THE SOUND OF BEIRUT

It takes more than eyes to know Beirut.  I'm learning to listen more closely, to isolate the sounds that surround Sabtieh Hill.  They tell me more than I can see.

The minaret calling me to prayer.

I've been awakened only once by the predawn call to prayer from the mosque in the valley to the north of Sabtieh Hill.  It is alone in this Christian sector, subtle but distinct.  Even though I recognize the call, the pitches and intervals are unfamiliar to my ears.  It's a reminder of the diverse world we're in.  

Each time I hear it, though, I talk to God too...and quite a few times in between.  My call to prayer is a sense of what Jesus knows these people in my new world have experienced.  What they need to meet their fears.  Where they can find enough life energy to replace the weariness of war.  Where they can look for stability and peace.  

I find myself a little more intentional about the Source of my confidence and my sense of safety.  We live and work alongside folk who have prayed...and lost.  Who have hoped...and been nearly destroyed.  Who have left in the thick of threat...and returned to overwhelming odds.   Who are weary of real war.  And who still wonder what tomorrow's news will bring.  We need more than five prayers a day...

A back porch view of Beirut beyond my
clothesline terrace 

One early morning, even before the jackhammers began, I stepped out our back door to hang a towel on the clothesline.  A rooster crowed.  I don't know where in the valley he lives--among the terraces of an old villa hidden between the ranges of apartment complexes?  On an 8th floor balcony?  In the street alongside a produce stand at the bottom of the hill?

Not that I shouldn't expect a rooster to live nearby.  Beirut mixes a European cosmopolitan world with village life.  Beirut has a hundred streets that could fit comfortably with any world-class city.  And a thousand streets that, to my childhood senses, fit the sounds and scenery of my memories of growing up in Mexico.  But a rooster? 

He's my morning friend now.  His is a distinctive, familiar call.  Michigan has roosters.

But the Maronite church bells that rang soon after the rooster's call reminded me I wasn't in Michigan.  The sounds of religious expressions are open, distinctive here.  A few weeks ago through the entire Easter week the neighborhood could follow the amplified celebration of hymns and liturgy of the local Maronite congregation--from Good Friday to Easter Sunday.  Next week is Eastern Easter, the Orthodox celebration.  It's a reminder of the diverse world we're in.

But back to the early morning jackhammers.  I always thought that more often than not a jackhammer broke up sidewalks and highways. 

But I've noticed that here in Beirut a jackhammer seems to be the tool of choice for anyone in the building trade.  An upgrade from a sledgehammer.  Everything--except the sadly leaning walls of a refugee's shanty--is made of concrete, stone, slate and marble.  In that order, usually by income available.

The work of jackhammers and 
stone-cutters even for our little villa.

But among the sounds of a workday in Beirut, it's the ear-splitting wail of the  stonecutter's diamond-tipped blade against dry rock that overrides them all.  Who needs hammers and nails after the dust has settled?  The stonecutter puts a lot on the line to do his art; the wail descends, he unwraps the dust-saturated kaffiyah that has protected his mouth and nose.  Dark eyes peer through a white wedge of dust that cuts across his face.  I wonder what his lungs look like.  But he has wielded his art and looks satisfied.  It's a matter of pride that buildings here are made to last.  They don't blow over, blow away, fall apart, or rot.  They're even slow to crumble.

That fact alone strengthens the message given by the broken, blackened block of downtown buildings left "as is," shadows of a tragic civil war (1975-1990).  The next generation needs to be reminded that the one thing concrete--and people--can't stand up against is bombs.

But if you're young, that's not what you're thinking about.  The sounds of the working man can never outgun the testosterone-fueled rev of gears that echo through the narrow backways of Beirut and roll up the hillside--probably all the way to the summit of Mount Lebanon.

Cars are a symbol of means here in Beirut.  And it seems that a car that roars and coughs is a personal expression of powerful means.  I've heard a vehicle or two peel out of our Jones Road driveway a few times.   But Mom's eye-rolling sigh is the most attention a kid can get gunning it on a dirt road in the woods.

That's nothing compared to the statement a young Lebanese can make as he pulls out at a congested intersection or maneuvers through a tight alley of Beirut in his Audi Boxter.  Or his 1980 Chevy.  The sound ricochet's in the narrow streets, reverberates up the valley and echoes back down to the sea.  On a holiday or weekend, it's an endless race and all of Beirut is the track.

One of  seven staff homes overlooking
Beirut and the Mediterranean.

Yes, it's Sunday afternoon and I can't fault those out enjoying the day.  Larry and I are both working at the dining room table enjoying a hazy view of the city and the Meditarranean that stretches beyond.   Today, as  usual, the blue-gray of the water melts into the sky somewhere in the gray horizon of city air.   Cargo ships and barges emerge out of the smog to drift towards the enormous cranes that stand along the shoreline downtown.  It all looks to be silent.  But I know better.  I imagine the crashing, bellowing sounds of ships moving in, cranes at work, truck life and sweaty men.

But right now it's actually quiet up here on the hill.   Quiet enough to hear a distant shotgun.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  The cracks echo in volleys through the Sunday afternoon.  I wince. 

Bird-hunting is a sport in Lebanon.  

