prior and the mushroom soup.
Later that evening, Man-Boy, two other colleagues and I dined together before we all said goodnight and went up to our rooms (I was in bed by 9:30; more on this to come, in terms of "The porno that was being shot next to my room").
Scene Two: Sunday morning, I am in the elevator on my way down to breakfast when the elevator stops, the door opens and in walks Man-Boy also headed down for breakfast.
We walked into the breakfast area together and sat with the rest of our colleagues. I finished before anyone else because I really wanted to get some exercise and sun at the pool, I left and didn't think twice. I made the unfortunate assumption that the hotel staff who'd seen me around for two days instinctively knew I was a guest. In a room. All Alone.
Until it was time for Man-Boy to leave the breakfast area, at which point he was being hassled to pay my bill (for guests it is a part of your rooming cost), because they thought I was his "special guest", and they weren't all that discreet about it. He had to talk them through the two days past for a good 10 minutes until they believed him.
I love that he had to defend absolutely nothing and in the presence of two colleagues who knew exactly what was happening but let Man-Boy take the fall because it was fun for them to watch.
When I went down for breakfast this morning, I walked over to our waiter and explained that we were colleagues and I was staying alone in room xyz. He blushed and flustered his way through an apology; which is as close to retribution as either Man-Boy or myself will reach.
The porno that was being shot next to my room
Recall that on Saturday evening, I was in bed at 9:30 pm. Unfortunately, I didn't get to sleep until well past 11:30 pm because there was a woman dying in the hotel room next to me.
For two hours straight, this woman was having - what one can only label - performance sex, during which she was wailing and screaming and crying out at the top of her lungs. And strong lungs they were.
I really couldn't tell you if it was only one woman who kept going for the two hours, or if it was two women who just tag-teamed the guy WHO MUST HAVE BEEN PAYING for that kind of noise. Because, honestly, COME ON! At one point, I actually stepped out on to my balcony because I thought she was outside on the adjacent balcony; I couldn't fathom all of that noise was coming through concrete walls, that's just how loud she was. But no, she wasn't on a balcony...and if I was a different person, I would have found their (I assume it was more than one, because that kind of noise is. Just. Why? Alone? I don't think so.) room and knocked and asked them to simmer the fuck down. But who am I to ruin someone's fun? I just waited it out and pretended to be directing a comedic porno to the sounds. That was a first. And not at all sexy. But absolutely hilarious; I love that I'm my own best stand-up comic.
You're not going to believe this...
But I've not tripped once since arriving in Lebanon.
Special Guest
Friday evening was a long one. Four of us got to sleep at approximately 4:45 am, and two of us had to be awake by 8 am. I was of the lucky who didn't roll out of bed before 12:55 pm.
We all breakfast together in the mornings and so I rang my colleague , who has been nicknamed 'Man-Boy' because he's sort of an adult, but not really. Hands down, he's one of the funniest people I've ever met and has a beautiful girlfriend with whom I hit it off immediately. She likes crack, and who am I to deny the beauty of crack?
So I rang Man-Boy and we met in the lobby for 'breakfast' (cream of mushroom soup & coffee). He owed me a wee bit of money so covered my tab. By that time, all of our other colleagues were out being productive and touristy. We decided to go bathing suit shopping and come back to the pool to lay around like large carrots.
So until this point, the visual was as thus:
- We had breakfast together
- We left the hotel together
- We came back together
- We hung out at the pool together
...What the hotel staff couldn't hear was that Man-Boy called his girlfriend and chit chatted with her about the evening prior and the mushroom soup.
Later that evening, Man-Boy, two other colleagues and I dined together before we all said goodnight and went up to our rooms (I was in bed by 9:30; more on this to come, in terms of "The porno that was being shot next to my room").
Scene Two: Sunday morning, I am in the elevator on my way down to breakfast when the elevator stops, the door opens and in walks Man-Boy also headed down for breakfast.
We walked into the breakfast area together and sat with the rest of our colleagues. I finished before anyone else because I really wanted to get some exercise and sun at the pool, I left and didn't think twice. I made the unfortunate assumption that the hotel staff who'd seen me around for two days instinctively knew I was a guest. In a room. All Alone.
Until it was time for Man-Boy to leave the breakfast area, at which point he was being hassled to pay my bill (for guests it is a part of your rooming cost), because they thought I was his "special guest", and they weren't all that discreet about it. He had to talk them through the two days past for a good 10 minutes until they believed him.
I love that he had to defend absolutely nothing and in the presence of two colleagues who knew exactly what was happening but let Man-Boy take the fall because it was fun for them to watch.
When I went down for breakfast this morning, I walked over to our waiter and explained that we were colleagues and I was staying alone in room xyz. He blushed and flustered his way through an apology; which is as close to retribution as either Man-Boy or myself will reach.
The porno that was being shot next to my room
Recall that on Saturday evening, I was in bed at 9:30 pm. Unfortunately, I didn't get to sleep until well past 11:30 pm because there was a woman dying in the hotel room next to me.
For two hours straight, this woman was having - what one can only label - performance sex, during which she was wailing and screaming and crying out at the top of her lungs. And strong lungs they were.
I really couldn't tell you if it was only one woman who kept going for the two hours, or if it was two women who just tag-teamed the guy WHO MUST HAVE BEEN PAYING for that kind of noise. Because, honestly, COME ON! At one point, I actually stepped out on to my balcony because I thought she was outside on the adjacent balcony; I couldn't fathom all of that noise was coming through concrete walls, that's just how loud she was. But no, she wasn't on a balcony...and if I was a different person, I would have found their (I assume it was more than one, because that kind of noise is. Just. Why? Alone? I don't think so.) room and knocked and asked them to simmer the fuck down. But who am I to ruin someone's fun? I just waited it out and pretended to be directing a comedic porno to the sounds. That was a first. And not at all sexy. But absolutely hilarious; I love that I'm my own best stand-up comic.
You're not going to believe this...
But I've not tripped once since arriving in Lebanon.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 10:24 AM
3 comments
No10: Defining 'victory' amidst ruins
Some more thought in to yesterday’s small rant.
I believe there’s something which needs clarification, and it’s that I don’t want anyone to believe I believe in the myth that the destruction & deaths in Lebanon were caused / should be blamed on Hizbullah’s actions against Israel.
One thing we have to really pay attention to is that there are thousands of prisoners who have been held for years; both Lebanese & Palestinian. No one knows whether they are dead or alive, no one has a clue as to their whereabouts. A part of Hizbullah’s attempt in so far as kidnapping the two soldiers was a means to have some of these individuals returned. If you can justify that Israel is allowed to do what it did for TWO soldiers, then I need you to momentarily switch shoes and imagine Israel's reaction to thousands of Israelis kidnapped (which is how Hizbullah perceives this; thousands of Lebanese/Palestinians kidnapped)...and within that perspective, it becomes a lot easier to see how the kidnapping of two soldiers was mild in comparison to what Israel may have done, were they in Hizbullah's shoes.
The response of Israel to the kidnapping of these two soldiers can not be justified on absolutely any level. It can be understood, based on their history, but never justified.
Before I write this out, please understand that although there were casualties on the Israeli side, economic damage, and infrastructural damage to parts of Israel as well, I can not attempt to equate them with what Israel unleashed on Lebanon. To do so would be to negate from the consequences for both Lebanon and Israel, and also to deter from the Jewish history which provides acceptance within – and without – Israel that this type of response may be justified at any level.
I won’t even dive into the theory that this action was already pre-planned by the State of Israel, and that ultimately, Israel would have manufactured a pretext to do what it has done. I will leave that to the academics who don’t only have a lunch hour to type out their small thoughts on the subject matter…
I think what we have to focus on here is the realization – and this may in fact be the ‘divine victory’ for which Hizbullah is being held in high regard - by many that Israel's war machine is not sufficient to impose certain norms in the Middle East. Perhaps historians will one day describe this as a “win”, but that will only be recognized and understood in the years to come, and depending on the circumstances and environment which is born from the last 5 plus weeks.
