Category Archives: Life

The Lebanese Fathers Who Hate Their Daughters

I didn’t believe when I was told she was getting a divorce.

The initial thought that crossed my mind, in sectarian Lebanon, was the how, given her sect. I then asked the why. They said her husband was beating her up. I would have never told. I knew her for a very long time. I knew her husband for considerably less but he never gave the impression of being a wife beater.

Or that could have been the reason why she liked wearing longer sleeves than usual during the times when long sleeves were intolerable.

What will happen to the children? I asked. Nobody knew. They said they might split custody. Others said their father didn’t have time to take care of them. In a few weeks since she took her decision, she became a single woman with children to support in a country that doesn’t accept cases like hers.

And I couldn’t have been prouder of her: standing up for herself, her body, her bruised arms, her children, their sanctity and all of their well-being.

I figured things could only get better for her now: she had family that should help her get back on her feet, she had the support needed to recuperate from months or maybe years of abuse, she had the strength to make herself whole again.

How wrong was I?

Her father was a man of ambition. He sought office many times. Sometimes through proxies whose campaigns he orchestrated, other times by running directly. His ambition surpassed the confines of the town in which he acted but he knew he wouldn’t get farther than that. He tried nonetheless, expanding his repertoire of friends to a growing list of much more influential men who gave him purpose, who gave him lists to drop in conversation, who gave him fake importance which he mistook as influence.

And her father beat her up as well.

He beat her up when he knew she was getting a divorce.

He beat her up when he knew she was going through with the divorce.

He beat her up when he knew she had custody of her children.

He beat her up when he asked her to stop the divorce and get the children back to their father and she refused. He beat her up so much that her ailing mother came to stand between them and was slammed across the floor, as she was withstanding for years, despite the chemo coursing through her veins and the cancer killing her insides.

He beat her up because he felt it gave him power, because he figured it would straighten her behavior.

She feared he’d beat her up if she visited her mother in the hospital. So she didn’t visit.

She feared he’d beat her up if she visited her mother to take care of her on the days her husband had her kids. So she’d wait in the car until he left before she’d sneak in.

She feared he’d beat her up if she did anything that he would think was out of the ordinary so she never did.

Her husband beating her up was something. Her father, on the other hand, was something else.

His abuse diffused to her siblings who mentally abused her as well. He rendered her a doormat on which they stepped every time the woes of life overburdened them. And she took all of it anyway.

Then, when it all became too much to bear, she decided to seek help. So she went to a lawyer. How can I sue both my father and my husband, she asked while clutching the medical reports detailing the abuse she was withstanding. The lawyer advised her not to. If you sued them, he said, the law will say there’s something wrong with you because they both beat you up.

There was nothing she could do. So she kept on taking it, hoping that one day things will get better.

That father is one of the Lebanese fathers who hate their daughters, who don’t deserve their daughters, their wives or any of the women of their lives. Those are the fathers who should stand by their daughters, forcibly weakened by society and by law, regardless of whether their daughters are in the wrong or the right, but not only fail to do so, they stand against their daughters forcing them to go down to where society put them. Those are the fathers who perpetuate the weakness that society has inflicted in our women.

I hope for a day when she wakes up and find the strength she has, despite it all, somehow rewarded. Until then, may her god be with her.

When I Decided To Become a Lebanese Expat

“The last time I was this scared was 2006,” she told me this afternoon, moments after she crossed into the Northern part of a city ravaged with battles. I guess that’s saying something given that the person in question spent a good part of the war that year in a 3×2 ditch that her family calls a shelter.

The matter to immigrate out of Lebanon was always a matter of if with me. Today, becoming an expat is no longer a matter of if. It’s simply matter of when. And with each passing day, that “when” doesn’t seem to get here soon enough.

I tried as much as I can to disassociate myself from what was happening in my country lately. It was time not to be constantly negative, I said. I’m better off than most people in this country, I convinced myself. But then I realized that the standard of living in this country is just not good enough. And by the looks of it, it will never be.

“I always cried at the idea of you leaving here,” my best friend’s mom told him. Then, as she dried her eyes and looked him straight in the eyes she said: “Do your best to leave.” My best friend is currently unable to go back home because the roads leading back to his bedroom (and cat) are cut off due to gunfire and protests.

