From Fear to Fascination

Whispers of Tripoli.

Previously:

In a harrowing journey, Joseph and I evaded highway bandits as we raced towards safety in Tripoli. Joseph's calm demeanor and expert driving contrasted sharply with the chaos outside, revealing his hidden skills and deep resilience. My mind reeled, trying to process the surreal reality of modern-day bandits while reflecting on a similarly terrifying experience I had in Alaska. As we neared the Bridge of the Buried, a checkpoint with a grim history, Joseph reassured me of our safety once we crossed. Despite the fear and uncertainty, I felt a growing trust in Joseph and a readiness to face whatever came next. As we finally reached the checkpoint and were cleared, Joseph's eyes remained fixed on the rearview mirror, hinting that the danger might not be entirely behind us.

As we pulled away from the Bridge of the Buried checkpoint, I exhaled deeply, realizing I had been holding my breath. Glancing back repeatedly, it felt surreal to have outmaneuvered the bandits and reached a safety zone in this foreign land that resembled a lost ark.

As the checkpoint receded in the rearview and the GMC gained speed, the tension remained thick and palpable. I clung to my seat, hoping for relief once we crossed, but the landscape only darkened as we drove towards downtown Tripoli.

"We're okay… We made it, right?" I asked.

Joseph nodded and smiled. "The fan is always on, and more shit can hit it at any given moment."

"You’re kidding?! Nooo." I whined like a little girl.

Joseph chuckled. "Yeah, we're good.”

But that’s the thing with Joseph—he kept you calm, even if you weren’t really sure.

The drive felt interminable, the darkness pressing in on all sides. My mind drifted to Tripoli’s ancient origins, making the journey feel like a trip back in time. Tripoli, one of the oldest towns in the Middle East and thus one of the oldest in the world, carried a tangible weight of history. This added to the journey's complexity and intensified my swirling emotions.

As we circled a roundabout, I noticed a large inscription in its center, proud and prominent like a billboard. Curious about its significance, I wondered what it said. Anticipating my question, Joseph said, "It says Allah.”

A slight tinge of worry gripped me. I had only heard that word in negative contexts, usually associated with something bad in the media.

"It literally means God,” Joseph said, almost reading my mind and trying to quiet my anxious thoughts. Seeing it here, prominently displayed, was a stark reminder of how different our worlds were. The roundabout, once named for its religious significance, now stood as a relic of past conflicts and cultural shifts. The world I was entering was layered with complexities I was only beginning to understand.

Parking in Tripoli was just like in the camp—cars crammed into every possible space, creating an impossible maze. Joseph maneuvered the GMC into a spot that barely fit, wedging the car between others in a haphazard puzzle. I shook my head, impressed but almost expecting this sort of skilled navigation from him."Welcome to Tripoli," he said, lowering his eyebrows slightly, a gesture that means "yes" in Arabic.

"Ready to go meet Lita?" Joseph asked, breaking my dumbfounded silence.

"Yes, I am!" I replied, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation. Meeting one of Joseph's best friends was an inviting treat. Lita, one of his oldest friends from college, was to be our guide. Joseph was excited for me to meet her, and the thought of a friendly face after the chaos was comforting. I shared his excitement but couldn't help but wonder if it was really worth the trip.

Joseph exclaimed, "I know it was wild and scary getting here, but I really wanted you to meet Lita and experience the North. My mom is from the South, and you'll see a lot of that on this trip. But the North has a whole different dynamic.” 

As Lita arrived, her infectious energy dispelled my tension. She greeted us with warm hugs, her presence a beacon of comfort in this unfamiliar city. We wandered through the crickety, rust-stained streets, the city a fascinating blend of old and new. Shops stayed open late into the night, their vibrant lights illuminating the diverse architecture around us. The mix of Phoenician, Ottoman, and modern styles was astounding, each building a testament to centuries, sometimes millennia, of history. Walking among these ancient structures, I felt a profound sense of awe and realized just how incredible it was to be surrounded by such a rich fabric of time.