I think that, in the face of one of the world’s strongest military that is indeed supported by the world’s foremost superpower, it would be wise for us to think twice before dismissing the spirit of resistance exercised by Hizbullah. What will happen in the future will be judged based on its own merits.
It’s also important to note that within Israel proper there was much dissent, and much anger against the actions of the Israeli government. These are fearless voices which are (although attempted to be…) quieted and quelled, but they exist and when they speak, they are loud and as admirable a form of resistance as any, if not more so…
The recent commando activity which Israel undertook, post ceasefire, was a clear breech of the ceasefire agreement. That Hizbullah showed restraint is almost unbelievable. The sense around here is that should Israel act in breech of the ceasefire one more time, Hizbullah will be forced to react to the Israeli offensive.
For the above, Hizbullah must be applauded. And in order for me to do that in good faith, I have to really think about and flesh out what I mentioned earlier, which is this idea that Israel feels the need to behave in this fashion, because of their history (the idea of ‘never again’)…and that may take me a little longer. There’s only so much psychology I can throw into the mix and sort of attempt to understand if I’ve not been raised in that environment. But I’m going to try and understand it and I’ll let you know what I think, if anything coherent comes out. I’ll do that because I would like for someone who sits on the opposite political spectrum to me, to attempt to understand me as well. It’s really about karma at this point, I think (I’m just covering my own ass, kiddies!).
On a personal note, and with complete sincerity, I would really like to understand how Israel would define this as a victory for themselves...
I believe there’s something which needs clarification, and it’s that I don’t want anyone to believe I believe in the myth that the destruction & deaths in Lebanon were caused / should be blamed on Hizbullah’s actions against Israel.
One thing we have to really pay attention to is that there are thousands of prisoners who have been held for years; both Lebanese & Palestinian. No one knows whether they are dead or alive, no one has a clue as to their whereabouts. A part of Hizbullah’s attempt in so far as kidnapping the two soldiers was a means to have some of these individuals returned. If you can justify that Israel is allowed to do what it did for TWO soldiers, then I need you to momentarily switch shoes and imagine Israel's reaction to thousands of Israelis kidnapped (which is how Hizbullah perceives this; thousands of Lebanese/Palestinians kidnapped)...and within that perspective, it becomes a lot easier to see how the kidnapping of two soldiers was mild in comparison to what Israel may have done, were they in Hizbullah's shoes.
The response of Israel to the kidnapping of these two soldiers can not be justified on absolutely any level. It can be understood, based on their history, but never justified.
Before I write this out, please understand that although there were casualties on the Israeli side, economic damage, and infrastructural damage to parts of Israel as well, I can not attempt to equate them with what Israel unleashed on Lebanon. To do so would be to negate from the consequences for both Lebanon and Israel, and also to deter from the Jewish history which provides acceptance within – and without – Israel that this type of response may be justified at any level.
I won’t even dive into the theory that this action was already pre-planned by the State of Israel, and that ultimately, Israel would have manufactured a pretext to do what it has done. I will leave that to the academics who don’t only have a lunch hour to type out their small thoughts on the subject matter…
I think what we have to focus on here is the realization – and this may in fact be the ‘divine victory’ for which Hizbullah is being held in high regard - by many that Israel's war machine is not sufficient to impose certain norms in the Middle East. Perhaps historians will one day describe this as a “win”, but that will only be recognized and understood in the years to come, and depending on the circumstances and environment which is born from the last 5 plus weeks.
I think that, in the face of one of the world’s strongest military that is indeed supported by the world’s foremost superpower, it would be wise for us to think twice before dismissing the spirit of resistance exercised by Hizbullah. What will happen in the future will be judged based on its own merits.
It’s also important to note that within Israel proper there was much dissent, and much anger against the actions of the Israeli government. These are fearless voices which are (although attempted to be…) quieted and quelled, but they exist and when they speak, they are loud and as admirable a form of resistance as any, if not more so…
The recent commando activity which Israel undertook, post ceasefire, was a clear breech of the ceasefire agreement. That Hizbullah showed restraint is almost unbelievable. The sense around here is that should Israel act in breech of the ceasefire one more time, Hizbullah will be forced to react to the Israeli offensive.
For the above, Hizbullah must be applauded. And in order for me to do that in good faith, I have to really think about and flesh out what I mentioned earlier, which is this idea that Israel feels the need to behave in this fashion, because of their history (the idea of ‘never again’)…and that may take me a little longer. There’s only so much psychology I can throw into the mix and sort of attempt to understand if I’ve not been raised in that environment. But I’m going to try and understand it and I’ll let you know what I think, if anything coherent comes out. I’ll do that because I would like for someone who sits on the opposite political spectrum to me, to attempt to understand me as well. It’s really about karma at this point, I think (I’m just covering my own ass, kiddies!).
On a personal note, and with complete sincerity, I would really like to understand how Israel would define this as a victory for themselves...
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 6:18 AM
2 comments
Sunday, August 20, 2006
No 9: Stupid God Damn War
Sorry, but I can't remember which entry this is...and once more, I have no spellcheck, so I'll sound like a relative illiterate at diffrent points.
Things are a little tense at the moment because of what happened yesterday. BUT this morning, Lebanon (not Hizbullah) said that if Syria tried to bring arms across the border, the Lebanese army would take action against them. I don't think there's any way Lebanon would be able to say this without the permission of Syria, and by default Hizbullah. So I think that was done to quell any breaking of the ceasefire. This morning, we were watching several war frigates circle the shore of Beirut. That was a little bizarre and a little tense because there were no markings on the boats such as flags >> and normally, in order to be safe, the flags need to be up and very clear.
Anyway, that's it for that....
I spent the entirety of my day sitting near the pool on the rooftop of this hotel, which was really a nice way to relax (notwithstanding the frigates!). I finally bought a black bikini, nearly identical to my brown one (scroll down), only with a little less material. That seems to be the way of Beirut, and as the Lebanese would say "kint 3am ba3mal bronzage" all day. I'm burned to a crisp, and my eyes look a lot more green than usual and so this makes for a happy Maha. I was at the pool from 10:30 am until 3:30 pm, and one of my colleagues stood next to me after I'd had my shower and came down to the internet and she said she could feel the heat off my body. Hurrah for skin damage!
For those of you who want to know my impression of visiting Sabra & Shatila, please forgive me but I'm nowhere near ready to talk about it. I've not even been able to bring myself to look at the photos I took. The experience was so profound and much too intense for me to put it into words and share here. The intimacy of interracting with that area left me shaking for a few hours; As a Palestinian, I can tell you that it was an experience I will never ever forget, every single moment, I think, will always be so vivid and rich in colour, texture, feeling, scent, everything and anything you can possibly imagine. Thirty one years and it was a definitive experience for me.
And enough seriousness for the moment. Now for some stories about interesting people I've met...
- I spent a better part of the afternoon speaking with Duncan, a war time journalist for iTV, one of the three largest British channels. He's in his early 50s and was around for the first war between Lebanon and Israel, as well as for the Sabra and Shatila massacre, both Gulf Wars and both Intifadas. He's a fascinating man and his stories are incredible. The one that stuck out the most was that they recently went down to Tyr, and Israel - apart from the normal bombing campaign - has dropped thousands of cluster bombs (the kind which explode when you step on them; sorry I don't know their official name, but they're dirty), most of which are in the farming lands of the Palestinian camp closer to the South (I believe Olmert's official line was ''cus it ain't enough to kill ya today, we're gonna make sure it keeps happenin' for years to come; and if all y'all ain't dead, then at least yer economy'n livelihood is devastated, tee hee hee!', or maybe not).
As an aside, you should know that there were 22 cluster bombs which went off yesterday, two of which were fatalities; most of which were children. Almuhim, he was saying how they had to walk through Tyr (approx 20 of them) in a straight line, with their eyes on the ground to make certain they didn't step on anything which would explode. Worse still, when they met with the Mayor, he was telling them he had a grenade which he thought was dead...until he pulled it out of his pocket and they realised it wasn't dead. The ensuing panic was scary but relatively funny. The iTV team has been here for the past month and they leave tomorrow to return to London.
- When I met Robert Fisk at the Right of Return Conference a few years back, he gave me his business card and told me to call him should I ever be in Lebanon. I tucked it away.
