Glory Ho

I once heard a friend of mine relay a conversation he’d had with his wife:

Husband: Honey, what’s your greatest fear?
Wife: Well, I think it would be that if one of us died and little Sally had to grow up with just one parent.
Husband: Oh, I see.
Wife: What’s your greatest fear?
Husband: Bears.

But seriously, what’s YOUR greatest fear? And what kind of fear are we talking about? One that threatens your life, your perception of the world or your sanity? Now that I’m safely on American soil, devoid of any disease and free of bullet wounds, I can talk about this. In general, travel was FAR, FAR less dangerous than people imagine–largely, I believe, because people picture us dodging suicide bombers and hiding from Al Quaeda. And that didn’t happen. However, there were a few times when I began to wonder just what the hell we were doing. . . .and these were legit.

Location: Beirut, Lebanon
Inner Monologue: Oh my God. The Sunnis and the Shiites are about to begin killing each other and we are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn’t this happen on a subway in Adventures in Babysitting? This is the warzone the news is always talking about. We must get the hell out of here. Now. But how?
What Happened: We’d been dropped off a few blocks shy of our apartment on a street between ethnically divided neighborhoods and had lost our way. Recent days had brought violence and riots. It was rainy and windy. As we walked, we noticed armed soldiers—not the bored looking ones we see sitting atop tanks at intersections—but men hidden under overhangs and around corners. A lot of them. Looking alert and ready for action.
Physical Condition: sweaty, shaky
What I Say To Make Myself Feel Better: Be calm, Andrea. Your chances of getting hurt are still pretty slim. Really. You can duck into a million places. The soldiers are here to protect you. If you are hurt, we’re in the city. Lebanon has ambulances. They will come.
Conclusion: There’s nothing we could have done differently here. You can’t hole up at home and not live when times are tense. We almost always know our way–this is an anomaly. Like the Lebanese do, you must continue with life. At least it’s not personal. I am not their target.

Location: Uganda
Inner Monologue: This vehicle is going to crash and roll and burn. And I am on it. This could be it. This could really be it. The cops will call. My Mom will answer. Hopefully they’ll find the gifts in our bags. I am never going to see my nephew. I can’t believe it. Traveling is not worth this fear.
What Happened: A busdriver has found a paved road and is going so fast around curves that people are falling out of their seats. He is honking every couple minutes at the swarms of people on the shoulder or crossing the road who are carrying babies, herding cows, balancing bundles of bananas on their vintage bikes and toting baskets of vegetables on their heads. Our destination is still hours away.
Physical Condition: Tears
What I Say To Myself To Feel Better: If we are in a head-on crash, I will probably survive. I am high-up and in the back. If we roll, I do have a seatbelt on. Plus, in this country, it is widely known that crowds will form and attempt to lynch the culprit, which, even if you’re dying in the ditch at least provides a bit of justice.
Conclusion: What can we do? This is simply the state of transportation in Uganda. It’s the worst case so far, but its been bad before and it will be again tomorrow, too. Unless I want to walk or spend some serious money, I don’t have a choice.

Location: Nairobi, Kenya
Inner Monologue: Nairobi is called Nairobbery. At least we don’t have a LandRover to hijack. But still, I know that guy wants my bag and this is a very dicey neighborhood. I feel like we’re in the projects. The AFRICAN projects. At any moment, I could be attacked. Those people are watching us. This is personal.
What Happened: We’d been looking for a hostel and a bad neighborhood had seemed to engulf us very quickly.
What I Say To Make Myself Feel Better: Well, even if I’m mugged, the injuries will be minor. I’ll just fall down and lose all my stuff. Whatever. So why am I so scared?
Conclusion: Take precautions as in any city. Don’t go down dark alleys. Stay in crowded areas. Clutch your bag as you walk. I can’t tell you why I was so freaked out–maybe because its more personal or more targeted. But I was. And I didn’t like it one bit.

Ironically, I was never particularly all that scared in Northern Iraq.

