Arrival and Unexpected Lodging

Dbayeh Camp, Lebanon 2010

Previously:

I arrived in Beirut, navigating the chaos of the airport with a mix of trepidation and excitement. Meeting Joseph after weeks of planning felt surreal, as we drove through the vibrant streets of the city, my senses overwhelmed by the new environment. Amidst animated conversations and warm welcomes, the reality of my adventure began to sink in. Friends and strangers alike eyed me curiously, intrigued by the American accompanying Joseph. Our journey through checkpoints and winding roads revealed the stark contrasts and unexpected beauty of Lebanon, setting the stage for the profound experiences that awaited me.

He parked the car in a space meant for a motorcycle squeezed in between 30 other cars. I couldn't help but wonder how they'd all manage to move and get out in the morning. There seemed to be no exit strategy. This made a Trader Joe's parking lot look like an airport runway.

I didn't question his methods. This was his turf; I was just a visitor learning the ropes. He led me to a small wire-framed gate, an ancient contraption that looked like it had been there since Jesus walked these lands. As he opened it, the gate creaked loudly. He glanced over his shoulder as if we were breaking in somewhere, putting a finger to his lips to remind me to be quiet. I was practically asleep on my feet, probably dreaming all of this from the plane.

He fidgeted with the lock until he finally opened a green metal door, creating a tiny opening. I was just glad I could fit through, shoving my backpack ahead of me. He pointed to the room—a quaint, almost eerie space with a single bed and a cross hanging above it. "Good night," he said, handing me what looked like a burner phone.

"I'll just be down there," he pointed into the darkness. It felt like it was across town.

"Wait, I’m confused. So where are you sleeping?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"With my family, I’m really close," he replied.

"But I thought I was going to sleep at your house," I protested, feeling panic rise.

"Well, there isn’t really any private space there," he admitted. "So I thought this would be more comfortable for you to have your own room," he added.

I sat down slowly on the twin bed, which seemed actually smaller than a normal twin. "Okay... But whose place is this?"

"They're really good friends. They’re more like my aunt and uncle. You’re very safe here," he assured me.

In my head, my inner critic was thinking, this is going to be really awkward in the morning. Waking up to strangers in their home, and I can barely say hello to them, let alone ask how to use the bathroom. Because, judging by the looks of things, there's probably a trick to using the toilet here.

"You trust me?" he asked.

His question snapped me out of my imaginary fear loop. Loaded question! Sure, I guess I trusted him, but did I really know him? Was I this naive? He could have some plot to kidnap me, the clueless American that is trying to help. What did I know? Apparently not much.

I snapped out of it. "What are their names?"

"Rafik and Isabelle."

Good character names, I thought. The room was clean and cute, with a rustic, hostel-chic vibe. The bed had a comfy-looking blanket, and I was beyond tired. A Mother Mary candle sat on the bedside table next to a pack of cigarettes, some matches, and a burning mosquito coil. The scent reminded me of incense from the temples in Nepal.

“I promise you are safe. Do you know how to use that?" He pointed to the burner phone.

"Um, yeah..." Though I really didn’t. "Just press 1, that’s my number. Let it ring once and hang up when you wake up. Let it ring once and hang up but do it two times, if you need me to come right away. And let it ring all the way if it’s super important, and I'll hang up and come out running to check on you."

I looked at him like he was crazy. What sort of Morse code was this?

"Hmm, little weird?!"

"Well, yeah. If I answer right away, it’s super expensive. So we came up with this system." (This isn’t an issue anymore now that there is the internet and WhatsApp, and everyone can pretty much talk to anyone anytime. But back in the pre-internet days at the camp, phones were a high-priced commodity.)

"Let me see you try it out."

I fidgeted with the old phone and pressed 1. It’s fascinating how different life can be in various parts of the world. Even the dial tone sounded foreign when I tested the relic.

"Ok, I think I got it."

"Good," he smiled and walked out the door. "See you in the morning."

And then he was gone.

I sat on the twin bed, feeling the weight of the room and the unknown wall I shared with strangers.

Exhausted and delirious, I realized I wouldn't be staying with Joseph and his family. He had placed me in the best spot, but I didn’t want to be alone. I had to buck up. I was alone in an unknown camp, trusting a man I barely knew. My anxiety played tricks, but my gut told me to wait. No internet, no one knew where I was. I could find a way out if needed, right?

I lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed and wiped away my tears. All I wanted to do was sleep, but I couldn't. Eventually, the angel of sleep took over me and I entered a deep sleep filled with dreams and nightmares.

Shortly after that, I could hear a soft lullaby or what seemed like a chant. Later, I found out that Joseph's camp was one of the only Christian Palestinian camps, with a beautiful church perched above it. They were performing their morning vespers, a peaceful ritual to start the day.

The next thing I knew, I woke up to the smell of fresh, strong coffee. Jet-lagged and hungover from emotion, it was time to face my hosts. I tried my best to pronounce "good morning," muttering, "Sabah al Kheir," with a smile, probably butchering it like I was in a Kurosawa film.

Rafik, who looked like he had seen some crazy shit in his life, smiled back, almost stifling a laugh, his single tooth like an exclamation mark. He looked me up and down as if he could see right into my soul. His wife, Isabelle, was chopping a ton of parsley that looked like a pitcher's mound. The table was packed like they were expecting 20 people for a feast. I couldn’t ask what the special occasion was, so I just smiled, trying to convey as much as I could with my eyes.