Welcome to the safety of the republic of Lebanon, post-parliament mandate extension. Weren’t things supposed to get better, theoretically?

Being in Lebanon today means being in the same country as people like Ahmad el Assir who, a few years ago would have never ever dreamed of catching a spotlight. Today, they enjoy modest popularity and incredible funding that enables them to launch full blown attacks against the Lebanese army and threaten cities that are dubbed the capital of their region.

Being in Lebanon today means living with the likes of Hezbollah who, proud as they are of being on terrorist lists everywhere, resort to arguments in the form of zionism and Israel whenever the going gets tough. And the argument works every time because it sure sounds beautiful to be fighting Israel all the way in God knows where.

Being in Lebanon today means being nothing more and nothing less than a number in a Christian game of empty slogans, fancy billboard wars, fiery television shoutouts and no tangible work whatsoever. It means members of the side you once supported thinking you’re switching allegiance and shutting you out while those on the other side thinking you’re as one-sided as they are. It means not fitting in within any of the rhetoric being spoken – and being accused that you are of the same mold anyway.

Being in Lebanon today also means being in the land of a Lebanese army that knows nothing but to call on moral support whenever its members get killed. “Support us against those who want to cause mayhem in this country” is the typical line of the same army which, in recent days, beat up peaceful protesters in one part of the country and stood by watching as the same militias killing it today passed by its members in their tanks.

Being in Lebanon today is living in a land where men of cloak have power that grows proportionally to their beard’s (sometimes mustache-less) length. It means feeling less and less empowered as the days move forward. It means feeling less and less safe. It’s become living in a place where there are so many red lines floating around you never know which red line you crossed when you’ve seemingly done nothing wrong: the red lines of religions, the red lines of religious militias, the red lines of politics, the red lines of sects, the red lines of bigots and the red lines of those living in their own version of Lebanese la-la land.

Being in Lebanon today means living with people who think there’s nothing wrong, whose reply to this is simply: “you go ahead and leave, stop bitching and spare us some breathing space,” who marvel at the beauty of some fireworks and somehow use them as an argument to convince themselves that tomorrow will be a better day. I know those people because I was one of them. And I tried as hard as I can to remain one of them. But it just didn’t work anymore – I can’t live in la-la land anymore.

“I just had the most demoralizing phone call of my life,” she told me as we snaked our way through the quiet streets of Beirut after midnight. “Did you know we are not allowed to be in the same research opportunities abroad as people who have any form of relation with you-know-where be it funding or otherwise? So here I am, working my ass off for years… Only to find out the research program of my dreams is out of the question.”

I tried to comfort my friend by telling her things will be okay. But the question begets itself: regardless of the politics of it, why do I have to be the one always ruining my future because I’m Lebanese? Why do I have to be the one putting the questionable morals of my country first when my country has given so little back to me? Why do I have to be the one constantly on the losing end just because I am in the possession of a navy blue passport emblazoned with a golden Cedar? Why do I have to be the one passing on opportunities in order not to disappoint a country that has never managed to impress me?

I am currently pursuing a medical degree and I thought I was getting the best medical education that money could buy and given my country’s standards, and at more than $20,000 a year, I sure am. I thought getting acquainted with hospitals around this country was exposing me to how things are done, strengthening me for a future in which I give the best standard of care for my patients while giving myself and my future family a decent living standard. What I learned, however, surpassed the pathology and the pharmacology of things: medicine in Lebanon is not patient oriented. It is pocket-oriented. And no, this isn’t about Lebanese hospitals. “If only you have any idea how many procedures being done are absolutely unnecessary,” a senior physician told my group. “They’re done because doctors get a cut off the money – not because it’s the best practice for your patients. Learn the textbook – and adapt what you learn the best way you can.”

What I also learned was that entering the workforce over here once I’m done with my degree is going as close to hell as possible. Instead of a specialty welcoming new blood and minds into its fold in order to progress, it shuts on itself and shuts you out in the process as you try to claw yourself in. The veterans divert patients away from you. They try to sabotage you. They ruin your reputation in order to keep the golden goose all for themselves. Good thing the $100,000 spent in your education was paid for by your parents.

