I started in the Bsharri region, «the most dangerous region for a Palestinian», according to one of my friends. He advised me not to go there as it was considered that Palestinians were prohibited from going there, as they were a persona non grata by the region’s inhabitants. In addition, the survey supervisor recommended that I work on my Palestinian accent and try to talk with a Lebanese accent so as no one would trouble me or harm me. But unfortunately, and in all honesty, I was no good at changing my Palestinian accent.
The next day I set off with one of my friends to Bsharri to get to work. My friend decided to accompany me for fun after going through the trouble of sitting for exams. It was his first visit to Bsharri and on our way there he began talking to me about his apprehensions, which I did not understand very well, and he used sentences with the following words:
«There’s vengeance between us, they hate us, God help us there»...
Our tour began and we began filling out the forms. But my friend was refusing to get out of the car. I was surprised that he refused to budge from the car, but I carried on with my tour without giving much thought to whether my friend wanted to stay or get out of the car. The interaction with the inhabitants of the region was a lot of fun. Some of them would invite us for a cup of coffee and that day I had so much coffee that I thought I had stocked up for weeks to come. My friend was still resolved to stay in the car despite the intense heat. On our way back I asked him to get out for a pack of cigarettes.
He refused and said nervously: «I don’t speak their language.» I was surprised at his comment and said: «You fool, they’re Arabs just like you, they speak the same language...» But he refused to get out nonetheless. Since I had to go out for my cigarettes myself, I decided to fill out one more form. So I bought a pack of cigarettes and asked the woman if she wouldn’t mind taking part in the survey. Following several questions in the form, there came the question about «tomato paste». I decided to use tomato paste in English to avoid saying bandora [Palestinian pronunciation of «tomato» in Arabic], to which she said: «Do you mean bandora paste?» with a genuine Palestinian accent...
That was when I realized that in Bsharri, bandore is still bandora, for there is no other option and Palestine is THE Everlasting Destination; and today it is in the image of an old Palestinian woman who has raised her family there...?
They’ve finished off all your bread...
«Your Fate is Unknown» was one of the sentences I heard when I was offered to marry and travel.
My answer was: «Of course not.» I know my fate very well. My fate is to go back to Syria, full stop.
Although I believe that the most important stages in my character development took place here in Lebanon, I was displaced from Homs to Tripoli when I was 14. I did not find a school that taught the Syrian curriculum legally so I enrolled at a school that was not certified by the Ministry of Education. Therefore, I had to travel to Syria to sit for my exit exams. After obtaining my high school diploma, I wanted to enroll at the journalism faculty, but I could not afford the expenses and fees for this specialization.
After much effort to find a job so I could pay for university tuition, I got a job as a floor manager in a store. It was a nice experience, but not without some problems. I cannot forget the day when my manager asked me to try to speak with a Lebanese accent so I wouldn’t get troubled. I remember him being very embarrassed for bringing this issue up and wouldn’t stop justifying himself and apologizing when I expressed my indignation at his request. But he was right to a certain extent. For I would often overhear some customers whispering and grumbling, saying:
«As if there were not enough Lebanese, they had to hire a Syrian?!»
Frankly, I’m grateful to those people a little because they were my key motivation force to take the decision of confronting and resolving to integrate into any society I find myself in. Perhaps the main problem is that the Lebanese thought that the Syrian crisis wouldn’t last long, so they were more welcoming in the beginning. But the crisis is growing and is putting pressure on all members of society.
My resolve to integrate and assimilate allowed me many opportunities and made me a proactive person. For example, with a group of friends, we founded a team that we called «Colored Fingerprints» through which we wanted to say that we accept and believe in collaboration. My work and contact with such initiatives has made me very interested in social issues and topics and naturally reflected on my educational choice as I joined the Faculty of Social Sciences at the Lebanese University. And there was the main catastrophe, as my appearance did not suggest that I was Syrian, as some justified it with «you don’t look it», and it was my Syrian accent that gave it away.
«Welcome» to the Lebanese University. There, as soon as I get into a cab, my daily adventure starts. I can sometimes sense the driver’s grumbling. I understand that on that day he could be in a bad mood and that Syrians can be an excuse to «blow off steam» for him and for others. And instead of the radio, he plays the old broken record: «Syrians have taken all our work, and the electricity and water, and they’ve finished off all our bread...»
At times I feel disappointment and sadness, and at others I simply don’t care. But the most fun moments are those when I respond with a broad smile, saying: «So you’re saying that we’ve finished off all your bread?» And I laugh. For I have no other choice, and I will go on...
«My heart has been embittered by too many lemons»*
To live in Lebanon is to understand that it is the country of problematics. Many often get my nationality wrong – sometimes I’m Saudi, at others I’m Syrian, Emirati – and very few ever get it right and realize that I’m Iraqi.
Questions here are somewhat deep and penetrating. A single question can cost you an entire set of baggage of prejudices for a very long time. So I would suggest you provide accurate, clear and concise answers...
Currently I live with three people: two Syrians and an Iraqi. Our friends have always referred to us as “carefree”. This is good to a certain degree since we don’t care about penetrating and deep questions...
We often watch soccer games in one of Tripoli’s cafes, where my friend and I have gotten used to getting interrogated by the waiter. He always asks: “Where are the gentlemen from?” Especially following arguments relating to the use of the word laimoun [Arabic for lemon] and burtuqal [Arabic for oranges]. In the Lebanese dialect, laimoun is used for oranges. I wonder who ever put that in their minds. But that’s unacceptable. Laimoun is lemon and burtuqal oranges, my dear man. I won’t back down; it’s the language.
“Where are you from, guys?”
“Iraq...”
And the conversation begins with no end in sight... The interlocutor tries to talk to me about everything he has in stock on Iraq. Sometimes talking to me about the former Iraqi president Saddam Hussein, and Iraq during his times, lamenting the current situation there, to finally get to Kadhim Al-Sahir and his most recent hits.
These things have led me to study journalism here in Lebanon to try to bring the Iraqi scene to the fore again, because as they say here in Lebanon frankly: “My heart has been embittered by too many lemons”, and I mean lemons as in laimoun...
[*Lebanese saying meaning I’ve had too many disappointments to be able to survive any more]