Note: This is a flashback to Beirut. Because I thought it best to wait until we had exited both Lebanon and the Big I before publishing it, it is appearing now. . .

Inma Foundation (for whom we built a website) was founded by a Muslim who follows the teachings of Jesus. Not exactly your typical blend. The foundation does not claim any particular denomination, style or practiced religion, but they follow life in faith, through God’s love. And their foundation strives to give without bias in a country divided by culture, religion and sect.

In January, Inma’s founder hosted an unofficial religious delegation of seminary students, pastors and spiritual leaders, on a three country, five day tour to build bridges between Islam and Christianity. As it turned out, most of these delegates were from Colorado. Cherry Hills Church, Smokey Hill, Denver Seminary, and others. At a reception in their outlandishly Lebanese two-story penthouse, the founder Samir, a charismatic, diplomatic and informal fellow, gave a short lecture on the similarities between the Koran and the Bible and how we are much stronger through unity than division. How we are all living through the love of our Creator. As a souvenir, each delegate was given a large varnished and wood-bound tome, containing each Koran passage which mentioned Jesus.

During their time, Samir organized a meeting with Nabil Kawook, the, Hezbollah’s Southern Lebanon commander. Michael and I were invited along.

TIMEOUT

So for my own sanity, let’s go over Hezbollah for a moment. You might have heard of them. The U.S. and UK, among other countries, classify them as a terrorist organization. Here’s a little more—the most truthful, but neutral description I could find– from another acronym called the BBC::

Hezbollah – or the Party of God – is a powerful political and military organisation of Shia Muslims in Lebanon. It emerged with financial backing from Iran in the early 1980s and began a struggle to drive Israeli troops from Lebanon. In May 2000 this aim was achieved, thanks largely to the success of the party’s military arm, the Islamic Resistance. In return, the movement, which represents Lebanon’s Shia Muslims – the country’s single largest community – won the respect of most Lebanese. It now has an important presence in the Lebanese parliament and has built broad support by providing social services and health care. It also has an influential TV station, al-Manar. But, it still has a militia that refuses to demilitarize, despite UN resolution 1559, passed in 2004, which called for the disarming of militias as well as the withdrawal of foreign (i.e about 14,000 Syrian) forces from Lebanon. As long ago as 2000, after Israel’s withdrawal, Hezbollah was under pressure to integrate its forces into the Lebanese army and focus on its political and social operations. But, while it capitalized on political gains, it continued to describe itself as a force of resistance not only for Lebanon, but for the region.

BUT BACK TO REALITY

There we were. Eleven men, a Lebanese woman and us. Heavy security. A meeting room which had been host to past negotiations and stalemates, I was certain. No cameras or cell phones. A lot of guards.

Nabil Kawook, arguably Israel’s most wanted man, was tall. He had a beard, a turban and a presence.

He strode up and back the narrow, yellow, sofa-lined, fluorescent-energy-star lit room. Past the Kleenex boxes and candy dishes of gold on glass. He shook each man’s hand, meeting eyes with concentration and confidence. Upon reaching me, we both clutched our hearts with one hand, the traditional Muslim greeting between unfamiliar men and women. He then moved to his throne at the head of the room. Samir, the man who made this meeting possible, and today’s translator, sat beside him. A gold Hezbollah flag stand stabbed the ceiling with power behind him.

I have to admit, I was somewhat afraid to move. As if we were all in a flat-bottom boat and the crossing of my legs might throw the whole gathering off balance and splash water into the freshly-ironed folds of the Sheik’s triple layered robes, tip the caricatured cotton off his head, cause him to drop his prayer beads or extinguish the flammable power of Islam floating around him.

He spoke of Hezbollah and their effort to help those who could not help themselves. He told the story of Ashouraa, the Muslim holiday honoring Mohammad’s martyred grandson, Hussein, and he talked about the miracles he believed had occurred. He answered questions from the delegation—about why Hezbollah wasn’t providing more humanitarian aid to refugees and about how he connected with God. I listened, but my absorption was constantly broken by two things: Unfounded fears of imminent explosion and my mesmerized gazing at his face.