“You are the future of the country,” he told me as we moved around Paris. “What future might that be?” I asked. That person highlighted a place of promise, a place that I would be proud to call home. “And do you intend to return?” I then asked again. He shook his head. Yes, our expats make us proud. Their accomplishments make us marvel at the beauty of having opportunities. Yet they infuriate me when they preach without living it, without getting it, without knowing how horrible it is to know you are living in a place of no opportunities, no future and no hope whatsoever – despite the opposite you try to convince yourself with everyday because there’s nothing better than denial to ease the medicine to be gulped down everyday.

“If you don’t handle Lebanon at its worst, you don’t deserve it at its best,” I was told as well. What best might that be, I wondered.How long do I have to handle a downward spiral of Lebanon’s worst until the clouds start clearing? Why do I have to be a masochist, forcing myself to live in times of war that seem to never know a way to end just because, in theory, my country needs people like me? But does my country even want me?

What about what I want?

I want a decent future for myself and my children. I want a second passport that doesn’t require me to knock at embassy doors and plead in order to go on vacations. And I want to transfer that second passport to my parents so they can get a better life, a life where they are valued and cherished for the amazing creatures that they are. I want a place that guarantees my liberties – that allows me to curse the president, insult Jesus and categorize a political party as a terrorist group. All in one sentence for the whole word to see. And live to tell the tale. I want a place where I can pursue a career in which my input is not only valued, it is sought out. I want a place where I don’t have to screw over my patients in order to become better off financially – and still be able to repay my parents all the hard-earned money they spent in my education. I want a place where I can drive without feeling like maneuvering cattle in a prairie. I want a place that knows rules and laws are there for a reason.

Lebanon is home. It’s a place I didn’t feel I fit but always felt I belonged. I belonged to the streets that enchanted, the people I called family and the faces that gave me reassurance that tomorrow might be better than today. Today, those streets feel desolate and foreign. The people I call family have become strangers. The faces that gave me reassurance in days past now get me worried.

Will I miss it when I leave here once I’m done with my medical degree? Perhaps so. It’s hard not to miss the place that built me. But I think I’ll take a pinch of trab el arz, some cedar grains, plant them wherever a visa and an opportunity take me and call it home all over again.

How I Lost 30 Kilos

Around December of 2012, as I was sitting in the back of my friend’s coupé, the idea of starting a diet was running through my mind. It had been running for several days. When we reached our destination and I was supposed to get out of the car, I had the worst back pain of my life. I had to use my friend as support to walk. It’s not a nice thing to go through when she’s half your size.

As a 23 year old, few conditions can give me that. With no relevant family history for other conditions, I was sure it was my weight. My new year resolution was then to lose all those extra kilos posing a daily risk for increased health problems.

On January 3rd, a Thursday, upon returning from class, I decided to visit a local dietitian in Batroun called Mira Moussa. I weighed in at 118 kilos and at almost 6 feet in height, it was way above any form of acceptable value. I started the diet then after a December which was filled with junk food, Hard Rock Cafe and Roadster Diner.

My diet wasn’t too difficult even though I was told I’d find trouble adjusting at first. A few days of hunger later, I was getting in the zone. I still craved cheat food back then but I did my best not to cave. Being in Batroun with very few options to cheat definitely helped although I did indulge in the occasional burger at Crepaway or Lebanon’s best pizza at Royal.

The diet itself wasn’t restrictive. I actually restricted it more because there were so many allowed items that I didn’t eat. But there was nothing off limits. The fatty stuff could be eaten but in very small portions. I eventually decided to make do without them. I’d rather eat something I like which is fulfilling and can keep me going all day.

The weight started dropping. I lost 4 kilos in the first 2 weeks, which was expected given the change my body was going through. But I had to stick more to my diet for the weeks that followed. If you thought cheating once per week was permissible then you haven’t seen the effect it has on the weight you lose. Whenever I didn’t cheat, the weight drop I had made me proud. Whenever I cheated, be it just one Roadster meal, the weight drop would become negligible.

