To be an Arab these days is not an affiliation, but a plague. The only thing in common between the government and the citizen is the lack of mutual trust. Then the man who is oppressed by the government goes on to oppress his wife, and everybody lives in countries with high rates of unemployment but with a million foreign workers. Yet, if I asked a man: How are you, he would say: I am okay. But if I ask him how are things, he would answer: Don't ask. I heard a story once about an Arab man who fell ill, and insisted on being treated by a veterinarian. When he was asked why, he said that he usually wakes up like a lion, goes to work like a horse, works like a donkey, and wags his tail to his boss like a dog, he then plays with his kids like a monkey, and when it comes to his wife he is like a rabbit, and that for this reason, he insists on being treated by a veterinarian. The above, however, does not invalidate the fact that I often feel nostalgic for my country after decades of living in England, as the snow storm and the blizzard left potholes in the street and in the roads, which reminded me of the days I left in Lebanon, when we had no wealth to worry about money, nor were we poor and worried about the future. At home, the punishment was often a shoe thrown at the child, and at school, the teachers used to use their canes with or without cause. But we were not damaged psychologically from the beating, nor did anyone from amongst us grow to kill twenty or thirty people because his mother beat him as a child. In fact, as I remember, there weren't any psychiatric clinics in the country when I was little. I used to go out into the street while knowing that half of the neighbourhood consists of my relatives, and that I am acquainted with the other half. Our playtime consisted of a game of backgammon in front of a shop, or a poker game behind a curtain at the end of a shop, and sometimes watching wrestling games with the Saadeh brothers, George Dirani and Prince Komali. I don't remember that the house's door was ever locked. We used to receive visitors as much as we used to visit others, and there were always some relatives with us or we were always visiting relatives in their homes. A visitor may knock the door, but would enter before he was told to enter, or even entered without knocking and asking for permission, but would say ‘Dastour' [Excuse me] loudly. There was always some Turkish coffee brewing, while tea, mint and anise would be served on demand. When I would do something to anger my mother or aunts, I would be called ‘the kid' or ‘the menace', but when I was well behaved I quickly became Abu Bassam even before I became a teenager. This is because the firstborn always bears the name of his grandfather, and his first son will have to bear the name of his grandfather in turn. (Today, the names Abu Ammar and Abu Mazen are taken to be aliases, and the ‘big shots' do not bother finding out about Arab customs. For this reason, they flounder, and make any problem they have with us and which they want to resolve, even worse). In Britain, there is only one season, which is winter, with two days of spring or autumn but no summer at all. But in our countries, we have four seasons that arrive on time, and our winter is moderately cold while our summer is moderately warm. Also, fruits follow the seasons: oranges, mandarins and other citruses in the winter to provide vitamin C - before we even heard the name -, and melons and watermelons in the summer. Figs and grapes have a season of their own, and peaches, another. It is all natural and fresh, and we had no agriculture in plastic greenhouses with a rather plastic taste. We used to go ahead of the Arab tourists to the mountain in the summer, starting in June where roads would be full of trucks carrying furniture, and which then return in September. The Kuwaitis would stay in Bhamdoun, the Saudis between Aley and Sawfar, and the Iraqis in Hamana and Falougha. This is while a non-Lebanese minority, such as certain Egyptians of Lebanese descent, would stay in Dhour Shweir and the Bois de Boulogne. And then everyone – whether the Lebanese or the visitors - often found the time to spend a day in Damascus or have dinner or lunch in Chtaura and Zahle. As for locals like us, they would go on Sunday to the Sannine spring above Beskanta and perhaps visit the farm... The farm of Kfardebian was there before Restaurant Michel was famous and moved to a larger place, becoming one of the landmarks in the area. We used to say to the waiter there “we want a Tabbouleh bowl as big as a truck”. Then the food consisted - and still consists- of Hummus, Mutabbal, and Tabbouleh, followed by ‘mixed grills' and charcoaled boneless chicken, and in the right season, birds fried in pomegranate syrup. When I was an adolescent, my parents used to have an apartment facing the hippodrome, and the sound of hoof beats still rings in my ears even today. I even remember the horse race magazines ‘Habbet', ‘Maalech', and ‘Akher Sa'a'. Are any of these left today? We grew old and travelled abroad, and even lived abroad. I now attend international operas and Broadway plays, but still feel nostalgic for the plays in high school. I once attended the season's opening act in the La Scala Opera House in Milan, but still preferred the memory of Fairouz singing in Easter at the Church of Antelias, before she became famous. Then there are the potholes in the streets. If I do not go to the streets of my country, they come to me in London. [email protected]