When I saw him a few months ago at his second last lecture in Montreal, he said the same thing. I took it and tucked it away. He's stationed in Lebanon and because I left in such a rush, I completely forgot to bring his number with me. We're in the process of trying to get our hands on his number and inshallah I'll be able to call him and at least have a coffee. If there's anyone whose going to have a solid hold of what this is doing to Lebanon, Fisk most definitely will.
- A few days ago while walking, we came across a stable of three Arabian horses: Thunder, The Prince of Beirut and Lebanese Sweetheart. Their jockey, Ahmed, was cleaning them and so was his helper, Samir, who was young and wanted me to take their photos. I did and they let me get really close to the horses to pet them. It was so nice because the horses were so beautiful and calm...
And I sort of have to stick this in here, but I have to flesh this out in my own mind...but I just want to say that with all of this propoganda from both sides, I've been really put off by everything and sickened by the entire situation.
In Lebanon, as in many other parts of the world, this has been viewed as a 'tactical victory' for Hizbullah, if for no other reason than because they are seen as having won against Israel since Israel was not capable of ruining their infrastructure (if anything, Hizbullah has become stronger through this). Now, after seeing the destruction and seeing the numbers of deaths, there's no one and nothing to admire for me, there has been no war won, when so many are dead, when homes are lost, when lives are ripped to shreds and when families are taken apart. There are no vicotrs in war, and if someone were to tell me that my family was going to die, so that there was a tactical win, I wouldn't be able to stomach it. I wouldn't be able to accept it and I most definitely wouldn't sit back in complacent fashion and allow it to happen.
It's all such useless death for nothing more than political gain. A summer that was set to focus on the potential of nuclear weapons in Iran has now turned into thousands of innocent lives lost in Lebanon & Israel. Hizbullah fighters dead, IDF soldiers dead are not among the innocent in my eyes.
Being here doesn't let me admire anything or anyone. What a disgusting and messy waste of human potential, war is.
Yalla, sorry to leave you on such an upset note, but my mood isn't one in favour of the nonsense or the destruction or the fallout or the future blowback to what's happening today. Maybe I just have sunstroke.
I must go tell a joke or find something to laugh at before I start crying at this computer station.
More soon...and in the interim, watch this, you'll piss yourselves. Galloway's such a character!
All my love, xo.
Things are a little tense at the moment because of what happened yesterday. BUT this morning, Lebanon (not Hizbullah) said that if Syria tried to bring arms across the border, the Lebanese army would take action against them. I don't think there's any way Lebanon would be able to say this without the permission of Syria, and by default Hizbullah. So I think that was done to quell any breaking of the ceasefire. This morning, we were watching several war frigates circle the shore of Beirut. That was a little bizarre and a little tense because there were no markings on the boats such as flags >> and normally, in order to be safe, the flags need to be up and very clear.
Anyway, that's it for that....
I spent the entirety of my day sitting near the pool on the rooftop of this hotel, which was really a nice way to relax (notwithstanding the frigates!). I finally bought a black bikini, nearly identical to my brown one (scroll down), only with a little less material. That seems to be the way of Beirut, and as the Lebanese would say "kint 3am ba3mal bronzage" all day. I'm burned to a crisp, and my eyes look a lot more green than usual and so this makes for a happy Maha. I was at the pool from 10:30 am until 3:30 pm, and one of my colleagues stood next to me after I'd had my shower and came down to the internet and she said she could feel the heat off my body. Hurrah for skin damage!
For those of you who want to know my impression of visiting Sabra & Shatila, please forgive me but I'm nowhere near ready to talk about it. I've not even been able to bring myself to look at the photos I took. The experience was so profound and much too intense for me to put it into words and share here. The intimacy of interracting with that area left me shaking for a few hours; As a Palestinian, I can tell you that it was an experience I will never ever forget, every single moment, I think, will always be so vivid and rich in colour, texture, feeling, scent, everything and anything you can possibly imagine. Thirty one years and it was a definitive experience for me.
And enough seriousness for the moment. Now for some stories about interesting people I've met...
- I spent a better part of the afternoon speaking with Duncan, a war time journalist for iTV, one of the three largest British channels. He's in his early 50s and was around for the first war between Lebanon and Israel, as well as for the Sabra and Shatila massacre, both Gulf Wars and both Intifadas. He's a fascinating man and his stories are incredible. The one that stuck out the most was that they recently went down to Tyr, and Israel - apart from the normal bombing campaign - has dropped thousands of cluster bombs (the kind which explode when you step on them; sorry I don't know their official name, but they're dirty), most of which are in the farming lands of the Palestinian camp closer to the South (I believe Olmert's official line was ''cus it ain't enough to kill ya today, we're gonna make sure it keeps happenin' for years to come; and if all y'all ain't dead, then at least yer economy'n livelihood is devastated, tee hee hee!', or maybe not).
As an aside, you should know that there were 22 cluster bombs which went off yesterday, two of which were fatalities; most of which were children. Almuhim, he was saying how they had to walk through Tyr (approx 20 of them) in a straight line, with their eyes on the ground to make certain they didn't step on anything which would explode. Worse still, when they met with the Mayor, he was telling them he had a grenade which he thought was dead...until he pulled it out of his pocket and they realised it wasn't dead. The ensuing panic was scary but relatively funny. The iTV team has been here for the past month and they leave tomorrow to return to London.
- When I met Robert Fisk at the Right of Return Conference a few years back, he gave me his business card and told me to call him should I ever be in Lebanon. I tucked it away.
When I saw him a few months ago at his second last lecture in Montreal, he said the same thing. I took it and tucked it away. He's stationed in Lebanon and because I left in such a rush, I completely forgot to bring his number with me. We're in the process of trying to get our hands on his number and inshallah I'll be able to call him and at least have a coffee. If there's anyone whose going to have a solid hold of what this is doing to Lebanon, Fisk most definitely will.
- A few days ago while walking, we came across a stable of three Arabian horses: Thunder, The Prince of Beirut and Lebanese Sweetheart. Their jockey, Ahmed, was cleaning them and so was his helper, Samir, who was young and wanted me to take their photos. I did and they let me get really close to the horses to pet them. It was so nice because the horses were so beautiful and calm...
And I sort of have to stick this in here, but I have to flesh this out in my own mind...but I just want to say that with all of this propoganda from both sides, I've been really put off by everything and sickened by the entire situation.
In Lebanon, as in many other parts of the world, this has been viewed as a 'tactical victory' for Hizbullah, if for no other reason than because they are seen as having won against Israel since Israel was not capable of ruining their infrastructure (if anything, Hizbullah has become stronger through this). Now, after seeing the destruction and seeing the numbers of deaths, there's no one and nothing to admire for me, there has been no war won, when so many are dead, when homes are lost, when lives are ripped to shreds and when families are taken apart. There are no vicotrs in war, and if someone were to tell me that my family was going to die, so that there was a tactical win, I wouldn't be able to stomach it. I wouldn't be able to accept it and I most definitely wouldn't sit back in complacent fashion and allow it to happen.
It's all such useless death for nothing more than political gain. A summer that was set to focus on the potential of nuclear weapons in Iran has now turned into thousands of innocent lives lost in Lebanon & Israel. Hizbullah fighters dead, IDF soldiers dead are not among the innocent in my eyes.
Being here doesn't let me admire anything or anyone. What a disgusting and messy waste of human potential, war is.
Yalla, sorry to leave you on such an upset note, but my mood isn't one in favour of the nonsense or the destruction or the fallout or the future blowback to what's happening today. Maybe I just have sunstroke.
I must go tell a joke or find something to laugh at before I start crying at this computer station.
More soon...and in the interim, watch this, you'll piss yourselves. Galloway's such a character!
All my love, xo.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 10:50 AM
2 comments
Thursday, August 17, 2006
No 8: Sabra & Shatila
There is still some ‘off fighting’ in the South of Lebanon, but nothing major and nothing to fear, inshallah. Quite honestly, I don’t believe that either Hizbullah or Israel anticipated or made allowances for what the last 35 days have brought; an end to this can only work in favour of the two, and maybe now the world will remember that while this has gone on in Lebanon, Gaza has been attacked with the usual amount of restraint shown by Israel.