Lita led us to the middle of the town square, and my eyes widened in amazement. Towering above us was a modern-day Tower of Babel made entirely of plastic and electronic waste. At first glance, it appeared to be a pile of junk, but as I looked closer, it revealed itself as a striking structure—an eclectic assembly of electronic remnants, Wall-E-esque parts, Radio Shack tidbits, keyboards, and wires all intricately woven together. I saw within the discarded technology—a testament to human ingenuity and resilience. The structure had a dystopian vibe, reminiscent of an ancient but also futuristic civilization. It was shocking to see art created from once-expensive and highly used technology. Back home, you wouldn't see anything like this unless you were watching a Philip K. Dick movie. 

"Whoa, I have to get a picture of this!" I exclaimed, fumbling for my phone. Joseph chuckled "We don’t have the infrastructure to recycle this stuff, so we make art out of it. It’s a way of immortalizing things that would otherwise be wasted."

Lita, with the excitement of a teenager was ready to move on to the next spot. "Yalla, you guys!" she exclaimed, her energy infectious and her enthusiasm impossible to resist. We kept walking down the weathered streets, to a building that looked like it belonged in a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean. It had a flashing, broken sign that said, "Jack lives Here."

"What's that about?" I wondered aloud.

Joseph and Lita laughed. "Come on, let's find out!" they said. Joseph opened the door and gestured for us to enter. "Ladies first."

"Oh, it's a bar!" I said, a little too surprised.

Lita giggled. "Here we say 'pub'—bars are only for cabarets and vavoom things."

Inside I was immediately transported back in time. The ancient cobblestones and rustic charm contrasted sharply with the trendy, young crowd inside. It felt like everyone should be wearing tunics and bedazzled accessories.

This pub had been serving patrons for way over 800 years, a fact that filled me with awe. Climbing up a narrow staircase which was more like a ladder, we found a cozy corner in the back. I reached out and touched the ancient brick above my head, which seemed like it should crumble in my hands. The juxtaposition of the old architecture and the vibrant conversations created a unique, sublime atmosphere.

I felt safe and comforted, amazed at how quickly my feelings had shifted. Within a couple of hours, I had gone from adrenaline and fear of death to sitting in this ancient pub that buzzed with intellectual conversations. Books and beards mingled with women speaking their minds and men discussing ideas.

I started thinking to myself that maybe it was worth going through that road to get here. I looked at Joseph and saw him smiling, our eyes locked and he smirked as if he could read my mind. 

Lita was so bubbly and fun, and I remember her hugging me like a long-lost sister. I immediately connected with her and was excited to pick her brain about Joseph since she went to school with him and had stories to share.

I asked Lita how she met Joseph and what their school experience was like. As she began to tell me the story, a young woman who looked like she belonged in Los Angeles arrived to take our drink orders. Everyone chose their drinks, and I asked if they had wine. They all laughed, almost as if they were laughing at me.

Joseph looked at me and said, "Have you never had Lebanese wine before?" I shook my head. I had heard about it but was still skeptical.

Joseph nodded to the waitress and told her to bring red wine to the table. She returned with a carafe that reminded me of my grandpa, who used to drink wine from those Italian glass carafes. They poured me a sip to taste, and I couldn't believe it. It was some of the best red wine I'd ever had—simple, subtle, smooth, and not too heavy. With each sip of wine, the same type of amazing wine that Jesus drank, it made sense why he said, "This is my blood. Drink it to remember me."

We were all laughing and having the best time when I asked why Joseph didn't pursue his engineering degree and chose the arts instead. It seemed like an odd choice for him. Suddenly, the table went quiet, as if I had asked something terribly wrong.

Lita explained that as a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon, Joseph faced union restrictions that barred Palestinians from practicing professions like engineering or medicine. Despite his qualifications, he couldn't join a union, which meant he couldn't work as an engineer or doctor. The highest position he could attain in an engineering office would be that of an office boy. The same restrictions applied to professions like law and medicine. In Lebanon, union membership is essential for practicing most professions, and Palestinians are excluded from these unions. However, the arts did not require union membership, allowing Joseph to carve out a path as an artist and be able to find work.

"So you're telling me that even though someone is smart and qualified, they aren't allowed to work in the profession they’re trained for?" I asked incredulously.

Lita shook her head heavily.

Joseph nodded. "I wanted so badly to study engineering, but what's the point if I can't practice it? Art gives me freedom."

Lita explained that she met Joseph after he had to drop out of pure physics school, but he received a scholarship at the prestigious university they both attended. 