But there’s that Lebanese drama again. We would not have gone unless we felt safe. Because we trusted our guides, Rob and Samir. This meeting was about bridges, not bombs.

After an hour, we all participated in a final prayer. One of the visiting pastors even asked if he could put his hand upon the heart of Nawook while we prayed. You can bet security detail was all over that one. But it happened.

As the Sheik exited, he complimented me on my last-minute dash at immersion—a black winter scarf wrapped ’round my head. He said that I looked like Mary—that this practice would strengthen my faith.

I’m not sure about that. But the experience did widen my perspective. This story is not about dispelling myths. I can’t go into Hezbollah’s tactics, strategies or battles with Israel and just how politics play into their motives. And I know nations have their reasons–good ones–for labeling Hezbollah as terrorists. But this IS about remembering there are multiple sides to a fight and about the unfortunate ignorance of those (including me) who sometimes place guilt by association. Just because the Sheik’s costume and look reminded me of the big O does not mean that he is an evil man. Just because Al Qaeda is violent doesn’t mean Islam is. Just because people don’t approve of our government doesn’t mean they dislike us as individuals.

I do know that for sure.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, as I slip into the leather back seat and Bose-speaker-studded doors of this guy’s Alpha Romeo.

We’d taken an expensive service taxi to the Iraq Embassy. That driver, Tyson, was a blue-collar guy with a Detroit Pistons Starter Jacket and an unmistakable American accent. Tyson had been born in Lebanon, but driven a Wonder Bread truck in Michigan. For an unexplained reason that put him on probation, he was now back in Lebanon.

We’d gone to the embassy to apply for visas so we could visit Northern Iraq. The consular employee was an Iraqi himself and had actually laughed, loudly, when we told them we were not reporters or journalists or volunteers but that we wanted to go as tourists. But during our wait, we got to talking. He was Microsoft-certified-with-the-card-to-prove-it and wanted to go to America—what was the best way? Who should he call? Them Americans, they like the Indians, but us Middle Easterns, they don’t trust us, you know?

Now we were headed back to West Beirut and this other IT guy was going our way.

Abd had gone to college in Dearborn Heights, Michigan (where Wal-Mart has just become Arab-friendly, by the way). But his wife, much to his apparent disgust, and despite his $75/hour job offer, had insisted they move back to Lebanon in 2000.

“America is a really great place. I tell you a story,”

“When I was in America, my friend told me if I was ever lost, I should just honk at a policeman and he would help me. So I got lost one day and that’s what I did. And you know what? He drove me 22 miles, you know that’s almost 40 kilometers, to make sure I took the right exit and then he called someone to help me from there!”

“This kind of thing doesn’t happen in the Middle East. Not in Lebanon.”

“Where should I drop you?” he asked.

We gestured.

“Here’s my card. You need anything in Lebanon, anything at all, you ever need help, just call me.”

Michael began. . .”But you realize that you’re helping us right now. You’re doing what that policeman did.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t do this for an Arab.”

Could it be that all these kind strangers were only hospitable to foreigners? That they wouldn’t help a fellow national in need? It was disappointing to consider, but when I thought about Americans, I considered the potential truth. With a choice between a backpack-attached, foreign-looking hitchhiker and a down-and-out looking American dude, who would YOU pick up? Or, let me rephrase, who would you feel sorry for as you sped by?

It was time to go. We spent our last day in Lebanon in typical potential peril as we gathered with thousands of others to commemorate the third anniversary of Prime Minister Hariri’s assasination, which, in 2005, had led to a national uprising and the removal of Syrian troops. We sloshed through puddles, fear, skirmishes and dozens of soldiers to get there, but it was worth it. For the first time in Beirut, we were truly “init”.

Us with Inma Director Rob and his wife Harriet–thanks for everything.

Boudreaux skiing above the Lebanese clouds. . .