I was speaking with someone about this, and they explained to me why it is that Israel needs to be so hard; this concept of ‘never again’, in terms of the Jewish Holocaust, was what we were discussing. I understand it, but I can not justify it. If anything, it makes me sad that this is the fate of that nation; and it also makes me sad to consider the consequences of the road on which the Palestinians have been and will be forced to travel, due to a particularly devastating history in which they had no role.
One of the important things is that the individual who explained this to me believes that the Palestinian cause is a righteous one, and so the explanation offered was met with more comfort on my part. Actually, it was met with only comfort because of this individual's recognition of the plight of Palestinians
The question is simple for me: ‘what happens to you when the world thinks you’re expendable?’ And I think a part of that answer is something Israel is providing right now.
There’s a story which Amira Hass tells about her family. When they were being shipped off like cattle to the concentration camps, Germans were standing by and watching, none of whom tried to step in, none of whom yelled or screamed or challenged what was to come, what was to become of these people. When I read that story I was crying so hard I couldn’t breath. I actually stopped breathing because I didn’t get it; I don’t understand it and I still don’t understand where such gross cruelty and complacency comes from. Every time I think about that still, I get a sickness in my stomach…it actually hurts me to think about it, and it’s the same feeling I experience when I think about how shortly after the creation of the State of Israel, my mom’s uncle who was pulled from his bed by Israeli officers and taken outside of his home in the middle of the night. Lined up along a wall with the other men from the village and shot dead. It’s the same sickness I get when I think about my own uncle who, as a young man in occupied Palestine was taken into an Israeli prison and came out an epileptic because he was beaten on the head so much. I don't differentiate, I refuse to see Jewish blood as opposed to Palestinian blood. I can't, and I won't and I don't believe the Palestinian/Israeli nightmare will be solved until more of us believe in this with every part of who we are. Quite honestly, I don't know what to do with that sometimes; I don't know how to walk out of it or deal with it or speak about it because people look at me like I'm insane. But fuck it, what do I care?
You know, I don’t understand and it’s never been enough for me to think “humans are cruel”, because I have to refuse to believe that. No matter how ugly people are, I have to have faith in something bigger and greater or something, because I think I would fall apart if I didn’t.
I’m talking about this because this afternoon I’m going to the South of Lebanon to visit Sabra & Shatila. I’ll be with the one individual I trust most and who can take care of both myself and the situation should there be a need to do so. Of everyone here, they're the one I feel most protected by and comfortable with, so for those of you reading, please don’t worry. If I’m to be in any hands, these are the best ones.
Am quite nervous about this, I don’t really know how I’ll react to visiting these two areas, knowing their history and the reality that I am one of the lucky few who – by nothing more than luck – was spared having my blood spilled. That, had I lived that Palestinian history, I too would have been shredded to death, for nothing more than being a Palestinian. How unfortunate that the neither the Jewish community nor the Palestinian community recognise the similarities and the connections between their fates; that by virtue of blood, a life lost is a justifiable action.
I don’t know, I’m not really being coherent at this point because I didn’t get much sleep last night. I woke up because of bad dreams, and I was feeling a little empty and as though there was something missing. I don’t know how to explain it to you because it’s the first time I’ve experienced it. There’s something happening to me emotionally that’s taking a toll on me at the moment and it’s something I didn’t anticipate or expect or fucking want. My mind, my spirit and my heart and everything that makes me who I am is being tested to a degree I never imagined. I’m thankful for it, though…whatever it is and whatever the outcome may be.
I was speaking with someone about this, and they explained to me why it is that Israel needs to be so hard; this concept of ‘never again’, in terms of the Jewish Holocaust, was what we were discussing. I understand it, but I can not justify it. If anything, it makes me sad that this is the fate of that nation; and it also makes me sad to consider the consequences of the road on which the Palestinians have been and will be forced to travel, due to a particularly devastating history in which they had no role.
One of the important things is that the individual who explained this to me believes that the Palestinian cause is a righteous one, and so the explanation offered was met with more comfort on my part. Actually, it was met with only comfort because of this individual's recognition of the plight of Palestinians
The question is simple for me: ‘what happens to you when the world thinks you’re expendable?’ And I think a part of that answer is something Israel is providing right now.
There’s a story which Amira Hass tells about her family. When they were being shipped off like cattle to the concentration camps, Germans were standing by and watching, none of whom tried to step in, none of whom yelled or screamed or challenged what was to come, what was to become of these people. When I read that story I was crying so hard I couldn’t breath. I actually stopped breathing because I didn’t get it; I don’t understand it and I still don’t understand where such gross cruelty and complacency comes from. Every time I think about that still, I get a sickness in my stomach…it actually hurts me to think about it, and it’s the same feeling I experience when I think about how shortly after the creation of the State of Israel, my mom’s uncle who was pulled from his bed by Israeli officers and taken outside of his home in the middle of the night. Lined up along a wall with the other men from the village and shot dead. It’s the same sickness I get when I think about my own uncle who, as a young man in occupied Palestine was taken into an Israeli prison and came out an epileptic because he was beaten on the head so much. I don't differentiate, I refuse to see Jewish blood as opposed to Palestinian blood. I can't, and I won't and I don't believe the Palestinian/Israeli nightmare will be solved until more of us believe in this with every part of who we are. Quite honestly, I don't know what to do with that sometimes; I don't know how to walk out of it or deal with it or speak about it because people look at me like I'm insane. But fuck it, what do I care?
You know, I don’t understand and it’s never been enough for me to think “humans are cruel”, because I have to refuse to believe that. No matter how ugly people are, I have to have faith in something bigger and greater or something, because I think I would fall apart if I didn’t.
I’m talking about this because this afternoon I’m going to the South of Lebanon to visit Sabra & Shatila. I’ll be with the one individual I trust most and who can take care of both myself and the situation should there be a need to do so. Of everyone here, they're the one I feel most protected by and comfortable with, so for those of you reading, please don’t worry. If I’m to be in any hands, these are the best ones.
Am quite nervous about this, I don’t really know how I’ll react to visiting these two areas, knowing their history and the reality that I am one of the lucky few who – by nothing more than luck – was spared having my blood spilled. That, had I lived that Palestinian history, I too would have been shredded to death, for nothing more than being a Palestinian. How unfortunate that the neither the Jewish community nor the Palestinian community recognise the similarities and the connections between their fates; that by virtue of blood, a life lost is a justifiable action.
I don’t know, I’m not really being coherent at this point because I didn’t get much sleep last night. I woke up because of bad dreams, and I was feeling a little empty and as though there was something missing. I don’t know how to explain it to you because it’s the first time I’ve experienced it. There’s something happening to me emotionally that’s taking a toll on me at the moment and it’s something I didn’t anticipate or expect or fucking want. My mind, my spirit and my heart and everything that makes me who I am is being tested to a degree I never imagined. I’m thankful for it, though…whatever it is and whatever the outcome may be.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 4:00 AM
6 comments
Monday, August 14, 2006
No 7: Update on ceasefire
Last night was a god damn mess in this Country. At approximately 7 pm, Israel started bombing the shit out of Hezbollah 'owned' areas. They didn't stop until 8 am this morning, the official ceasefire time. It was insane and my friend in Montreal was able to provide some sense of calm to my own fear.
My balcony overlooks the South and so I was able to hear and see the entire...campaign. It's one thing to hear it, and see the plumes of smoke in the air during the day; it is an entirely other thing to see the orange rush of impact and fire, and to feel it. Somewhere around 11 pm last night, Israel dropped two bombs, which made everything around us (including us) shake.
Every single human's - regardless of ethnicity or religion - capacity to fuck this world up will never cease to amaze, disappoint and sadden me.
At the moment, the environment of this ceasefire are simple:
- Both sides have agreed to the terms.
- There will be an international force coming in to Lebanon to sit between the two parties.
- Until that time, Israel does not plan on leaving the Southern part of Lebanon, and they have said they will continue to play "offensive" moves in order to protect their soldiers on the ground.