Soon enough, I decided to drop those guilt meals that I used to work as incentive for. Food was no longer a reward I longed to, as much as it became something that I enjoyed but didn’t work to get. My menu-choice at my favorite places changed as well. Instead of going towards the diner mites at Roadster, I’d go to the light burgers which are absolutely awesome. And with decreasing eating out, the amount of money that I saved was really high. I learned that, even if you had refrained from food all day, indulging in a super meal would beat the purpose. A smaller and lighter meal would fill you up just the same and would be so much better for your body.

And the weight kept dropping. I’d lose 3 kilos for a couple of weeks then 1 kilo the two weeks that followed. But I never let it bring me down. The weight loss eventually became more motivating and more regular as I stuck with my diet more and more.
I knew things changed around late March when I dropped below the 100kilos mark. My friend took me out to celebrate and I got convinced to try out my favorite burger at Roadster: the diner mite 220. And not only was I more than stuffed halfway through, I simply didn’t enjoy it as much as I did before. This burger which was barely enough to fill me up before was something I wouldn’t consider again.

Once people start noticing you losing the weight and the compliments start pouring in, it fuels you to keep up. Those who say people don’t matter are kidding themselves. Once you start seeing your old jeans becoming like maternity clothes on you and jeans you hadn’t worn in years suddenly fit, your motivation to keep going grows more and more.

Once the fat folds start going away and your face starts acquiring a form that isn’t double-chinned round, your confidence also starts increasing. It’s not about the body image that media wants you to have. It’s about you becoming more comfortable in your own skin because it simply feels like a much better skin to be in. And I felt healthier. I could walk for longer durations, I could do more things than before. For instance, I don’t mind walking around Achrafieh now that I’ve moved back for my last two years of medical education. I’d rather walk to Beirut Souks if the weather permits than actually take a taxi there. That wasn’t the case when I was ElieX1.5. I haven’t tried out the gym yet but I intend to do that once I’ve hit my target weight, a few kilos from now.

At one point, my friends started telling me I was taking it too far. And in a way I did. I was comfortable with how things were going but I definitely saw how annoying it was to be the only one not eating at a table or the only one worried about eating once we went out to some place that didn’t have a “light” menu I could choose from.

Many had asked if I opted in for a surgery to drop the weight. I never considered it. Any form of surgery in that regards was, to me, the easy way out of a mess I put myself into. It was also a major surgery that I didn’t want to put my body through especially when I had another option I didn’t test out. I know people who went for surgery when diet failed them. But I learned during the time since I started dieting that those people also gave themselves a very loose range of cheating. Taking pills before a Sunday meal or taking the day off from a diet just because you visited the dietitian on that day definitely defeats the purpose. It’s not a punishment as much as it is you changing into a new way of eating and looking at food. At least that was what I learned. It’s akin to all those people who visit physicians, get instructions, and never follow them because they don’t feel like it and then somehow blame the physician.

Despite it all, I kept looking at myself as a fat person. I had gotten used to that notion for such a long time that leaving it behind would prove troublesome no matter how thin people say you are. After all, people can over-compliment sometimes and this is Lebanon. You can never really know who’s kissing up. The click of me not looking at myself as a fat person anymore came very recently: this past Sunday. I had reached a point where I desperately needed to buy new clothes. Belts and whatnot didn’t cut it anymore. So I went shopping, something I despise. Surprisingly, things started fitting. I fit into “skinny” jeans that I didn’t buy. But I fit in them! And instead of going for the size 38 jeans, I fit in size 32. The T-shirts that I bought were size medium. But it wasn’t until I was passing by one of the mirrors at that store and I saw my legs that I stopped dead in my tracks and asked: is this a thinning mirror?
My friend said no, this is how you look. And the person staring back at me was not a fat person at all.

The triumph of year 2013 so far wasn’t only the weight drop but how I think I changed the more the kilos were shed. And I, Elie Fares, am not a fat person anymore.

This wouldn’t be complete without a before-after picture:

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Untold Stories of Rape in Lebanon

I didn’t know prior to yesterday that many people thought stories of rape couldn’t possibly go undetected for years. I didn’t know prior to yesterday that somehow I lived in my own version of Lebanese reality where I’m exposed to little tidbits of everything that most of us hear about in theory, in realms of fiction we never think would happen to people who are close to us in any way.