Isabelle gestured to the table, inviting me to sit. She opened her arms and hugged me like I was her long-lost relative. I could have gotten lost in that hug. Suddenly, Shel Silverstein’s poem popped into my head:

"I will not play at tug o’ war. I’d rather play at hug o' war, Where everyone hugs, instead of tugs, Where everyone giggles and rolls on the rug…"

Her hug took me back to my second-grade teacher, Miss Beaver, who had that same mama bear hug, wrapped up like a cozy marshmallow. She was the one who had us memorize that poem by Shel Silverstein. And wow, I still remembered it like it was yesterday. The whole class had to memorize it, but not everyone could. It felt like a big feat, standing up in front of the class to recite it. Now, some twenty years later, in a refugee camp on the opposite side of the planet, that poem from my second-grade teacher hit me so hard. It felt like time travel, receiving some sort of wisdom. It was trippy.

Rafik, likely sensing my urgent need, pointed to the bathroom and nodded. The small bathroom, walled with pink tile, required water from a tap to flush the toilet. Everything was wet because it also served as the place to shower and hand wash clothes. Unsure of the toilet paper protocol, I saw a bucket full of used paper and assumed I should toss mine there. I didn't mind much; I was probably doing it wrong anyway. I needed to check with Joseph to avoid doing something offensive. I was just happy to pee. But next time, I won't go in barefoot!

I had so many questions and wanted to talk to them, but the language barrier made it impossible. So, I just smiled a lot—I've heard my smile is one of my best attributes. I tried calling Joseph on the burner phone with the one-ring-and-hang-up method, but no luck. He hadn't shown up yet, and I didn't know where he was or where his family's place was. The camp was small, but I wasn't about to go wandering around trying to find him. At Rafik's, I felt like I was in the shallow end of the pool, I was not ready for the deep end.

So, I had to wait. Rafik and I drank coffee, and he kept offering me cigarettes, which I didn't want to smoke. But since we couldn't really talk, and I didn't want to offend him, I smoked and fueled up on the real-deal rocket fuel Arabic coffee.

Rafik ushered me out to the "Patio," a small area in front of my room with a cement wall that reached my knees. He sat me down on a plastic chair, the kind you see at a neighborhood barbecue. He pulled up another chair beside me, and we sat there, watching the camp come to life. The camp was like a port, a thoroughfare where people and stories came and went.

People approached Rafik, animatedly gesturing as if everything around us was bursting with technicolor vibrancy. As they looked at me with raised eyebrows, I caught the words "American" and "Joseph." Their puzzled glances lingered on my Ugg boots.

One of my first impressions of the camp was mixed, like those bags of nuts at the gas station—some taste amazing, others are just the usual fare. I felt a deep sadness soaking into me from the cement walls lining the narrow streets, but also a profound sense of connection, community, and strength. These were warriors, a band of resilient souls I had only read about.

The cars slowly began to maneuver out, with owners shouting down the road and into windows, coordinating to move their cars so the one person who needed to leave could. It all worked in a seamless, communicative way. Back home, we get annoyed if someone takes our parking spot at work or school. Here, cooperation was essential. They had no choice but to work together, or else they would fail.

Within these walls lay each family’s home, crammed into about 500 square feet if they were lucky. People lined the streets, playing backgammon or cards, smoking, their faces etched with wisdom, strength, and sorrow. Kids played soccer and stick games with a gusto of glee, their spirits wise beyond their years. These kids weren’t like the ones I knew. A Palestinian child of 11 had the smarts and demeanor of an 18-year-old. They were all gifted beyond anything I had witnessed in my travels. Each had a unique talent, whether in music, art, science, inventing things or simply survival talents.

Joseph had shared that they had to be exceptional to survive and cope. If they ever wanted to escape the camp, being normal or even great wasn’t enough—they needed to be outstanding. This necessity of brilliance was their ticket to a better life, their hope amid the stark reality of their circumstances. And here I was, absorbing all of this, feeling both out of place and strangely connected to the resilience and vibrancy around me.

Suddenly, I remembered Joseph’s instructions about the phone and tried again to call him. But this time, I forgot to hang up after the first ring and let it ring a few more times. Within moments, Joseph, his brother, and his mom and dad came running from the alleyway towards me. I was shocked at how close Joseph’s place was to Rafik’s. It is incredible how scary the unknown can be.

"Are you okay?!" Joseph shouted as soon as he saw me, panting and out of breath.

"Yeah, everything is good," I replied.

“Why did you let it ring three times? I thought something was wrong.”

I didn’t know what to say to him, so I just smiled and said, “Good morning.”

He smiled back at me and shook his head in disbelief, then turned around and told his family something. I assumed he said, “Everything is fine, she’s okay. Americans and their unlimited phone plans don’t understand how to use our phone system.” His mom, dad, and brother smiled and waved to me. His brother said in good English, “Come over, my mom is making steak and eggs for breakfast.”

Seeing them sprinting to my rescue made my heart swell. They must have thought something was terribly wrong, and here they were, ready to help at a moment's notice. It was in that instant I realized I was safe with these people. Strangers, yes, but they felt like family. I felt a bit guilty for scaring them, but the overwhelming feeling of belonging was undeniable. It was as if I had found where I was always supposed to be…