- Until that time, Hezbollah does not plan on chilling out about having Israeli troops on Lebanese soil, and so will also keep "offensive" moves in order to protect Lebanon from any further violence or potential occupation.
So....technically, this means that the ceasefire isn't really a ceasefire until the international observation force or whatever in the hell they're spinning it as, is here. Until then, keep your eyes on written media (I recommend: Le Figaro or Le Monde Diplomatique, or somewhere between Al-Jazeera English on-line version & BBC).
My balcony overlooks the South and so I was able to hear and see the entire...campaign. It's one thing to hear it, and see the plumes of smoke in the air during the day; it is an entirely other thing to see the orange rush of impact and fire, and to feel it. Somewhere around 11 pm last night, Israel dropped two bombs, which made everything around us (including us) shake.
Every single human's - regardless of ethnicity or religion - capacity to fuck this world up will never cease to amaze, disappoint and sadden me.
At the moment, the environment of this ceasefire are simple:
- Both sides have agreed to the terms.
- There will be an international force coming in to Lebanon to sit between the two parties.
- Until that time, Israel does not plan on leaving the Southern part of Lebanon, and they have said they will continue to play "offensive" moves in order to protect their soldiers on the ground.
- Until that time, Hezbollah does not plan on chilling out about having Israeli troops on Lebanese soil, and so will also keep "offensive" moves in order to protect Lebanon from any further violence or potential occupation.
So....technically, this means that the ceasefire isn't really a ceasefire until the international observation force or whatever in the hell they're spinning it as, is here. Until then, keep your eyes on written media (I recommend: Le Figaro or Le Monde Diplomatique, or somewhere between Al-Jazeera English on-line version & BBC).
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 7:16 AM
5 comments
Sunday, August 13, 2006
No 6: Bombings
We were seated in the Forum today, with approximately 900 individuals to be evacuated. The day was good...
Until somewhere between 2:30 and 2:45 pm when we heard the bombs.
The Forum is a very large stadium-like forum and so because the bombs dropped around 10 km away, the echo inside the place was terrifying. A few of us ran outside to try and decipher which part of Lebanon had been hit, by looking for the plumes of smoke. Being outside felt safer than being inside of that place.
I've never heard whatever sort of bombs were being dropped today; the only way to describe them is to say that they sounded as though they were coming from the underbelly of earth. The sound is so dense and - if one could describe a sound by size - absolutely enormous.
I was shaking for a good half an hour post bombs (I counted 7), and although we're now nearly two hours later, I feel like my stomach could drop at any moment. I'am a little edgy and tense, but otherwise okay.
Until somewhere between 2:30 and 2:45 pm when we heard the bombs.
The Forum is a very large stadium-like forum and so because the bombs dropped around 10 km away, the echo inside the place was terrifying. A few of us ran outside to try and decipher which part of Lebanon had been hit, by looking for the plumes of smoke. Being outside felt safer than being inside of that place.
I've never heard whatever sort of bombs were being dropped today; the only way to describe them is to say that they sounded as though they were coming from the underbelly of earth. The sound is so dense and - if one could describe a sound by size - absolutely enormous.
I was shaking for a good half an hour post bombs (I counted 7), and although we're now nearly two hours later, I feel like my stomach could drop at any moment. I'am a little edgy and tense, but otherwise okay.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 9:49 AM
2 comments
Saturday, August 12, 2006
No 5: Photos so far...
Flying over the Greek islands and in to Larnaca, August 11th 2006:
Sunset over Lárnaca as I landed, August 11th, 2006 at approx 7 pm:
Having my morning coffee in Larnaca, August 12th 2006 (hotel is booked entirely - and only - for Canadian gov officials):
Mini bus to Lárnaca airport, August 12th, 2006:
Our small team, seated at Larnaca airport waiting for our helicopter, August 12th, 2006 (please note my naturally curly hair much thanks to Cypriot humidity; it is the only time you will see it on this blog):
Our ride over the Mediterranean, August 12th, 2006:
Sunset over Lárnaca as I landed, August 11th, 2006 at approx 7 pm:
Having my morning coffee in Larnaca, August 12th 2006 (hotel is booked entirely - and only - for Canadian gov officials):
Mini bus to Lárnaca airport, August 12th, 2006:
Our small team, seated at Larnaca airport waiting for our helicopter, August 12th, 2006 (please note my naturally curly hair much thanks to Cypriot humidity; it is the only time you will see it on this blog):
Our ride over the Mediterranean, August 12th, 2006:
Labels: Beirut 2006, Photos, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 11:10 AM
2 comments
No. 4: Plans foiled & annoying slimy guy
Am safe and in Lebanon; will tell you about my two drunk helicopter pilots later, inshallah. What's below is a little out of sequence; I wrote this while in Frankfurt approx 24 hours ago. Note: I'm taking pictures and will try and post them soon.
At the moment, these dispatches may not be what you’re expecting from a chick potentially headed into any war zone. But for the love of all things pretty and smelling fresh, allow me to indulge in the superficial until am forced to deal with the disaster into which I am heading.
Currently seated at the Haagen-Dazs in Terminal 1 of the Frankfurt airport, I am drinking my café latte and going over the means devised (& failed) whereby the end result would have seen me running through the gates of Larnaca airport holding a tube of mascara high above my head.
Much like the terrorist plot, both of my mascara purchasing plans were foiled. I had sat on the plane ogling the two dimensional Lancome Hypnose mascara as it rested between the pages of the duty free magazine. The plan was simple; I would purchase new mascara and eat it; this way, I would screw the system as they’d never be able to take it away from me. Trust me, I know how to stick it to the man.
No?
Well, how about I just purchase it and take it with me to Larnaca?
Sounds better, doesn’t it?
Only…the Captain informed us that due to “Security reasons, you can no longer be pretty or smell nice and for this reason, we are not going to sell you any liquids via duty free, this includes mascara, even though mascara’s not a liquid per se, but we don’t really have a clue because ‘we’ – those of us who made the decision to take away your mascara – are all men. Trust me, you’ll hear us complaining about how you don’t look good in a very short period of time (exactly: at the moment we actively choose to forget that we confiscated your wand of terror). But let’s focus on the good news: You were allowed to bring on board your tweezers and all sharp objects! Isn’t that awesome? ‘We’ also made that decision because we’re just that smart like that. Ha ha ha. Joke’s on you Mr. Terrorist! Ha ha ha. I love getting paid as much as I do to maybe crash and kill this entire plane if I fall asleep or get food poisoning. Ha ha ha.” Only it came out as thus: “Due to security reasons, we are not selling duty free items on this flight. Sucks to be you,” or some such shit.
Plan no 2, also foiled: There is a physical lockdown of all liquids sold in the Ottawa international airport, Toronto’s Pearson airport & Frankfurt airport. Items considered either liquid or gel have been pulled from the shelves and locked into the backrooms (I asked), and where there are liquids such as drinking juices and soda, padlocks have been placed on the refrigerators. Believe me when I tell you that I was lucky to get a latte.
Although I remain without mascara, I now have lip balm and a small tube of toothpaste courtesy of Super Duper Elite Class, which is exactly what they call it on my ticket. I also now hold face wash and face cream, two items I don’t use; soap suffices for this girl and cream on my face makes me claustrophobic.
Until next time…
At the moment, these dispatches may not be what you’re expecting from a chick potentially headed into any war zone. But for the love of all things pretty and smelling fresh, allow me to indulge in the superficial until am forced to deal with the disaster into which I am heading.
Currently seated at the Haagen-Dazs in Terminal 1 of the Frankfurt airport, I am drinking my café latte and going over the means devised (& failed) whereby the end result would have seen me running through the gates of Larnaca airport holding a tube of mascara high above my head.
Much like the terrorist plot, both of my mascara purchasing plans were foiled. I had sat on the plane ogling the two dimensional Lancome Hypnose mascara as it rested between the pages of the duty free magazine. The plan was simple; I would purchase new mascara and eat it; this way, I would screw the system as they’d never be able to take it away from me. Trust me, I know how to stick it to the man.
No?
Well, how about I just purchase it and take it with me to Larnaca?
