There is a black and white photograph of Nena in the Alhambra. Draped in layers of embroidered silks, she poses like a lioness against a majestic background of columns and arches. She wears a Moorish headdress, and her dancer's feet extend from underneath the robe. Her face is long and regal, and she gazes at you with warm charm.
In her kitchen in the Malki, she used to cook lemon pound cake. In the dining room of her Alpharetta home, Scrabble letters and scattered puzzle pieces covered the glossed wooden table from Damascus. On Thanksgiving, she'd prepare apple sauce from scratch, and she was always the first to reach for the chocolate dessert.
During Z's wedding, I escorted Nena down the aisle. First in line, we stood waiting in anticipation behind the double doors for our cue. The humidity was building, and the Bach melody from the guitar was melting with the chatter of the guests. Her arm was clasped around mine, and I could sense her weight shifting slightly in an effort to maintain her own balance.
We had practiced the walk during the rehearsal the day before and knew exactly what to do. Together, we'd make the first entrance, turn right, and then I'd wait for Nena to take her seat before quickly sneaking behind-the-scenes upstairs to enter with the groom's party.
The hum of the crowd descrescendoed, and the doors opened. The digital cameras were snapping wildly, and the pops of flash bounced off Nena's glasses. Already blind in one eye, I was sure that she was going to lose her vision completely by the time we reached the front row.
Well, we made it through the fireworks, and then I snuck upstairs. But shit! I peered down below and saw that Nena had sat down in the wrong chair! I could sense my mother saying "Lalalalalalalalala" while she urged Nena to get up and move down five chairs. I had screwed it all up. I had embarrassed Nena. I had ruined the wedding. Meanwhile, the guests waited awkwardly while R and Y helped to shift Nena down.
Upon the closing of the ceremony, I rushed back down stairs and retrieved Nena from the front row. As we processed outside and smiled at the crowd, I apologized a thousand and one times.
"It's okay, ma sar shee! It's okay!" she laughed kindly. The pitch of her voice was always higher when she spoke English, and on this occasion she was practically a soprano. Anyways, her mind was set on stepping down the stairs to stand at the helm of her family for the giant group photo to celebrate her grandson's marriage in Atlanta, Georgia.
Decades and oceans mark the distance between these two moments--the Alhambra and the wedding. And the journey to both is remarkable. In the former, she is on a trip from Damascus with her Syrian husband Rifaat and her daughters, returning to her birthplace in Spain, where her French admiral father Gaston Chat was stationed during the Spanish Civil War.
In the latter, she is a widow, a naturalized American, a grandmother of ten. She is walking proudly with a cane, having overcome a paralyzing back surgery against all odds. And she is speaking English and Arabic.
Nena's story is one of migration and endurance. In the most impossible circumstances and the most foreign places, Nena found a home. May her place in the hereafter be the sweetest home yet.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Sojourn to the South
We were eating fried baby baracudas and drinking Ksara white wine when I said to V, "Is that a helicopter?"
"No," she replied, "We're on the sea, it's a fishing boat."
The sun had set, and there was no boat to be seen. Before long, the sound of the engine was coming from the sky, and we realized that there was a helicopter flying overhead. We thought it was the IDF sending a helicopter up the coast for a spy mission or something (their planes occasionally fly across the border to terrorize people). Naturally, we panicked.
The gentlemen sitting across from us put their arak down and laughed, "Not Israel!! Not Israel!! Unifil!!"
The following morning, we were in the car with Mohamed (32 and ADD), his wife Layal (sharp, charming, and into Hizbullah), and their son Qassam. Mohamed invited us into his home where, after serving us pineapple and mango juice, he showed us pictures of his brother who's in prison in the states. "His friend's car--full of drugs--was parked outside his house. He got 20 years. His friend got three. Not fair because really drugs are everywhere," he told us.
Together, we drove to Qana, Bint Jbeil, Bawabat Fatima, Nabatiyeh, and up to Saida. As Israel blasted many of the roads in the south last year, traveling through the terrain is like off-roading through a quarry. The scope of the destruction was jarring. I could hardly take three breaths without passing a building that had been completely demolished.