News of rape attempts surfaced frequently over the past few days. Some were verified (link), others are still just stories and may have been made up, causing a disservice to every single person out there in this country still feeling the sting of the pain but going through their days anyway.

Because there’s this notion that rape in Lebanon, and possibly other countries, surfaces quickly and cannot go unnoticed for a long period of time, I will be going up close and personal with the stories of two people I know personally very well. Only those few people who are deeply familiar with their story will know who they are. But the following stories are 100% accurate and have happened here, around every single one of us.

Story #1:

She was sitting in Deir l Salib with her psychiatrist facing her, asking her all the questions she never thought she’d have to answer. When did it start? 1997. How did it start? He was her employer. What did he do? So many things.
She remembered the first time he forced himself on her. How he threatened her he’d hunt down her family members with his influence if she ever dared speak. She remembered how she’d come to the office and see him naked on the couch, his semen all over the carpet. He had just had a prostitute over. She remembered as he forced her to clean the mess. She remembered as he peed on the carpet as she cleaned. She remembered holding back the tears.
She remembered all the weddings she didn’t go through. She remembered feeling excited about those invitation cards, doing her hair and painting her nails only to get a phone call prohibiting her from attending… Or else. She’d fight with her family in order to get them not to want to take her with them anymore. There was nothing else she could do.
She remembered all the possible marriages that passed by her over the year. She remembered the physician who lived in Canada and found her to be of exquisite beauty. She remembered turning him down because he wouldn’t let her go.
1997 was when it started. 2009 was when she cracked. 12 years has turned her in into a different woman, a different person. She wouldn’t be the same ever again.

Story #2:

He was a seven year old student at one of the country’s many primary schools. He was anything but calm, constantly finding himself in trouble. He raised his hand and asked his teacher for permission to use the restroom. She dismissed him. He hopped his way to the bathroom, entered the cubicle and stood there as a middle aged man faced him with a menacing look on his face.
The little boy tried to escape him but couldn’t. The man grabbed the boy, cupped his mouth so he wouldn’t scream and unzipped his pants.
The boy couldn’t remember anything of what happened afterwards. The man threatened him in order to keep quiet. He returned to class with pee all over his pants. He tried to hide it but couldn’t. His class made fun of him and he sat there crying because there was nothing else he could do.
When he got home, he snuck past his mother and spilled water on his pants to hide the stain. He then threw it in with the laundry. She would never know. And he didn’t tell anyone what happened with him that day. He didn’t know if they’d understand. He didn’t know if they’d believe him. He didn’t know if they’d help.
He held his story in and didn’t tell it to anyone until he turned 23.

That woman and that boy know they can’t get their past back in order to have a different version of their future and present. And here we are telling them that we live in a place where we really can’t do anything for them, where they’ll just have to make do with the hand they’re dealt. Because that’s how things simply are.

The Story Of Owning a Pet in Lebanon

The journey of a thousand miles starts with the inception of the idea… with your mother. “I’m getting a cat” was what I said. A stern look that breathed of “no” was how she replied. Message received. My dad automatically referred me back to my mother. No luck on that front. I had my work cut out for me.

Soon enough, I got the pet. My mom will cave in under the pressure, I figured. I entered the house with that white ball of fur in my arms. I had already decided to name her “Katniss.” And I probably hadn’t seen something cuter in my life. Katniss, however, was absolutely terrified. So the first thing she did when I stepped over the threshold was to go and hide beneath the sofa. No amount of food or trickery could get her out of there. It could have been that the house was brimming with people wanting to see what this creature was.

An hour or so later, once strangers and distant relatives in this little town got bored and left, Katniss decided to venture out into her new territory. She didn’t like me at that point but I was the only familiar face so she stuck around. Despite being minuscule, she managed to jump on the couch. The spot looked absolutely perfect for her. So she nested her head beneath her paw and slept.

“Don’t tell your mom,” my dad said as he watched TV and gently ran his hand over her white mane.