Sounds better, doesn’t it?
Only…the Captain informed us that due to “Security reasons, you can no longer be pretty or smell nice and for this reason, we are not going to sell you any liquids via duty free, this includes mascara, even though mascara’s not a liquid per se, but we don’t really have a clue because ‘we’ – those of us who made the decision to take away your mascara – are all men. Trust me, you’ll hear us complaining about how you don’t look good in a very short period of time (exactly: at the moment we actively choose to forget that we confiscated your wand of terror). But let’s focus on the good news: You were allowed to bring on board your tweezers and all sharp objects! Isn’t that awesome? ‘We’ also made that decision because we’re just that smart like that. Ha ha ha. Joke’s on you Mr. Terrorist! Ha ha ha. I love getting paid as much as I do to maybe crash and kill this entire plane if I fall asleep or get food poisoning. Ha ha ha.” Only it came out as thus: “Due to security reasons, we are not selling duty free items on this flight. Sucks to be you,” or some such shit.
Plan no 2, also foiled: There is a physical lockdown of all liquids sold in the Ottawa international airport, Toronto’s Pearson airport & Frankfurt airport. Items considered either liquid or gel have been pulled from the shelves and locked into the backrooms (I asked), and where there are liquids such as drinking juices and soda, padlocks have been placed on the refrigerators. Believe me when I tell you that I was lucky to get a latte.
Although I remain without mascara, I now have lip balm and a small tube of toothpaste courtesy of Super Duper Elite Class, which is exactly what they call it on my ticket. I also now hold face wash and face cream, two items I don’t use; soap suffices for this girl and cream on my face makes me claustrophobic.
Until next time…
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 10:52 AM
3 comments
No. 3: Leaving for Lebanon in 45 min
Right. So, as we were landing in Cyprus at sunset yesterday evening, saw this beautiful island in it's glory. Pulled out my camera a little too late, but did manage a photo, which I will post later.
The topography of this place, from the sky, is a little surprising as it looks like vast expanses of dessert and then miniature explosions of massive green mountains, as though Scotland dropped in, didn't particularly like what it saw, left some footprints and took off across the waters.
On the ground, this place is the Gaza Strip; the houses, the people, the streets, even the toilettes! Food is excellent, although dripping with salt in the form of sweat dropping off my lips and on to the food. No matter who you are, you are soaking through your shirts; smart that I've brought 7 pairs of jeans with me. My aunt (a doctor) called me and told me to keep drinking mineral water or water with a little bit of salt in it, so as to avoid dehydration. (Imagine the stupidity of THAT in a war zone?)
Note: Am writing this from a machine that looks lke a karaoke thing, so again forgive the poor syntax and spelling. I am at the hotel across the street from our, which is booked only for Canadian officials. This place is much nicer as it has more personality...little Brit boy seated next to me, yelling incoherent English at PHOTO PLAY, the only arcade game here, which he is obviously losing. He's about 6 and beautiful (I want one).
- None of the Cypriot men wear shirts. This can be really nice, but when it's not...it causes a form of visual trauma.
So, you want to know about Lebanon, I presume? I am being picked up by the military convoy in approx 25 minutes. Am nervous and excited and sad, all on behalf of my mum...not scared for myself, like I am for her. For those of you who have my home number, I ask that you please maybe tag team one another and keep ringing my mum until am home and safe. Bizarre what we think of and how we react when facing a situation such as this, strange that am not giving a shit about myself, but moreso about mum.
That's it; keep an eye on the news, I would neither 'collateral' nor 'civilian', but rather 'Canadian victim'.
The topography of this place, from the sky, is a little surprising as it looks like vast expanses of dessert and then miniature explosions of massive green mountains, as though Scotland dropped in, didn't particularly like what it saw, left some footprints and took off across the waters.
On the ground, this place is the Gaza Strip; the houses, the people, the streets, even the toilettes! Food is excellent, although dripping with salt in the form of sweat dropping off my lips and on to the food. No matter who you are, you are soaking through your shirts; smart that I've brought 7 pairs of jeans with me. My aunt (a doctor) called me and told me to keep drinking mineral water or water with a little bit of salt in it, so as to avoid dehydration. (Imagine the stupidity of THAT in a war zone?)
Note: Am writing this from a machine that looks lke a karaoke thing, so again forgive the poor syntax and spelling. I am at the hotel across the street from our, which is booked only for Canadian officials. This place is much nicer as it has more personality...little Brit boy seated next to me, yelling incoherent English at PHOTO PLAY, the only arcade game here, which he is obviously losing. He's about 6 and beautiful (I want one).
- None of the Cypriot men wear shirts. This can be really nice, but when it's not...it causes a form of visual trauma.
So, you want to know about Lebanon, I presume? I am being picked up by the military convoy in approx 25 minutes. Am nervous and excited and sad, all on behalf of my mum...not scared for myself, like I am for her. For those of you who have my home number, I ask that you please maybe tag team one another and keep ringing my mum until am home and safe. Bizarre what we think of and how we react when facing a situation such as this, strange that am not giving a shit about myself, but moreso about mum.
That's it; keep an eye on the news, I would neither 'collateral' nor 'civilian', but rather 'Canadian victim'.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 4:17 AM
2 comments
Thursday, August 10, 2006
No.2: Evacuation does not = Beauty
I am sitting in the Airport, traumatised (and without spell check, so forgive my errors). Since some idiots tried to bomb something or else, I AM GOING TO SUFFER.
I will be working for the next two weeks and looking like hell because...
The took away my:
- contact lense solution
- hair gel
- perfume (Escada Rockin' Rio)
- TOOTHPASTE (because I may scrub someone clean to death?)
- shampoo
- conditioner
- $60 of mascara which I just purchased in Montreal (Lancome!!!!!!!!!!)
- (brace yourselves) LIP GLOSS. I have NO lip gloss because they took both of them away from me. I actually said "What are you doing? Look at the size of my mouth, how can you leave me without lip gloss???? If someone were to take away your gel, wouldn't you be upset? With your hair?" because he had a full throttle pompodor. Thing must LIVE in his hair, isn't THAT a security threat?
What the fuck? Honestly? What could I have possibly done with the above while in flight; I'm not McGyver, or McCgiver, or MaCgiver. The most I would have done is made people pretty? And clean?
They didn't take away my floss, but I offered it. He turned it down, he kept refusing to take it. The one thing I would have gladly given up in the name of 'security', and he kept turning me down. Damn them. And damn my floss, Crest super glide.
And here's where things got ugly. The security guy was eyeing my kohl. This is a middle eastern steel tube with kohl inside, which my grandmother gave to my mother who then gave it to me. He was staring at it and I started panicing, or maybe I was panicking? Anyway, he was eyeing it, then looking at me, then eyeing it, then looking at me some more and I must have looked like I was either going to pass out or start crying because he mumbled
"I'm sorry. What's in here? I have to take it away."
"NO! It's my grandmother!"
"Excuse me?"
"It's middle eastern style kohl, see, look at how it goes in my eye. There's nothing harmful in it, you can't take it away. TAKE MY FLOSS INSTEAD. I'M GOING TO LEBANON ON A US OR UK HELICOPTER YOU HAVE TO LEAVE ME MY KOHL TAKE MY FLOSS TAKE IT."
...he let me keep it, and I'm quite certain he thinks am a bona fide mental handicap. But that's ok, 'cus I won!
I'm still a little hysterical.
I will be working for the next two weeks and looking like hell because...
The took away my:
- contact lense solution
- hair gel
- perfume (Escada Rockin' Rio)
- TOOTHPASTE (because I may scrub someone clean to death?)
- shampoo
- conditioner
- $60 of mascara which I just purchased in Montreal (Lancome!!!!!!!!!!)
- (brace yourselves) LIP GLOSS. I have NO lip gloss because they took both of them away from me. I actually said "What are you doing? Look at the size of my mouth, how can you leave me without lip gloss???? If someone were to take away your gel, wouldn't you be upset? With your hair?" because he had a full throttle pompodor. Thing must LIVE in his hair, isn't THAT a security threat?
