Hello everyone,
Christian here. Today was an off day for me. Some plans to head toward Anjar, near the Syrian border, were called off or just a little uncertain, so suddenly I had almost a full day to myself.
In the morning George came over and brought some incredible mamounieh with him. For those who don't know what mamounieh is, just click here. We talked as we ate and enjoyed each other's company. It's awesome to have such a close friend in this part of the world that you can count on to show you the local culture and local customs and teach you everything you need to know about the people here.
After mamounieh, we decided to call up some of our good friends in LA who we went to Armenia with the year before. Badveli Vatche Ekmejian and his son Ari answered our call late at night at home and we had a great half-hour conversation with them talking about life here in Lebanon and catching up with each other. Again, it's great having friends in that part of the world who you can call and laugh and joke around with, no matter the hour (it was past 12 AM when Ari hung up the call).
The rest of the day was spent eating (what else to do in Lebanon) some fantastic Classic Burger. In my humble opinion, Classic Burger has very nearly reached the pinnacle that In-N-Out currently holds in the burger world. It was an amazing burger, the coleslaw that goes with it was crazy good, and to top it off, they offer bottomless fries and soda free with your order. No one can topple the king, but they sure can come pretty darn close.
After that, we toured parts of downtown and Zeytuna Bay, just George, our friend Levon, and I, which was nice just to walk and talk. The rest of the night was full of camp meetings and highly important stuff of that sort.
But that's not the point of this blog post today. Today, I wanted to focus on a unique experience both my father and I have now lived through by being in Beirut. It's been on my mind since it occured and I thought this would be a good place to share it.
Many of you know this story from the little story I did on my Dad via Instagram already, but if you don't, the story goes as follows (in short): my grandpa used to own a glass shop in Bourj Hammoud, the Armenian neighborhood in Beirut. Every day my dad and him would walk across a bridge from their neighborhood into Bourj Hammoud to begin the day. When the civil war began, that bridge became very dangerous. Snipers had taken up positions inside nearby mosque minarets so as to get a wide view of their surroundings and pick off anyone they deemed a threat.
One day when my dad and grandpa were on their usual walk across the bridge, shots rang out and bullets whizzed by my dad. My grandpa yelled for him to drop down and get out of sight so the sniper couldn't see them. They had to crawl all the way back down the bridge and across the street to safety.
But that wasn't the end. My grandpa needed to go to work after all. Someone's got to provide for the family. At that time, there were daring taxi drivers who, for the right price, were willing to drive across the bridge at top speed to the other side to drop off scared passengers. My grandpa paid for the speedy taxi, and with a little luck, they made it across. End of story.
With that being said, on my first day in Lebanon, George and I crossed a bridge to get from our neighborhood to Bourj Hammoud to grab dinner. As we were walking, I began to wonder if this bridge had any ties to the one my dad used to walk. I resolved to take a detailed video of the bridge and send it to my dad to see if he could remember any details about it.
That evening, I called him to see what he had to say. When I picked up, the first thing he said was "that is the EXACT same bridge that I walked on when I was a young boy. Nothing has changed. Nothing. Unbelievable."
For some reason, that sent chills down my spine. Had the sniper been a bit of a better shot, my dad could've died on that bridge that day, and I wouldn't be here writing this post today. The same bullet holes are still carved into the rock of the bridge's foundation. The freeway that runs under the bridge is the same. The same two-lane road on both sides.
It was a surreal feeling walking the same steps my dad took on that day, and having a look around at the mass of buildings now built in that area, picturing the events of that day in my head.
I can imagine a smiling little boy holding his father's hand, wondering what the day at work would hold for them.
Would he stay with his dad all day, watching his reflection morph and shift in the beautiful glass his father worked with?
Would his father send him out throughout the neighborhood to deliver finished products to waiting customers?
Would they eat lebne and olives as usual, or had his dad prepared a special meal just for the two of them?
I imagine the rapid crack! crack! crack! of the bullets echoing around the city. Neighbors' heads shoot up, suddenly anxious. Shop owners hurriedly pack up their wares and fold up their awnings, closing their metal doors and heading away from trouble. They don't want any more violence to cloud the relative peace in their neighborhood.
I imagine the instant, blinding fear in my grandpa's eyes as he looked around to see whether his son, his little boy, was okay. How could he go home to his family knowing that he had taken his son out into the open when there were active guerrilla street battles happening around them?
I can imagine the relief when his eyes darted around and he saw his son there, intact and in one piece. I hear the crack in his voice as he yells for his son to drop down and roll out of sight, into the cover of the bridge railing. I can imagine them both counting each shuffled, awkward, clumsy movement backward on the ground tensely until they had reached safety.
And I can imagine the nerves that were exploding within them as the taxi they sat in picked up speed as it hit the bridge, the egine sputtering and then revving loudly. They stared at the speedometer and willed the already-twitching gauge to go farther.
I sit here typing this as I wonder what life would be like if something had happened on that day. I praise God that my father was safe and emerged unscathed. To this day, it is still something to marvel at.
Read on, my friends.
Love, Christian (Day 7)
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