Some last thoughts on small details about Lebanon before the memory fades and vanishes completely.
George Santayana famously said, 'Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.' I came away thinking that perhaps learning history is unhelpful; particularly if it is mostly the history of your own tribe, the triumphs and calamities. Besides, history is notoriously subjective, there are many histories, some written by the winners, a few by the losers, others to support a political ideal or religious belief. It happens here in Europe, but I felt it was much clear in Lebanon, that people learn history in order to repeat it. They learn the history that explains their own misfortunes and offers them the chance to rebuilt some lost Golden Age; one that probably never existed anyway. ISIL remembers the Caliphates that stretched from the Levant across North Africa and into Spain, Iran remembers the Seljuk dynasty, the Israelis remember the kingdom of Saul and David which included both Sidon and Tyre and a big chunk of what is now Jordan and each group in Lebanon remembers past injustices and their moments of greatness. Even Pol Pot who wanted to Cambodia to start again from a Year Zero did not hesitate to put the outline of Angkor Wat on his flag and revive memories of the great Khmer empire.
Back in a Britain awash with union jacks and royal wedding sentimentality I feel too often we are taken in by a phoney romantic view of history and forget about all the extraordinary possibilities the future can offer.
Something I enjoyed in Lebanon was trying to read the signs in Arabic. The only Arabic I know comes from studying Jawi at SOAS in order to read some of the classic Malay texts and I had forgotten almost all of it. So it was a kind of childish fun to try to work out and read لبنان , بيروت, أمل, ماكدونالدز Lebanon, Beirut, Macdonalds, Amal (the political movement) from the signs I passed on the bus. I soon noticed that Lebanese Arabic sounded more melodic to my ear and less harsh and 'throaty' than other kinds of Arabic I heard spoken. I wondered if this was to do with the fact that most Lebanese are fluent in at least two or more languages other than Lebanese.
One disappointment was the lack of good tobacco, the local cigarettes, Cedars, were pretty nasty, yet I have vague memories of some first class Turkish style oval cigarettes that came from Lebanon. Never mind, the large glasses of arak went some way to make up for the disappointing tobacco.
I also came away determined to use more fresh mint in salads. The British are so reluctant to use anything but lettuce, tomatoes and the odd reddish in a salad, with a stringy stick of celery on the side. The rest of the world throws huge handfulls of wonderful tasting green stuff into the bowl and makes a salad a dish worth eating on its own.
To return to phoney romantic history, even though I know it to be a complete lie I still have a semi-orientalist picture of a Beirut in the 1920s and 30s as it never was and will never come again; a place where stylish young things of all ages parade along the Corniche and gossip in the pavement cafes and bars, jazz bands in nightclubs that open at sunset and close at dawn, the mixture of people from all across the Levant and points west, the intrigue, the scent of hashish from a shadowy doorway, the romance and the opportunity....... for anything.
George Santayana famously said, 'Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it.' I came away thinking that perhaps learning history is unhelpful; particularly if it is mostly the history of your own tribe, the triumphs and calamities. Besides, history is notoriously subjective, there are many histories, some written by the winners, a few by the losers, others to support a political ideal or religious belief. It happens here in Europe, but I felt it was much clear in Lebanon, that people learn history in order to repeat it. They learn the history that explains their own misfortunes and offers them the chance to rebuilt some lost Golden Age; one that probably never existed anyway. ISIL remembers the Caliphates that stretched from the Levant across North Africa and into Spain, Iran remembers the Seljuk dynasty, the Israelis remember the kingdom of Saul and David which included both Sidon and Tyre and a big chunk of what is now Jordan and each group in Lebanon remembers past injustices and their moments of greatness. Even Pol Pot who wanted to Cambodia to start again from a Year Zero did not hesitate to put the outline of Angkor Wat on his flag and revive memories of the great Khmer empire.
Back in a Britain awash with union jacks and royal wedding sentimentality I feel too often we are taken in by a phoney romantic view of history and forget about all the extraordinary possibilities the future can offer.
Something I enjoyed in Lebanon was trying to read the signs in Arabic. The only Arabic I know comes from studying Jawi at SOAS in order to read some of the classic Malay texts and I had forgotten almost all of it. So it was a kind of childish fun to try to work out and read لبنان , بيروت, أمل, ماكدونالدز Lebanon, Beirut, Macdonalds, Amal (the political movement) from the signs I passed on the bus. I soon noticed that Lebanese Arabic sounded more melodic to my ear and less harsh and 'throaty' than other kinds of Arabic I heard spoken. I wondered if this was to do with the fact that most Lebanese are fluent in at least two or more languages other than Lebanese.
One disappointment was the lack of good tobacco, the local cigarettes, Cedars, were pretty nasty, yet I have vague memories of some first class Turkish style oval cigarettes that came from Lebanon. Never mind, the large glasses of arak went some way to make up for the disappointing tobacco.
I also came away determined to use more fresh mint in salads. The British are so reluctant to use anything but lettuce, tomatoes and the odd reddish in a salad, with a stringy stick of celery on the side. The rest of the world throws huge handfulls of wonderful tasting green stuff into the bowl and makes a salad a dish worth eating on its own.
To return to phoney romantic history, even though I know it to be a complete lie I still have a semi-orientalist picture of a Beirut in the 1920s and 30s as it never was and will never come again; a place where stylish young things of all ages parade along the Corniche and gossip in the pavement cafes and bars, jazz bands in nightclubs that open at sunset and close at dawn, the mixture of people from all across the Levant and points west, the intrigue, the scent of hashish from a shadowy doorway, the romance and the opportunity....... for anything.