What the fuck? Honestly? What could I have possibly done with the above while in flight; I'm not McGyver, or McCgiver, or MaCgiver. The most I would have done is made people pretty? And clean?
They didn't take away my floss, but I offered it. He turned it down, he kept refusing to take it. The one thing I would have gladly given up in the name of 'security', and he kept turning me down. Damn them. And damn my floss, Crest super glide.
And here's where things got ugly. The security guy was eyeing my kohl. This is a middle eastern steel tube with kohl inside, which my grandmother gave to my mother who then gave it to me. He was staring at it and I started panicing, or maybe I was panicking? Anyway, he was eyeing it, then looking at me, then eyeing it, then looking at me some more and I must have looked like I was either going to pass out or start crying because he mumbled
"I'm sorry. What's in here? I have to take it away."
"NO! It's my grandmother!"
"Excuse me?"
"It's middle eastern style kohl, see, look at how it goes in my eye. There's nothing harmful in it, you can't take it away. TAKE MY FLOSS INSTEAD. I'M GOING TO LEBANON ON A US OR UK HELICOPTER YOU HAVE TO LEAVE ME MY KOHL TAKE MY FLOSS TAKE IT."
...he let me keep it, and I'm quite certain he thinks am a bona fide mental handicap. But that's ok, 'cus I won!
I'm still a little hysterical.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 5:25 PM
8 comments
Update no. 1: Itinerary
What a hellish 18 hours past. I didn’t get much sleep last night; as soon as the excitement wore off, the fear kicked in. Mama tried to change my mind, but this is something I really need to do and know that if I don’t go, it would exist as residual upset for quite some time, if not for the rest of my days.
Had to come in and organize every single detail from confirming and completing all information relevant to my travel (in 6.5 hours, I depart for Frankfurt, and then go on to Larnaca by regular commercial airline, then to Beirut by US or UK military chopper), and my diplomatic passport (which I am to receive at 3 pm this afternoon). Things are a little bit of a blur since this is all happening so fast. I think what I’m experiencing – apart from the nausea brought on by fear – is a stress headache, which will be calmed, inshallah, once I have both the passport and the tickets in hand. Then I’ll only have to deal with fear. Insert laugh track.
Should opportunity present itself I will provide updates via my blog and not my email.
Had to come in and organize every single detail from confirming and completing all information relevant to my travel (in 6.5 hours, I depart for Frankfurt, and then go on to Larnaca by regular commercial airline, then to Beirut by US or UK military chopper), and my diplomatic passport (which I am to receive at 3 pm this afternoon). Things are a little bit of a blur since this is all happening so fast. I think what I’m experiencing – apart from the nausea brought on by fear – is a stress headache, which will be calmed, inshallah, once I have both the passport and the tickets in hand. Then I’ll only have to deal with fear. Insert laugh track.
Should opportunity present itself I will provide updates via my blog and not my email.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 12:25 PM
3 comments
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Leaving for Cyprus and then on to Lebanon
Negotiations began at 4 pm today and I just received this moments ago from work (this is when work gets fun!):
"You are confirmed for departure this Thursday August 10 for Cyprus. You should arrange your return from Cyprus back to Ottawa on Friday 18 August. Make sure your ticket is fully refundable and that changes can be made easily (just in case).
If you arrive in Cyprus in time for onward transport to Beirut (usually by US or UK military helicopter), you will continue on to Beirut. If you arrive after the departure of the choppers, you will stay in Cyprus to assist with the evacuation."
...and some other stuff that would put you to sleep.
And, erm, should something happen to me while in Lebanon...just know that I was doing something I loved (helping people) and probably wearing a great pair of shoes (in which I can run should the need arise)!
No blogging or email until am home and safe.
"You are confirmed for departure this Thursday August 10 for Cyprus. You should arrange your return from Cyprus back to Ottawa on Friday 18 August. Make sure your ticket is fully refundable and that changes can be made easily (just in case).
If you arrive in Cyprus in time for onward transport to Beirut (usually by US or UK military helicopter), you will continue on to Beirut. If you arrive after the departure of the choppers, you will stay in Cyprus to assist with the evacuation."
...and some other stuff that would put you to sleep.
And, erm, should something happen to me while in Lebanon...just know that I was doing something I loved (helping people) and probably wearing a great pair of shoes (in which I can run should the need arise)!
No blogging or email until am home and safe.
Labels: Beirut 2006, Travel
posted by one female canuck at 6:32 PM
4 comments
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Stories from the Telephone Lines
Three summers ago, I worked with UNRWA in the Gaza Strip. I was visiting my family and I took a taxi to the UNRWA building and told them I wanted to volunteer. I did.
The people in Gaza are, unfortunately, quite used to the situation and the sounds of war which range from machine gun fire and Apache helicopters, to screaming missiles and exploding bombs. At most, people would hear the sound of a fighter plane and wait quietly for 15 minutes; if they were still alive after those fifteen minutes, they knew someone else was dead. The nature of war and the situation dictates that no one exhales a sigh of relief…
I never got used to that. My return to Canada was traumatic, because I have Palestinian blood and I felt guilty to be among the lucky who live elsewhere. I’ll always carry that guilt.
That, and my academic connection and political writing are as close to war as I’ve ever come. I wasn’t certain what to expect when I started working these telephone lines, but whatever my expectation was, it was the farthest thing from the reality in which I still find myself.
It's one thing to watch the news and ‘see’ those who have been killed, those who have lost their homes, those who are imprisoned within the villages and who have no access to the most basic necessities to survive. It’s another thing entirely to take the call of someone who can’t find their family members because their area’s just been hit.
This Crisis Line has fielded over 31,000 calls, and I have taken anywhere between 100 and 300 daily, depending on the nature of the calls and the day in question. One of the worst days we had was when Israel bombed telephone towers and we couldn’t receive any calls; the silence was terrifying.
If you were doing this, you too would remember every story and name you heard. I won’t ever be able to forget them and I’ll share a few of them with you…
- The elderly man who called me crying because he couldn't find his wife after their village had been hit.
- The elderly woman who called me and begged, begged, begged me through tears to please help her because she was alone and stuck in the South of Lebanon.
- The woman who called me and told me that she couldn't leave Lebanon without her mother, who was dying of cancer at the age of 83.
- The pregnant woman who called me from the South of Lebanon to tell me she couldn’t get out. I was taking her coordinates so that I could, at the very least, contact the Red Cross to see if they had any power to do anything. While on the phone, I could hear the bombs dropping and could hear them getting closer. The line kept cutting up and so I was having a very difficult time taking her information. We were cut off before I could get most of her information, and although I tried to call her back repeatedly for two days, the line never connected.
These are some of the stories…and I don't know if any of them are still alive.
And then there's everyone else; the people who can’t call, who will never be found and whose names we'll never know and whose stories will never be told.
I believe one of the worst phone calls I had to take was from a Lebanese citizen who’d been given this phone number by a neighbour. The man is 87 years old and was terrified and was asking for Canada’s help. He doesn’t have family and has nowhere to turn and was hoping that we could help him. I had to tell him we could not…and instead provide him with the telephone number of the Red Cross. When I told him I couldn’t help him, he started crying and he thanked me. He fucking thanked me and then said “Allah yi7meeki” which means “God protect you”, and I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t say anything because I was crying so hard. I’d lost all decorum and professionalism and couldn’t stop crying or shaking. I took his number down and I tried to call him for several days, but I couldn’t reach him. I keep trying to call him, and as of this morning, I still couldn’t reach him.
For each one of the stories listed above, I had to hang up and walk myself over to the washroom with my head down because I was crying. I had to take a ten minute break after each one of these – and so many others - to recover from having to tell people that I was incapable of helping them.
I often times found myself staring at the release button for too long, scared that if I press it and hang up, that's it. They're gone, there's nothing to hear anymore or hope for. The only reason I manage to press it is because I know there are others waiting to hear a voice on our end.
Most of the time, I feel impotent, seated with a headset on and ending every call with either "bon courage" or "God protect you" and choking on my words because I don't know if these people will be safe, and if they are safe, I know there's others who won't be. And so one is safe for the 100 who are not?