We stopped for some water in Qana, and Mohamed asked the fat lady with bad teeth if she knew any 30-40 year old women who might be interested in marrying his recently divorced father.
After Qana, we wanted to head to Bint Jbeil. In order to get to Bint Jbeil, foreigners need to obtain passes from the Lebanese military in Saida (which we didn't have), but Mohamed told us that he could get us there no problem. Before we knew it, we were traveling down the back of a mountain on a sketchy road, and to our right were about two dozen tents with yellow Hizbullah flags lining the path. Mohamed wanted to take us to 3ait el Shaab; we told him next time.
The destruction of Bint Jbeil is crippling. The war destroyed an entire quarter of the city, and the ruins have yet to be cleared. Staircases dislodged from homes, ceilings punctured with rocket holes, and living rooms turned to rubble.
"No," she replied, "We're on the sea, it's a fishing boat."
The sun had set, and there was no boat to be seen. Before long, the sound of the engine was coming from the sky, and we realized that there was a helicopter flying overhead. We thought it was the IDF sending a helicopter up the coast for a spy mission or something (their planes occasionally fly across the border to terrorize people). Naturally, we panicked.
The gentlemen sitting across from us put their arak down and laughed, "Not Israel!! Not Israel!! Unifil!!"
The following morning, we were in the car with Mohamed (32 and ADD), his wife Layal (sharp, charming, and into Hizbullah), and their son Qassam. Mohamed invited us into his home where, after serving us pineapple and mango juice, he showed us pictures of his brother who's in prison in the states. "His friend's car--full of drugs--was parked outside his house. He got 20 years. His friend got three. Not fair because really drugs are everywhere," he told us.
Together, we drove to Qana, Bint Jbeil, Bawabat Fatima, Nabatiyeh, and up to Saida. As Israel blasted many of the roads in the south last year, traveling through the terrain is like off-roading through a quarry. The scope of the destruction was jarring. I could hardly take three breaths without passing a building that had been completely demolished.
We stopped for some water in Qana, and Mohamed asked the fat lady with bad teeth if she knew any 30-40 year old women who might be interested in marrying his recently divorced father.
After Qana, we wanted to head to Bint Jbeil. In order to get to Bint Jbeil, foreigners need to obtain passes from the Lebanese military in Saida (which we didn't have), but Mohamed told us that he could get us there no problem. Before we knew it, we were traveling down the back of a mountain on a sketchy road, and to our right were about two dozen tents with yellow Hizbullah flags lining the path. Mohamed wanted to take us to 3ait el Shaab; we told him next time.
The destruction of Bint Jbeil is crippling. The war destroyed an entire quarter of the city, and the ruins have yet to be cleared. Staircases dislodged from homes, ceilings punctured with rocket holes, and living rooms turned to rubble.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Beit al Ankabout
There was a charred Israeli helicopter frozen in a nose dive in the middle of the gallery. Adjacent to the rows of six foot boards detailing the tank, aircraft, and helicopter arsenal of the Israeli military, a flat screen featured excerpts from SPECIAL FORCES 2. It's like the James Bond video game, except the setting is the Lebanese-Israeli border and there are tanks. Roasted TVs and a blasted mini-radio tower stood before a photographic backdrop of the blown-out Al Manar headquarters. The voice of a frantic journalist rang from the corpsed radio tower. Inside the fractured television set, there was another smaller TV reeling continuous Al Manar broadcasts from last summer's war. The time stamp was 3:56pm. I pulled out my cellphone: 3:58pm. At the center of this media peninsula in Beit al Ankabout (House of the Spider, or Spiderweb) was an architect's rendering of the Dubai-esque Al Manar headquarters—probably already under construction somewhere in Haret Hreik, much of which the IDF demolished last summer.
With massive limbs of Israeli tanks nestled into the ground and Hizbullah yellow banners festooned outside, the structure of the entrance outside echoes a kitschy Florida golf course. The path leads "underground" through bunkers with costumed mannequins in what amounts to a Hizbullah dorm room, complete with laptop, book shelf, and a poster(s) of Hassan Nasrallah. The floor of the main exhibition hall is spotted with windows into the earth: embedded glass cases with numbered Israeli helmets, guns, walkie talkies, uniforms, and camcorders. At eye level we gaze upon a series of photographs of protests against Israel's invasion of Lebanon in Paris and of a bride and groom forcing smiles as they pose before ruins of their home in post-war Dahyeh.