Finally, the apartment I’ve been talking about for weeks. . .

Sometimes I think Jesus gets a bad rap.

He reminds me of those musicians who began playing because they loved the sound of music but then everyone started calling them a “God” . . .and they were eventually led astray by either their agents or the rest of the guys in the band  . . . and succumbed to the peer pressure of insipid lyrics, increased radio-play and high-priced tickets.

But it’s not fair to call Jesus a sell-out when he’s not actually here to make his own decisions.

Lucky for him, there exist busloads of devout followers who have taken it upon themselves to start their own churches and expose the teachings of Jesus without the baggage (or divisive agents and personalities) which seems to weigh down Christianity.

But the fact that I instinctively cringe when I see WWJD bracelets, or that I measure my words much more carefully when I’m with someone who has a cross around their neck, says that Christianity is still failing to spread the message about love and forgiveness. Because when faced with confident tokens of faith, I either categorize people as ultra-conservative or sit in fear of judgment from them. Somehow, Christianity has been taken to an extreme, encrusted with Teflon, repelling instead of replenishing.

I believe Jesus is actually ABOUT love and acceptance and forgiveness. And I’ll tell you why. About six years ago, Barb Kiebel, a dear friend and strong woman who used to serve me spiked lemonade and Marlboro Lights on her back porch when I was first starting my business, lent me a book called Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time. She was involved in her church—an open community where lectures on Islam were not considered threatening, even in 2002.

Upon reading the book, I was somewhat surprised to discover that Jesus, this guy from Nazareth, and religion, the Catholicism I’d grown to be suspicious of, were often two very different things.

However, let’s be clear about where I’m standing. It’s on the bottom rung. I’m talking about Jesus, the man. Not Jesus the divine son at the right hand of the father who will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. Not the giver of life. Not the one whose kingdom will not end. Not Him.

Just an inspiring guy who has happened to have the biggest following of all time.

Since we’ve come to Beirut and began working for Inma Foundation, I feel I’m meeting Jesus yet again. Among other beliefs, at the very minimum, the staff of this organization follow his teachings. And it’s evident within their community. These people are balanced human beings who give of their time and resources without seeking something in return. They empower without controlling. They exude goodness without making me sick. They don’t really gossip. They make me want to be a better person.

This has been a recurring theme as we explore the earth. We’ve been part of “an economy where sharing is the primary currency,”(thanks Jen Lemen) as we couchsurf, hitchhike and rely on the kindness of strangers. We have become more aware of the impact of our own energy on others. About the sky-high value of old-fashioned, but evergreen kindness.

Funny, eh? How after so much meditative, deep-sea-diving into my soul, that life’s little sevens or twos or nines (or whatever you happen to need in your game of Go Fish) are not found in some spiritual temple amid the silence, but in a bomb-common place like Beirut, amid the chaos of Christianity and Islam.

We rode down to Tyre a few weeks ago along the Mediterranean to South Lebanon, the hotbed of Israeli conflict. Rob, Inma’s Director, was driving. The landrover was full of an unofficial religious delegation. One of these, an American–let’s call him Ray–rode in the passenger seat. He was speaking to Samir Inma’s founder, who sat in the back.

The topic was the upcoming Prayer Breakfast, a Congressional event held every February, where thousands of VIPs, including Bono and the current president, gather to speak with God in a non-denominational setting and without the presence of the press. While in D.C., Samir would be giving a lecture, his reputation as a diplomatic bridge-builder and international businessman preceding him. He and other special guests affiliated with Inma Foundation would be stay together at a special residence. This would all happen in a c0uple weeks.

As the six of us listened, Ray gave Samir a complete play-by-play of the Prayer Breakfast’s schedule of events, including where he thought they might lunch, at what time they would coffee break and who he was hoping to speak with.

At this point, Michael and I met eyes. There was nothing wrong with this scene. Nothing offensive. Nothing rude. But all we could think about was this: Those Americans, they sure do like to plan. Then they like to talk about the plan.

