One Week In Lebanon

Lebanon is nearly no one's first pick as a travel destination. If you're an American born before 9/11, images of Hezbollah and news coverage of the civil war come to mind. Post, Lebanon perhaps is just a part of the Middle East monolith; Hollywood yellow-tinted and war-torn. It's true that the State Department's travel advisory not to go there isn't for nothing. Lebanon does bear the scars of war and has fizzled under the strain of economic collapse and government corruption. Of course, Lebanon is more complex than that; there are beautiful places, good food, and warm people to share a cup of coffee with. Lebanon is full of persistent, resilient life. Like every place, Lebanon is composed of juxtaposition, contradiction. 

Of course, to the average American who asked me, genuinely befuddled,' just why are you going, again?' Lebanon's complexity isn't readily known. I'll confess, as I squared myself to travel outside the country for the first time, following the untrod path was thrilling. More exciting, I wasn't going for family, as a vacation, or even as a mission trip. I was going as a board member for Beirut and Beyond, the organization I had served for the past three years. 

Since the height of Covid, I had read, researched, and spoken about Palestinian refugees. Arriving in Lebanon was a long-awaited moment to meet our organizational partners. In a strange way, I felt like I was meeting with movie stars. A weird parasocial relationship had developed for me. I had spent years at this point, seeing pictures of Palestinian Civil Defense (PCD) and Simsim Kitchen members. I had scraped the internet for articles on PCD fighting fires and scrolled through Simsim kitchen cooking class posts. From stats and stories, I knew these people. 

But that's one of the dangers of work that supports partners thousands of miles away; it's easy to flatten them into statistics, and not communicate the essential humanity of their work, of who they are. Just reporting numbers to potential donors, to hopefully get support back can hardly be called partnership. For me, the privilege of visiting two Palestinian refugee camps was a new chapter in building a true relationship with our partners. 

The start of this new chapter came first in a cooking class in the Bourj Al-Barajneh refugee camp. Under the direction of Huda--one of the Simsim kitchen cooks, as a board, we learned to cook Mujaddarah. A secret: the best meals are not found at Michelin-star restaurants, they must be in a family room, under flickering lights, in the middle of Beirut. With sweat welling in between our fingers we chopped bowls of onion and parsley. With much laughter, we peeled potatoes and passed tools between each other. And, in awe, we watched Huda confidently carve a tomato rosette out. Watching Huda was LIKE watching a master sharing their craft. Even just a few weeks later, the memory of making and sharing that meal together is such a shining moment of beauty and community for me. For one splendid afternoon, I was able to witness such talent in another person. This sort of talent isn't unbelievable, but it did feel genuinely precious in an environment palpable with despair. 

In some measure, I'd like to think being taught how to make these dishes supersedes what the camps are. The camps are a supposedly temporary solution to what's become a permanent nightmare. The camps are a way to hide Palestinians. The camps are a liminal space where a legacy cannot be built. But in the camps I learned permanent things: I learned how hot oil can be used to fry onions and then poured on potatoes. I learned just how small vegetables need to be cut for a good Tabbouleh. I learned what Huda's son wants to be when he grows up, and what their cat's name is. I learned a million little things about the camps, Huda, and her son that I cannot forget. A million things that while the world's gaze falls away from Palestinians, remind me that I can help turn it back. In a way, a recipe is a legacy on its own; I don't think I can make Batata Harra a different way than what was taught to me by Huda now. Every time I'll peel the potatoes I'll think of her smiling across the table from us. I'll remember her carefully setting the skillet on the ground as she poured hot oil over it, us watching with bated breath. Knowing and remembering is a gift that can't be taken away. 

At the end of any experience abroad what more can you ask for? To know I came home with new knowledge blooming. To tell people about the people I met, and share the extent of what is so seldom seen in the world. I got to experience the depths of Lebanon with people who have always lived there, and some who have loved it only for a brief time. I got to see the mountains, the ocean, and the heart of the city. I walked through Palestinian refugee camps, a place unknown and inaccessible to most of the world. This trip was just a taste of the chaos of Beirut, I know I'll be returning for more. 

Micala Khavari has been Beirut and Beyond's intern since May 2020 and is a valuable member of Beirut and Beyond’s team. She has her degree in International Studies from the University of Denver with minors in Writing Practices and Religious Studies. She has a heart for the Middle East, immigration, and talking your ear off about both! She also makes the weekly Friday Facts posts for Beirut and Beyond and continues to volunteer as a communications manager.