When I arrived in Beirut, it was the time of social movement. A friend who was a civil society activist in Beirut asked me to join them at a demonstration. I really wanted to take part but I was reluctant at first. I remembered the start of the Syrian revolution when some people said that the Palestinians residing in Syria did not have the rights to participate in demonstrations, as they were not Syrians! That’s outrageous! Who then has the right to take part in demonstrations if not the residents of a country?
I asked my friends if it was alright to participate. And the answer was unequivocal: Of course it is! You live here!
At this moment, I was convinced that Beirut is the most beautiful city! Whoever said that the Lebanese people were racist?
I took part in the demonstration for two reasons:
Firstly, because I felt strongly about the issue.
And secondly, because I wanted to see a «normal» demonstration – and by «normal» I mean relatively free of violence or, more precisely, free of live bullets shot at demonstrators.
I arrived at the demonstration in downtown Beirut. I was surprised to see young men and women with faces painted with the flag of Lebanon, wearing short shorts and miniskirts. I felt like crying! Of course, my problem wasn’t what the demonstrators were wearing. But demonstration clothes mean something altogether different to me! They are the clothes that will allow me to run as quickly as possible, and every piece of clothing that does not allow me to roll on the ground is automatically stricken off from my options.
That was the moment I made my decision: Yes, I want to stay in this city!
A few months later, I was walking around in a shopping mall. As I was trying to find a pair of trousers in my size, a sales assistant rushed to help me:
«Can I help you?»
«Yes. Do you have this in size…»
«Oh! You wouldn’t think you’re Syrian by looking at you!»
«Oh! And how do Syrians look like?»
A leaden silence. She tried to justify what she had said but I didn’t want to hear any of it. The only thing going through my mind over and over again was the history lesson: Lebanon was founded in 1920 and became a republic in 1926.
In other words, based on the theory of evolution, not enough time had passed to make a Syrian look different from a Lebanese!
I come out of the store literally shaken. I get in my car and headed for Hamra. I get there – I didn’t know my way around the city well at the time – and while waiting at stoplights – my speedometer at zero – I look right to check whether I could go in that direction. This is when a woman crossing the street stops right in the middle of the road, in front of my car, and yells: «Look where you’re going, moron!» She turns back and walks to my window. She yells: «Go back to your country!» I was surprised and couldn’t understand why. I remembered that I was driving my dad’s car with a Damascene registration plate. When the woman read Damascus on the plate, she was able to tell right away that I was a «moron».
«Reverse racism»:
«Ah! What’s that accent?»
«Syrian.»
«No way! I just love Syrians. Syrians are the best!»
My inner voice: No! I know terrible Syrians!
«Daily racism»:
I was sitting at a bar having a conversation. a man comes up to me, noticing my accent – which is unmistakably Syrian – and, looking me in the eye, shouts drawing out all the vowels in an exaggerated Syrian accent: «Hooow aaare yooou? I caaan speeeak Syriaaan veryyy weeell!»
Expecting me to laugh at his sense of humor. But all that was going through my head was:
1 - Why are you shouting?
2 - Listen carefully to me. Do I speak that way? If I don’t speak that way, what are you doing? What are these random sounds?
3 - There’s no such thing as a Syrian accent. We have to agree that Syria is big and that each region has its own accent. Listen here sweetheart; what you’ve just done was, at best, a failed attempt at a Damascus accent.
Usually the conversation goes this way:
«The Syrians have sapped the life out of the country. They took our jobs, electricity, water…»
Then someone suddenly remembers that I’m Syrian and they look at me as if complimenting me:
«But you’re different, you’re nothing like them.»
Angered by this idiotic sentence: «Who are those people who I’m different from? I’m them, by the way! Who are you talking about?»
Several months later, it’s the decisive blow. My friends and I decided to spend the day at the pool at a girlfriend’s in Brummana. We did not expect that it would be as noisy as it was, as there was a construction site across from her house. My friend eventually decided to have a nude swim. Another friend turns to me tilting her head in the direction of the construction site:
«The Syrians will calm down when they see her.»
For a second, I didn’t get what she was talking about, thinking to myself: «Why would the Syrians calm down when they see her? How did she know that the residents of the building were Syrians? Plus the building is under construction!»
That’s when it hit me. I cried out: «You mean the construction workers?»
She panicked too because she was surprised herself at what she had said. She was not aware of mixing up profession and nationality!
I didn’t get it! In Syria, there are doctors, lawyers, construction workers... Naturally, we are all Syrians, so I would never call a construction worker anything but that!
Then came my great shock:
At a friend’s, a girlfriend asked me:
«Have you seen the documentary about the Lebanese civil war?»
«No.»
«You should watch it. Then you’ll learn the reason for the Lebanese people’s racism towards Syrians.»
«I already know the reason.»
«Oh. I didn’t. I used to think it’s because the Syrians are black and ugly and all that.»
«And you feel that you’re white?»
«Oh, no, no, no. That’s not what I meant…»
First, I wondered what the word «black» means? Does it mean dirty? Tanned? Dark-skinned?
Of course, all of the above is unacceptable. My friend went on trying to explain what she meant. I already knew what she meant but one of my problems at the time was the random use of words.
A friend of her parents overhears our conversation and gets involved:
«No, you can’t tell a Syrian from how they look.»
(I would like to mention here that she’s talking about «Syrian» as if it were a different species: Meet the panda on National Geographic!)
«You can tell a Syrian from his smell,» she went on.
«Smell,» eternally shocked, I asked loudly.
She could tell from my voice and expression that what she had said was unacceptable, so she tried to explain:
«It’s normal. It’s probably the spices they eat.»
Let’s observe a minute in memory of the region’s political, social, historical and geographical culture.
I tried to explain to her a little about the history of the region and the separation of Lebanon from Syria. But she wouldn’t listen or understand and continued:
«It’s normal. Each people has its own smell.»
I have lost my temper at this moment. She had to stop talking immediately, as with each additional word the conversation could only go downhill from there. I tried to explain to her how she was confusing nationality with a thousand other problems. She felt at that moment that she had to apologize and said: «I’m sorry if the truth hurts.»
That’s when I lost all hope and realized that it was beyond redemption. The problem is that we are in a country where professions are distributed by nationality, a country that does not allow a Syrian to be anything but a construction worker in very bad conditions under the scorching sun. In such conditions, they’ll surely sweat and have dark skin. And most surely they won’t smell of Blue de Chanel!