8:00 Consider getting up, but switch positions and ignore the springs digging into my hipbone. Notice wall-heater is still functioning, which means electricity is on. Which means it could very well go off at 9:00. Good thing I juiced the oranges last night.

8:35: Get dressed and try to put water on for tea. Realize the faucet is only a trickle, which means in a bout five minutes, there will be no water at all. Have a tough time lighting the burner, so kitchen smells of sulfur. Use water from the cooler for eggs and tea.

8:40: Hear Michael messing with the toilet, realizing there is no water. He comes into the kitchen with quite a look. I nod in acknowledgment. Last time this happened, the Palestinian plumbing student at Inma center, who had fixed the water twice before, said that he could help us today, but didn’t want to. He wanted to teach us a lesson about wasting water. This was translated to us from Arabic by American volunteers who were rather aghast at his audacity. But despite the fact that we were at that time showering every few days, we didn’t say much. Since he didn’t fix our water, we were instructed to move across the hall. To the apartment three times as big. ‘

So now, we REALLY didn’t want to come to this guy about the water. I decided to think about it later.

8:50: Retrieve Middle East book from living room to see when we can catch a bus to Jordan, our next destination. Michael is heating water to shave. We eat hard boiled eggs with soy and hot sauce and drink fresh orange juice on the terrace. Sometimes we read Economist articles to each other. Not today.

9:25: We say hello to Adel, the mechanic and the Syrian guy, Faisal, who serves coffee in the empty parking lot, then get a service taxi to Bourj el Barajne, the Palestinian Refugee Camp. A service taxi is basically a carpool. Most trips are $1/person. When we tell him our destination from the roadside, he grunts an affirmative and we get in. I think service taxis are the best way to see Beirut.You never know how long the ride could be, which route the driver will take, who might squeeze into the backseat with you. One morning, as I sat alone in the back of an unusually filthy car, my driver stopped, flashed five fingers and big smile my way, then got out and jacked the car up and down multiple times over a twenty-five minute period. During the rest of my ride, the guttural sounds coming from the car were matched only by the driver’s spit-spewing hack. On another day, during a 45-minute ride, the driver and three passengers smoked cigarettes, stopped for coffee-to-go and chatted as if they were all old friends, while I huddled reading in the corner, wondering if I’d accidentally crashed their road trip. But everyone is always nice. Helpful. Friendly. And you never have to worry about the driver taking the long way around. Because you KNOW he’s taking the long way around.

9:45: We see the KFC, our landmark and ask to get out amidst piles of dirt and two by fours, then cross the road, walk through the car wash and up four flights to the Inma Office. Hoda is making sandwiches (pitas rolled up with cheese) in the kitchen. Everyone is huddled in one room, sharing a joke. Apparently, Fadi’s father died last night. Which of course, is not funny at all. But Fadi had been asked to pick up the coffin and he was feeling a bit spooked about the task, which was embarrassing. And somehow, this became hilarious.

10:07: Suher, a Palestinian employee and Jamie, an American employee who came with her church last fall and will stay for a few years while her husband gets his masters at American University of Beirut, are going into the camp to sign up new kids for the pre-school. We tag along. We’ve seen the strange mix of colorful murals, unprotected cables and abandoned plastic dolls of this ghetto before, but our skin still pops as we walk.

I know the way, but we cannot walk too far ahead. Foreigners are not allowed unaccompanied through the camp. We reach the pre-school’s office. Ramadan greeting cards, rose-colored walls, Arabic scripture plaques and silk flowers attempt to decorate the cold, dark and drafty room. We sit in plastic deck chairs—the folding chair of the developing country. High-pitched child screams echo nearby. Jamie and Suher complete child profiles with meek mothers.

Eventually, we take a tour through the pre-school, which is more like a high-ceilinged courtyard with tiny rooms for teaching. We are given sweet steaming tea in brown mugs as we snap pictures of toddlers in blue-checked uniforms upon the blurry mirror of the steel slide.