The following days were all about learning. I asked my friends who already had pets what kind of food and litter they bought. I had trouble potty-training her but she got the hang of it… eventually. And I found out she loves to eat and play in the garden outside my house even though she came back with little twigs stuck on her every time.

She started following me around the house wherever I went: to my room, to the bathroom, to the car. She used to look at me sadly as I pulled out of the drive to go to class and I couldn’t help but smile as I saw her growingly fat behind go back disappointingly inside when she found out she won’t be going anywhere with me.

Her first visit to the vet was strange to me but downright terrifying for her. As I held her in my arms while the vet readied the table where he was going to examine her, I could feel her getting more anxious. Once he gave her the vaccine and those deworming pills and that frontline for flees, she was downright shaking as I tried to comfort her that all will be okay.

Needless to say, her future visits to the vet were far less smooth as she started refusing to take the pills no matter what he does. “You have a feisty cat,” he said. I just nodded. There was nothing I could do. She was so feisty in fact that she had managed to hunt down a mouse, which she brought back home only to brag about in front of my mom. She wasn’t going to eat that, obviously.

The first hurdle came around when my mom was diagnosed with cancer and some people told her she can’t be around the cat. We started worrying about what we’d do with Katniss. No one we knew was equipped to take care of her. We tried to move her to my grandparents’ house but she kept coming back despite our efforts. It was a relieving moment when the oncologist told her mother to worry.

Once December rolled around and cats around the neighborhood started getting ready to get busy, it was time for Katniss to hit early menopause. So I took her to the vet again and several hours later, I got her back in her cage sleeping. Back home, she was so drowsy because of anesthesia and in obvious pain that my mom’s heart was almost torn out of her chest. She got all better a few days later and went back to her regular routines of eating, sleeping, playing and chasing away the cats off our porch.

On a Saturday night in April, as we had dinner with a few guests who gushed over a shaven-Katniss as she circled their feet, which she normally does, while they ate, Katniss decided to go outside, which was normal. Slightly past midnight, I decided to call it quits and went to bed. The following day, I found out from my little brother that Katniss hadn’t slept in. I wasn’t worried as she had done that before and our maid had seen her around the house early that morning.

The day starting passing, however, and Katniss didn’t come back. As we sat down for lunch, nothing was startling my aunt by bumping into her foot. There was nothing looking at my mom with pleading eyes for some human food. “She’s just around,” they all said. “She’ll come back in a bit.”

But Katniss didn’t. Not that Sunday. Not the following Monday. Not the Tuesday after that. Two scenarios were plausible: either someone stole her or one of the hunters around my town decided to test his chops by aiming at a cat who was obviously owned by someone, which is entirely possible given how hunters in this country think: it doesn’t matter what they shoot at as long as it’s an animal moving and they get to brag about it to their friends later on.

 

As the days passed, I realized this tiny creature that started as even tinier white ball of fur had taken up a huge place in our house. We had gotten so used to her collar’s bell ringing whenever she moved that the silence in the house felt eerie. We had gotten so used to her just being around that not stumbling by her everywhere we went made our home feel less welcoming.

“I never thought I’d love her as much,” was what my mom said as she held her food basket and called around for her name around the neighborhood, shaking the basket to draw her attention. There was a tear in her eye. “Don’t tell your little brother,” she then said. “He’ll be devastated if he knew I’m this upset.”

We were all upset. Katniss had spent slightly more than a year in our midst but we had all grown to absolutely love her, even the family members who complained about her walking around them when they ate. Now, two weeks later, I’m not hopeful that I’ll find Katniss anymore. My little cat is gone.

I don’t think I’d get another pet. This isn’t the town nor the country to own a pet and be relieved that your neighbors won’t poison it or the hunters around your town won’t be shooting it or even someone stealing it for a few quick dollars or because they don’t want to get their own.

All I have are the memories of when Katniss was mine and around, the memories of when she slept next to me in bed and looked annoyed because I changed sleeping positions and woke her up, the memories of her running after me because I was heading to the kitchen which she normally associated with eating, the memories of her chasing away the neighborhood’s cats off her turf because this was, after all, her home.

I hope it’s nice wherever you are, little one.

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