In Beit al Ankabout, the story of the Israeli military in the 2006 war is discrete and linear. It falls to Hizbullah, its ghosts entombed beneath our feet. On the other hand, the story of Hizbullah is teleological and multi-dimensional. We journey through the museum from training bunkers to media peninsula to SPECIAL FORCES 2 to the grand finale in the audio-visual hall: like spectators at the Bellagio watershow, we stand against a balustrade while clips of exploding tanks and grieving Israeli soldiers flash on the vast screen. Every so often, the screen would go to black while the booming sound and light show illuminated what was between us and the screen: another embedded Israeli tank, but this time with some faceless, left for dead uniformed mannequins. There was a full crowd of families, couples, friends (free admission); and, when the montage concluded with a crescendo of a victorious Nasrallah (only his 2nd appearance in the museum), everyone applauded.
The chills ran down my spine, and my stomach fell to gravity. I looked at my friend V, and she was recovering from a similar phenomenon. The exploding soundscape (and obviously the imagery) of the grand finale shook up a hurricane of war memories—visceral and fresh. The tension climaxes, and Nasrallah thunders into the scene. Just as he launches the emotional wave into a tsunami, he ends it.
He ends it. Nasrallah ends it.
And we walk back out into the humid sunlight to resume our normal lives.
With massive limbs of Israeli tanks nestled into the ground and Hizbullah yellow banners festooned outside, the structure of the entrance outside echoes a kitschy Florida golf course. The path leads "underground" through bunkers with costumed mannequins in what amounts to a Hizbullah dorm room, complete with laptop, book shelf, and a poster(s) of Hassan Nasrallah. The floor of the main exhibition hall is spotted with windows into the earth: embedded glass cases with numbered Israeli helmets, guns, walkie talkies, uniforms, and camcorders. At eye level we gaze upon a series of photographs of protests against Israel's invasion of Lebanon in Paris and of a bride and groom forcing smiles as they pose before ruins of their home in post-war Dahyeh.
In Beit al Ankabout, the story of the Israeli military in the 2006 war is discrete and linear. It falls to Hizbullah, its ghosts entombed beneath our feet. On the other hand, the story of Hizbullah is teleological and multi-dimensional. We journey through the museum from training bunkers to media peninsula to SPECIAL FORCES 2 to the grand finale in the audio-visual hall: like spectators at the Bellagio watershow, we stand against a balustrade while clips of exploding tanks and grieving Israeli soldiers flash on the vast screen. Every so often, the screen would go to black while the booming sound and light show illuminated what was between us and the screen: another embedded Israeli tank, but this time with some faceless, left for dead uniformed mannequins. There was a full crowd of families, couples, friends (free admission); and, when the montage concluded with a crescendo of a victorious Nasrallah (only his 2nd appearance in the museum), everyone applauded.
The chills ran down my spine, and my stomach fell to gravity. I looked at my friend V, and she was recovering from a similar phenomenon. The exploding soundscape (and obviously the imagery) of the grand finale shook up a hurricane of war memories—visceral and fresh. The tension climaxes, and Nasrallah thunders into the scene. Just as he launches the emotional wave into a tsunami, he ends it.
He ends it. Nasrallah ends it.
And we walk back out into the humid sunlight to resume our normal lives.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Campusity
I used to take the school bus from Orchard Park. In the parking lot in front of Los Rancheros, it waits rumbling in the mornings. After a bowl of Banana Nut Crunch or syruped Eggos, I hop in the Volvo and flip on NPR. We wind down Spalding Drive, a corridor lined with trees, subdivisions, and lawns coated in early morning dew. Keep right at the fork and pass flowers strewn in memory of that high schooler who died in that car accident.
The drive from the northern Atlanta suburbs through concrete to College Park takes about forty-five minutes. As we approach the Virginia Avenue exit just after the "Don't like the odds? Don't have sex" billboard, we merge with the Woodward Academy traffic—regiments of yellow buses, Lexuses with a WA sticker on the bumper, and Ford Explorers with shaggy haired teenagers hotboxing inside.