Naturally, there are “good” stories with happier endings; families with whom I spoke last week, and who called back this week to tell me they’re home and they’re safe…and as happy as I am for them, all I can see are the ones who can not escape.
I’ll leave you with a happier moment, which occurred only this morning. I was on the telephone with a father who’d lost contact with his family for several days. He wasn’t capable of speaking with them because the phone lines were not functioning. Since I couldn’t help him directly, I suggested we try a conference; I could at least comfort him by trying to let him hear the voices of his family. Sometimes the phone lines come and go for 10 or 15 minutes and you just have to hope for the best and take a chance.
I rang and his young boy answered. I spoke to his son briefly and explained who I was and that his father was on the line. The father said “Allo, Mohammed?” and the boy said “hi dad!” and then the father started crying. I broke down and couldn’t speak for a few moments to let them know that I would release them and leave them to their privacy. I didn’t have the energy to walk myself over to the washroom to cry…so I just sat here and cried quietly out of happiness, fear, sadness, uselessness…everything and nothing…
At this point, all I can do is wish everyone in all of the affected regions safety.
Some of this blog entry was originally part of an email sent to a small group of people.
The people in Gaza are, unfortunately, quite used to the situation and the sounds of war which range from machine gun fire and Apache helicopters, to screaming missiles and exploding bombs. At most, people would hear the sound of a fighter plane and wait quietly for 15 minutes; if they were still alive after those fifteen minutes, they knew someone else was dead. The nature of war and the situation dictates that no one exhales a sigh of relief…
I never got used to that. My return to Canada was traumatic, because I have Palestinian blood and I felt guilty to be among the lucky who live elsewhere. I’ll always carry that guilt.
That, and my academic connection and political writing are as close to war as I’ve ever come. I wasn’t certain what to expect when I started working these telephone lines, but whatever my expectation was, it was the farthest thing from the reality in which I still find myself.
It's one thing to watch the news and ‘see’ those who have been killed, those who have lost their homes, those who are imprisoned within the villages and who have no access to the most basic necessities to survive. It’s another thing entirely to take the call of someone who can’t find their family members because their area’s just been hit.
This Crisis Line has fielded over 31,000 calls, and I have taken anywhere between 100 and 300 daily, depending on the nature of the calls and the day in question. One of the worst days we had was when Israel bombed telephone towers and we couldn’t receive any calls; the silence was terrifying.
If you were doing this, you too would remember every story and name you heard. I won’t ever be able to forget them and I’ll share a few of them with you…
- The elderly man who called me crying because he couldn't find his wife after their village had been hit.
- The elderly woman who called me and begged, begged, begged me through tears to please help her because she was alone and stuck in the South of Lebanon.
- The woman who called me and told me that she couldn't leave Lebanon without her mother, who was dying of cancer at the age of 83.
- The pregnant woman who called me from the South of Lebanon to tell me she couldn’t get out. I was taking her coordinates so that I could, at the very least, contact the Red Cross to see if they had any power to do anything. While on the phone, I could hear the bombs dropping and could hear them getting closer. The line kept cutting up and so I was having a very difficult time taking her information. We were cut off before I could get most of her information, and although I tried to call her back repeatedly for two days, the line never connected.
These are some of the stories…and I don't know if any of them are still alive.
And then there's everyone else; the people who can’t call, who will never be found and whose names we'll never know and whose stories will never be told.
I believe one of the worst phone calls I had to take was from a Lebanese citizen who’d been given this phone number by a neighbour. The man is 87 years old and was terrified and was asking for Canada’s help. He doesn’t have family and has nowhere to turn and was hoping that we could help him. I had to tell him we could not…and instead provide him with the telephone number of the Red Cross. When I told him I couldn’t help him, he started crying and he thanked me. He fucking thanked me and then said “Allah yi7meeki” which means “God protect you”, and I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t say anything because I was crying so hard. I’d lost all decorum and professionalism and couldn’t stop crying or shaking. I took his number down and I tried to call him for several days, but I couldn’t reach him. I keep trying to call him, and as of this morning, I still couldn’t reach him.
For each one of the stories listed above, I had to hang up and walk myself over to the washroom with my head down because I was crying. I had to take a ten minute break after each one of these – and so many others - to recover from having to tell people that I was incapable of helping them.
I often times found myself staring at the release button for too long, scared that if I press it and hang up, that's it. They're gone, there's nothing to hear anymore or hope for. The only reason I manage to press it is because I know there are others waiting to hear a voice on our end.
Most of the time, I feel impotent, seated with a headset on and ending every call with either "bon courage" or "God protect you" and choking on my words because I don't know if these people will be safe, and if they are safe, I know there's others who won't be. And so one is safe for the 100 who are not?
Naturally, there are “good” stories with happier endings; families with whom I spoke last week, and who called back this week to tell me they’re home and they’re safe…and as happy as I am for them, all I can see are the ones who can not escape.
I’ll leave you with a happier moment, which occurred only this morning. I was on the telephone with a father who’d lost contact with his family for several days. He wasn’t capable of speaking with them because the phone lines were not functioning. Since I couldn’t help him directly, I suggested we try a conference; I could at least comfort him by trying to let him hear the voices of his family. Sometimes the phone lines come and go for 10 or 15 minutes and you just have to hope for the best and take a chance.
I rang and his young boy answered. I spoke to his son briefly and explained who I was and that his father was on the line. The father said “Allo, Mohammed?” and the boy said “hi dad!” and then the father started crying. I broke down and couldn’t speak for a few moments to let them know that I would release them and leave them to their privacy. I didn’t have the energy to walk myself over to the washroom to cry…so I just sat here and cried quietly out of happiness, fear, sadness, uselessness…everything and nothing…
At this point, all I can do is wish everyone in all of the affected regions safety.
Some of this blog entry was originally part of an email sent to a small group of people.
Labels: Beirut 2006
posted by one female canuck at 11:15 AM
5 comments
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Crisis Line: Lebanon
I've been working the Crisis Line at Foreign Affairs; we're fielding the calls from the 50,000+ Canadians in Lebanon and their respective families. I don't actually work in this area, but I have a friend who does and he asked me to volunteer because there's only a handful of individuals who speak Arabic. Luckily, all departmental employees were asked to be available for any/all help as was required. The 'situation' in Lebanon is the top priority for everyone...
It's shift work and the schedule's looking more and more like: 1 AM to 4 PM for the Arabic speakers because that's the core hours with the time difference.
...will be there again on Sat & Sun, with Sami’s wedding serving as a break.
I won’t be blogging, but will be as soon as things slow down.
So far, the calls have ranged from angry to heartbreaking, some of which have left me in tears more than a handful of times…after I’d hung up.
We don't have many Arabic speakers and so that I can flip between French, English and Arabic means I'm somewhat of a necessary commodity at the moment and this translates into very little sleep in the coming days. I don't mind in the least...I actually welcome it because it's exceptionally rewarding, even though equally difficult. That I fielded over 84 (that's where I lost count) calls today alone has left me feeling as though my head's going to split open in half.
Have a good few days and I'll speak with everyone soon.
It's shift work and the schedule's looking more and more like: 1 AM to 4 PM for the Arabic speakers because that's the core hours with the time difference.
...will be there again on Sat & Sun, with Sami’s wedding serving as a break.
I won’t be blogging, but will be as soon as things slow down.
So far, the calls have ranged from angry to heartbreaking, some of which have left me in tears more than a handful of times…after I’d hung up.
We don't have many Arabic speakers and so that I can flip between French, English and Arabic means I'm somewhat of a necessary commodity at the moment and this translates into very little sleep in the coming days. I don't mind in the least...I actually welcome it because it's exceptionally rewarding, even though equally difficult. That I fielded over 84 (that's where I lost count) calls today alone has left me feeling as though my head's going to split open in half.
Have a good few days and I'll speak with everyone soon.
Labels: Beirut 2006
posted by one female canuck at 9:39 PM
10 comments
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One Female Canuck is a Canadian Palestinian Muslim Dork with storytelling inclinations leaning left toward the impassioned, philosophical and lunatic side of funny, thought-provoking stuffs. (Note: She does not write drunk. This was not written by her.)Most Popular Posts
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