So I treasure every birdcall I hear.   I don't know what kinds of birds survive in the woods surrounding the university, but they are small, plain, and quick.  I've never heard a cacophony of pre-dawn birdsong here like in the Michigan woods or along the Australian Gold Coast or across Brazil's farmlands.  This is a place for shy chirps.  A warble.  Occasionally a quick, brave solo.  Camouflage for neighborhood birds on our front terrace...without muffling their songs. Squeezed into the luggage we brought and inspite of the full line of aviary amenities available here, I packed a bird feeder from Berrien Springs and a small bag of wild bird seed--a symbolic bridge between the woods and wildlife we've known and the little glimpses of natural beauty we've already noted around our new home.  The villa patio shaded by an old fig tree, where a branch is reserved for the bird-feeder. We will never recreate the silence of the Michigan woods here, where we sit just above the cacophony of everyday life and motion for millions, but I trust we'll get to know the shy wildlife of Sabtieh Hill better when our home is completed and we can hang the feeder outside, beyond the patio.   If we hear more birds among the pines, willows and fig trees surrounding our little villa, I've also been assured we'll hear another range of Beirut's sounds.  There's a club at the foot of the hill that's open for Karaoke into the late hours of the hot summer nights...  I hope the sounds of Beirut never stop reminding me of the real world we've come to, and the reason we're here.  The sounds of people, their lives, their work and their spiritual journey are good to hear.

MOUNTAIN CLIMBING

I first was introduced to the Health Club the day after we moved up on the hill behind the university. After spending a long weekend in the girls' dorm, we began house-sitting one of the university homes above the campus since the family is on annual leave.  I was headed down the winding road towards the main campus to meet an appointment when just at the edge of the property of the house being remodeled for us, I noticed a few broken concrete steps leading down into a stand of pine.

Shortcut!  The possibility of a quicker journey and a sense of adventure gripped me and I ventured down those few steps--only to find it was just the first leg of a long, descending  staircase.  Never mind, I could trust anything that went down.  

I've learned that in Beirut there are four main directions to travel:  up, down, sea on right, sea on left. Since the university is on the top of Sabtieh (Sabbath) Hill, the first thing I'm sure of is that most of my destinations are down.  (The region's name, of course, comes from the years when the Seventh-day Adventist university was the main settlement on the hill.)  As long as a street is descending, then, I know I'm headed toward the coastline road.  At the bottom I can decide if I want the sea on my right (south) or my left (north).  Of course, up to now, I've not walked that far...

All that to explain why I didn't feel I'd be led astray to follow the steps into the pines.  I figured anything descending would drop me somewhere onto the main campus grounds.

Sure enough:  175 steps later I was only a few yards away from the remodeling that's going on that is creating the new theology department and student lounge.  Can't get more direct.  Larry's trek to his office will be almost as efficient as a gondola ride.  And effortless.  A few more minutes around the campus and past the entrance to the university is the office where I work.  An easy slide on a rainy day.

But everything that goes down must go up.  One bend at a time.  Right?

A brisk beginning

The second wind

Then at the top.  Out.  Of.  Breath.

And that's what the free, full-service Health Club provides.  Anytime I want to go home, I get to  walk back up.  

I've lost four pounds since arriving.  I still have to stop and catch my breath about three times up through the pines, but come another few weeks and I'll probably be sprinting up.  

As far as Health Club membership:   Can't own a car.  You have to live up the hill from the Khawli's grocery and the Egyptian-run produce market on the corner below it.  Hitching a ride with a friend is always a possibility, but sometimes that's after the food supply in the house has dropped below a few oranges.   (It takes a lot more calories to get out and buy the calories.)

Last night we both decided we had  compound fever, so we ventured on an hour's stroll downhill through the maze  of traffic.  (Pedestrians and cars compete for road space, though swerving is the car's job. Leaping out of the way is the pedestrians option.)   Neither of us felt like buying much at the grocery store, though, when we knew it would have to be carried back up the hill.  (Lindt's 70% dark chocolate bars are very light, though.)

But the healthy part isn't saved just for Sabtieh Hill.

Much of Beirut is built on the foothills of Mt. Lebanon.  The whole country is actually a dramatic mountain range.  And anything you do--tour downtown Beirut, visit the ruins at Baalbek, climb Mt. Hermon, walk the quaint streets of Byblos, stop by Tyre and Sidon, or visit  the cedars in the south--your journey will be up and down, down and up, up and up.  Lebanon is a Health Club.

The largest hippodrome in the world--40,000 people could watch the chariots racing on a track 12 football fields long--offers a good place to begin, with only sections of an elaborate stadium remaining.  

Heading to the top...

...to watch the races

It gave the spectators in Tyre a moderate workout compared to the exertion involved in...

Climbing to services in the brand new 
Maronite Cathedral in Maghdouche.

Visiting the President of Lebanon's 
summer home.  He's not home; it's spring.

Stepping over neighborhood residents
living in the alleys of Tyre's old town

Climbing back onto the bus, headed
for the next stop

Or returning to the campus of
MEU at the end of the day

It's all exercise.  It's a good deal of hard work.  It's what makes us stronger.  That's one benefit of climbing mountainsides and standing at the top.  We're all stronger for it.  

That's Lebanon.