The sticker was in the shape of a football. And when they upgraded the sticker in '01, it was a singular white W on a black background. That year, the Bush campaign also issued a sticker with a singular W on a black background. Except that one was Palatino, one was Garamond.
For twelve years, I donned my Woodward Academy garb—polo shirt, tie, blazer, trash-bag grey slacks—and made the journey from the northern suburbs to the former military academy, south of the city. When I was younger (1st to 6th grade), I would ride down during sunrise and return in the afternoon traffic. As a teenager, however, I would steal to the theatre in Richardson Hall after the last bell and pull into the garage well after sunset. Although the painting studio comes close, that stage carries more of my waking life than any other space I've inhabited.
I live in a city now. Outside, there are motorcades blasting nationalistic music and waving pomegranate flags to rally people to vote for Amin Gemayel on Sunday (he's running against Michel Aoun for the vacated seat in the Metn in the Northeast Lebanon). I take an old Mercedes service from Tele Liban which, like the majority of buildings in Beirut, boasts a number of bullet and rocket wounds from the civil war. From Talet el Khayat to Hamra, there are no lawns or subdivisions but rather bundles of apartment buildings, the Center for Druze Social Welfare, the TWENTY-FOUR HOUR CANDY SHOP, construction cranes, Masjid Aicha Bakar, blown-out buildings canvased in images of political characters (dead or alive), Zara, manouche joints, and Gold Rush (a super night club). Tanks and bored soldiers hang about the residences of politicians. The sidewalks are full of tight jeans, white sneakers, flashy sunglasses, and cigarettes.
I need to find the painting studio. I need to find the rehearsal space.
This past weekend, I returned to Beirut after spending a month in hotels from Hama to Capetown to Cairo. Two days after the whirlwind graduation experience at Yale, I was in line at JFK to board my flight to Lebanon. Upon arrival, there was a horizon: presenting my paper at the conference in South Africa and producing the concert and party in Cairo.
Okay, so that's done. And now there's no horizon, and I'm so disoriented.
I eat/sleep/shit/buy in a living organism.
I do not work.
Ostensibly, I'm researching and making theatre.
Theatre is a space that the city inhabits before itself.
The city precedes the theatre.
In order to enter the terrain of the theatre, I must first inhabit Beirut.
And that is quite a challenge.
The drive from the northern Atlanta suburbs through concrete to College Park takes about forty-five minutes. As we approach the Virginia Avenue exit just after the "Don't like the odds? Don't have sex" billboard, we merge with the Woodward Academy traffic—regiments of yellow buses, Lexuses with a WA sticker on the bumper, and Ford Explorers with shaggy haired teenagers hotboxing inside.
The sticker was in the shape of a football. And when they upgraded the sticker in '01, it was a singular white W on a black background. That year, the Bush campaign also issued a sticker with a singular W on a black background. Except that one was Palatino, one was Garamond.
For twelve years, I donned my Woodward Academy garb—polo shirt, tie, blazer, trash-bag grey slacks—and made the journey from the northern suburbs to the former military academy, south of the city. When I was younger (1st to 6th grade), I would ride down during sunrise and return in the afternoon traffic. As a teenager, however, I would steal to the theatre in Richardson Hall after the last bell and pull into the garage well after sunset. Although the painting studio comes close, that stage carries more of my waking life than any other space I've inhabited.
I live in a city now. Outside, there are motorcades blasting nationalistic music and waving pomegranate flags to rally people to vote for Amin Gemayel on Sunday (he's running against Michel Aoun for the vacated seat in the Metn in the Northeast Lebanon). I take an old Mercedes service from Tele Liban which, like the majority of buildings in Beirut, boasts a number of bullet and rocket wounds from the civil war. From Talet el Khayat to Hamra, there are no lawns or subdivisions but rather bundles of apartment buildings, the Center for Druze Social Welfare, the TWENTY-FOUR HOUR CANDY SHOP, construction cranes, Masjid Aicha Bakar, blown-out buildings canvased in images of political characters (dead or alive), Zara, manouche joints, and Gold Rush (a super night club). Tanks and bored soldiers hang about the residences of politicians. The sidewalks are full of tight jeans, white sneakers, flashy sunglasses, and cigarettes.