"My mom cried for weeks when I told her I stopped studying physics," Joseph added with a tinge of sadness.

I selfishly thought about my own disappointment at not being able to pursue my degree at UCLA because I didn’t qualify for financial aid. Even though I was at the top of my class and graduated early, I didn’t have a scholarship. That devastation felt like nothing compared to being banned from practicing your profession because of who you were born as.

As the night deepened, I found myself in a scene reminiscent of Paris and the Lost Generation of the 1920s, with circles of Henry Miller, Hemingway, and Anaïs Nin. But this wasn't Paris—it was Tripoli.

It hit me hard: I was in the Middle East, in a town as old as time, where most Americans would feel anxious even talking about visiting. Here I was, with a group of scholars, in an 800-year-old pub, drinking incredible wine and discussing world affairs and the wonders of life.

Before we parted, Lita insisted we try the famous Kaak, the bread of Tripoli. It's a beautiful piece of brown bread with sesame seeds and cheese, toasted to perfection on a charcoal grill. We each grabbed one, eating as we walked, and eventually we reached the Mina, the port of Tripoli. One of the oldest ports, it is also the closest to Greece and Cyprus. There used to be a ferry that took people from Tripoli to Cyprus in under an hour and a half.

I was amazed. "Wait, like Cyprus, Cyprus, like Europe, Cyprus?" 

They nodded, as I tried to recall the map in my head, figuring out how close we were to Europe. Joseph said, "I will tell you why the Middle East is always in turmoil. Many people don't understand this, but it's really quite simple. The Middle East is the intersection of three continents. Europe, Asia, and Africa meet here, and most transit routes pass through here. If you're sending anything from Africa to Europe, it has to go through the Middle East. From Asia to Europe, it has to go through the Middle East. From Asia to Africa, and vice versa, it has to go through the Middle East. Control over the Middle East means control over the trading routes of the world.”

Everyone had their opinions and expanded on political situations, but what mattered to me was the beauty of this place. The country was absolutely stunning. It was quickly stealing my heart. 

We stood by the Mina, with the boats serenading us quietly. Joseph said, "Okay, it's time to go." I rubbed my eyes, realizing I had no idea what time it was. It dawned on me that we weren't staying the night in Tripoli—we were heading back to the camp.

I asked Joseph, "We going back the same way?" He looked at me kindly, explaining that there was no other way back unless we went through Syria, which was out of the question.

I started to freeze up. Sensing my worry, Lita hugged me and reassured me, "Don't worry, you'll always be safe with this guy."

I took a deep breath and got back into the GMC. As we started heading south, I clung to the bar on the door so tightly that Joseph could hear it crackling. He glanced at my hand, then back at the road, smirking. "Oh, that's why they call those ‘The Oh Shit handle’?" he joked.

His humor and grasp of American culture and the English language amazed me. I kept thinking how incredible it was that this man could jump between worlds: growing up in the camp, attending a prestigious school and university, and having friends in every corner of the country.

Then it hit me even deeper. Joseph wasn't just bridging worlds in Lebanon—he was doing it in America, in a different language and culture. And I was proof of that. He was bringing cultures together, and I realized on that long, dark drive back why he was so fascinated by the Questioneers and wanted to be part of it. He was teaching children to do what he was doing around the world. He is the example and by our friendship making me an example, and encouraging others to think independently. It's like the old proverb: "Those who live see, and those who travel see more."

As the road grew darker and the number of parked cars on the side increased, my fear began to settle in more deeply. I was worried that something else might happen to us, just like on the way up. After we passed the "Bridge of the Buried" and entered no man's land, Joseph could feel my tension. He told me I would be okay and then lifted the middle console of his Jimmy, handing me a gun. “Here, you can hold this if it makes you feel any better.”

I didn't know what else to do. Normally, holding a gun wouldn’t make me feel better—in fact, I used to be against them. I had only recently, for the first time, taken a gun safety course and held one at a gun range to humor a colleague because I lost a bet. But in this case, I grabbed it like a long-lost friend and held it in my lap, my heart pounding. So this gun has been in this car the whole time, and I had no clue. What else is going on that I have no clue about? Why does this guy make me want to trust him blindly, then make me doubt everything?