Primary-colored murals are everywhere. Along the top surface of the wall separating the kitchen from the hallway are ever-shining shards of sharp glass, permanently glued in place. This is to keep away the thieves, since the kitchen has no door.

12:30: I have been asked by Louise, a British woman living in Beirut and working for Inma, to help out with the adult English class in the Vocational Training Center in the camp. They’re working on informal and formal greetings and their levels vary from beginner to intermediate, but they’re all headscarfed women and all inclined to giggle. They are giddily happy about learning English. This is pretty nice.

When I return to the center, Suzanne tells me Michael went to the Fadi’s father’s funeral.

2:00: I take a service taxi back to the Hamra area, look for the bookstore where I found $8 paperbacks a few weeks ago and then settle in at our restaurant with free internet and delicious tuna wraps. I order by leaning over the balcony from the second floor.

6:30: Michael arrives at the restaurant after a day of mourning.

See Michael here, on the front terrace of our Beirut apartment, reading Sophie’s World? He is quite content, sitting in the sun.

But just seven hours later, we’re settled into bed, ready for sleep, when the sounds begin. We hear the first one, glance at each other and say: Could have been a truck backfire.

And all is quiet for awhile.  Then another one sounds, something a bit different. But we ignore it. Finally, I am teetering toward sleep when a long hollow ga-goooooon reverberates across the city. My eyes open.

I say: Oh my God.

And I suddenly understand that my whole life, until now, I have been hearing car backfires that SORT OF sounded like guns. But that what I just heard was clearly something quite a bit closer to a gun. I notice that my heart is beating fast, but I am calm. Michael is up, slipping on some pants.

He says: I’m going to the front terrace to check it out.

I say: What should I do?

He says: I guess just be ready to get dressed if we have to.

But Michael returns within a minute or two, reporting a peaceful neighborhood scene. There’s nothing unusual at our intersection–Corniche Mazra and Saeeb Salem– despite the fact that we live smack on the border between Sunni and Shia neighborhoods, a cradle of potential conflict.

The next morning we talk to our friend Adel and he explains that celebratory firecrackers and shots were fired last night following a political speech. We learn later that February 14th (four days from now) will be the three year anniversary of Hariri’s assasination. We learn from our friend Maureen that a few days ago, following a Hezbollah panel, Hariri’s son made a speech essentially telling the “opposition” that he was ready for a fight.

Okay.

So, the next night, around the same time, just as we are attempting sleep,  we hear a constant deafening noise. At first, I think it must be a strong wind. Then it sounds more like a tornado. I briefly consider a garbage truck, but then immediately dismiss that idea. Finally, I wonder if it is a very fast succession of gunshots. But when Michael opens the bedroom’s sliding glass door which faces the residential street below, the sound getting ever-louder, he does not panic.

He says: So THAT is what a tank sounds like.

And we try to sleep.

One of the things we’re accustomed to, in our nomadic life, is the presence of second-world elevators. The kind where you actually watch the rectangle floors go by, like some kind of early 90′s thriller where the journalist resorts to microfiche in the downtown library.

Some elevators are also void of short-term memory. So, for example, if you get in with a fellow stranger and you push Floor 8 and then they push Floor 2, the elevator will go to Floor 8 and then settle into sleep as if it’s job is finished.

We know about the quirks.

A few weeks ago, in the beginning of Beirut, we were in an elevator destined for the fourth floor Inma Center office. As we rode, I thought out loud, (as my inner monologue is so completely worn out from keeping quiet in front of all these strangers!)

“I wonder what happens when the electricity goes off while you’re in the elevator?”

And at that very moment (and I mean that VERY moment) like a good drama student should, the elevator slowly came to a stop between floors.

So we pushed another button. And it began moving (whew), landing between another couple floors (ack). And we did that again. And then we did that again. Ffffuuuuu. . . .and, eyes squeezed shut, we rode to the bottom, where I banged open the door and embraced the stairs.

Michael rode back up. Show off.