I need to find the painting studio. I need to find the rehearsal space.
This past weekend, I returned to Beirut after spending a month in hotels from Hama to Capetown to Cairo. Two days after the whirlwind graduation experience at Yale, I was in line at JFK to board my flight to Lebanon. Upon arrival, there was a horizon: presenting my paper at the conference in South Africa and producing the concert and party in Cairo.
Okay, so that's done. And now there's no horizon, and I'm so disoriented.
I eat/sleep/shit/buy in a living organism.
I do not work.
Ostensibly, I'm researching and making theatre.
Theatre is a space that the city inhabits before itself.
The city precedes the theatre.
In order to enter the terrain of the theatre, I must first inhabit Beirut.
And that is quite a challenge.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Chez le coiffeur
She was at the coiffeur.
"No one told you, but I had a stroke," she admitted as I hauled my Samsonite through the doorway. Sporting her new binocular-glasses, she looked like Cyclops from the first editions of X-Men.
Her daughter M was visiting from Riyadh, and they were going out to lunch that afternoon. Usually, lunch is at home (half past one), and without fail Mama Hiam plows straight to her couch after her last bite for a two hour nap. She lunches outside the home only under the most exceptional of circumstances.
It was a special occasion. And as such, an appointment at the hair salon before lunch was only logical. When she sat down for the shampoo, the room started spinning. She didn't say a word and then passed out for the conditioner.
From the salon, they drove home, and Hiam crawled into bed, vomiting. Just like Anita the manicurist, the doctor came to her. It was a mild stroke, he told her. She was lucky it passed so easily.
I rolled my Samsonite down the marble corridor to my room. I wanted to give Hiam the chocolate that I brought her from an estate in the Western Cape, but turns out I had forgotten it in my shoebox-refrigerator in Cairo.
"I was afraid for you when you were in South Africa--all those black people," she said through a mouthful of cherries. I'm used to her racism and don't even acknowledge it anymore. I know my apathy bothers her because I sense her waiting for a retort: she indulges in arguing for the inferiority of the blacks.
There is only one thing Hiam fears more than black people, and that is Alzheimer's.
My Saudi cousin Mk is coming tomorrow night before he spends a week on the Riveria at his buddy's chateau. His buddy is a prince and will be waiting for him in a private jet at the Nice airport to fly him to other end of the coast. Mk and I will share a room for a week. Ya. hoo.
"No one told you, but I had a stroke," she admitted as I hauled my Samsonite through the doorway. Sporting her new binocular-glasses, she looked like Cyclops from the first editions of X-Men.
Her daughter M was visiting from Riyadh, and they were going out to lunch that afternoon. Usually, lunch is at home (half past one), and without fail Mama Hiam plows straight to her couch after her last bite for a two hour nap. She lunches outside the home only under the most exceptional of circumstances.
It was a special occasion. And as such, an appointment at the hair salon before lunch was only logical. When she sat down for the shampoo, the room started spinning. She didn't say a word and then passed out for the conditioner.
From the salon, they drove home, and Hiam crawled into bed, vomiting. Just like Anita the manicurist, the doctor came to her. It was a mild stroke, he told her. She was lucky it passed so easily.
I rolled my Samsonite down the marble corridor to my room. I wanted to give Hiam the chocolate that I brought her from an estate in the Western Cape, but turns out I had forgotten it in my shoebox-refrigerator in Cairo.
"I was afraid for you when you were in South Africa--all those black people," she said through a mouthful of cherries. I'm used to her racism and don't even acknowledge it anymore. I know my apathy bothers her because I sense her waiting for a retort: she indulges in arguing for the inferiority of the blacks.
There is only one thing Hiam fears more than black people, and that is Alzheimer's.
My Saudi cousin Mk is coming tomorrow night before he spends a week on the Riveria at his buddy's chateau. His buddy is a prince and will be waiting for him in a private jet at the Nice airport to fly him to other end of the coast. Mk and I will share a room for a week. Ya. hoo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)