Golden Ticket, Dark Checkpoint

Jounieh

Previously:

Joseph’s silence during our drive to Harissa was unsettling, a stark contrast to his usual energy. When we arrived, the serene atmosphere of the towering statue and cedar trees seemed to ease some of the tension between us. Harissa was his place of peace, where he needed to process something that had happened the night before—something he wasn’t ready to talk about yet.
As we climbed the winding stairs, the view of the Mediterranean below brought a sense of calm, but the weight of the unknown still lingered. We spent the day in quiet reflection, surrounded by the sacred beauty of Harissa, a place that felt almost magical.
Later, over dinner at a cliffside restaurant, the tension between us began to lift as Joseph shared stories from his past. But as night fell, with the lights of Beirut sparkling in the distance, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I turned to him and asked, “So, are you going to tell me where you went last night?”

The winding cliff road seemed to stretch endlessly before us, the city lights of Beirut slowly dissolving into the darkness behind. It wasn’t too late, but Joseph, distant and lost in thought, didn’t want to return to the camp just yet. His silence weighed heavily on me, amplifying the unease that had settled in since the previous night. Something was still off but I couldn’t put my finger on it. 

To break the strain he suggested we visit his university. Curious to see the place where he had studied, I agreed, and we set off toward Jounieh. He mentioned their impressive collection of Khalil Gibran’s works, a detail that piqued my interest. I had always admired Gibran’s The Prophet, a book that seemed to hold the essence of a meaningful life, part of the essential collection for any poet, alongside Whitman, Kerouac, and Rilke. Its wisdom resonated through weddings, funerals, and those quiet moments in between. I hadn’t realized that Gibran was from Lebanon, let alone born here. Somehow, it felt like a revelation, one I hadn’t considered until now.

Even though the drive to Harissa had soothed some of the tension from the night before, Joseph’s mind seemed miles away, lost in thoughts he kept to himself, leaving me to wrestle with my own swirling emotions as we plunged deeper into the night. 

“I really love this song,” I murmured, hoping to break the silence.

“Oh, Fairuz,” Joseph replied, a hint of a smile softening his expression. “She’s super famous here. I love her too.”

As Fairuz’s voice filled the car, singing softly on the radio, Joseph translated, “She’s singing about her love that is continents away and wishing the moon could take her tears away.” 

The lyrics, haunting and beautiful, seemed to echo the unspoken sadness between us, adding another layer to the night’s mysterious tension. He continues, "Reminds me of something Dr. King’s daughter said to me… She told me that no matter who looked up at the moon, it never cared about the color of their skin."

He mentioned it so casually, as if it were just another part of his life. During the filming of On the Road to America, Joseph had spent time with Martin Luther King Jr.’s daughter. He spoke about how deeply King’s legacy still resonates today, his tone so matter-of-fact that it left me utterly bewildered. I turned to him, staring in disbelief, trying to wrap my mind around how he could drop such a monumental detail so effortlessly, as if it were just another part of his day. Sure, I’d seen clips and outtakes from the show, had some vague idea of what it was about, but I’d never grasped the full scope of it until now. 

Joseph had been handpicked by casting directors—or more likely, the State Department—to be part of this grand experiment, a TV show designed to bridge the chasm between East and West. They assembled a group of Arabs from across the MENA region, packed them into RVs, and sent them on a cross-country journey through America. The goal was simple: immerse them in different cultures, have them meet people from all walks of life, visit iconic American landmarks, and film every reaction, every moment of cultural exchange. The show aired both in the Middle East and the USA, a carefully crafted diplomatic effort masquerading as a Documentary.

Joseph was chosen out of 50,000 applicants—one of only four to receive that coveted spot on the show. It was his golden ticket, his Willy Wonka moment. It allowed him to leave the confines of the refugee camp in Lebanon and step into a world few in his position could ever dream of. But what floored me even more was the reason he auditioned in the first place. Fresh off a brutal breakup with his girlfriend of seven years, he wasn’t looking for the typical rebound. No, Joseph was playing the long game. Instead of a revenge fling, he opted for a revenge life. His university professor had seen something in him, a spark of brilliance, and suggested he audition. On camera, Joseph was magnetic—charismatic, articulate, his English flawless. Everyone fell for him. But what they didn’t know was that Joseph had a secret weapon. Beyond his genius and charm, he was a master strategist, a chess player who knew how to navigate the complexities of life with unmatched skill.

As he spoke, I realized this was just one layer of the man beside me—a man whose life was a tapestry of calculated moves, unexpected opportunities, and the sheer will to rise above the circumstances he was born into.

“We’re here!” Joseph exclaimed, pulling the car into what looked like a parking lot designed for concerts or grand spectacles. “Will we even be able to get in?”  I wondered, noticing how late it was.

“Of course, it’s open 24/7,” Joseph reassured me.

That’s pretty cool, I thought, being able to come and go anytime you wanted.

The space was vast and eerily empty, the perfect backdrop for the sense of anticipation brewing inside me. As we stepped out, I followed Joseph toward a gate that felt almost too cool to be real, like something out of a secret society. The air felt charged, as if we were trespassing on hallowed ground.

Joseph rapped a quick, rhythmic knock on the gate, and a young man appeared, his face lighting up as he recognized Joseph. They exchanged a cool, intricate handshake that spoke of long-standing camaraderie. The gate creaked open, and we began our ascent up a series of marble stairs, their edges worn smooth by the relentless touch of the Mediterranean air. Each step echoed with eager minds, the kind that seep into your bones and linger long after you've gone.

At the top of the stairs, Joseph opened a grand door and ushered me inside. What unfolded before my eyes was nothing short of magnificent—a library that instantly took my breath away. It reminded me of the State Library of Victoria in Melbourne, one of my all-time favorites. The ceilings lined with endless rows of books that required ladders to reach. The entire space was circular, wrapped in dark wood and bathed in the warm glow of those iconic green reading lamps. Melbourne’s library had been a sanctuary for me when I stayed in St. Kilda, a place where I spent countless hours lost in books before indulging in the best pasta at Pelligrini’s. This library at Joseph’s university carried the same air of reverence and intellectual charm.

My mouth dropped open as I took it all in. “Damn, this is where you got to hang out and study?”

Joseph smiled, a touch of pride in his eyes. “Yeah, I spent a lot of time here, and I relished every minute of it.”

As if on cue, a young man approached us, his face lighting up as he recognized Joseph. Without hesitation, he pulled Joseph into a huge hug, and they began speaking in rapid Arabic. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw Joseph blush—a rare glimpse of vulnerability in the man who seemed to have everything under control.
As Joseph led me through the library’s stunning collection of Gibran’s work, he pointed out some very rare first editions, their spines worn with age but still radiating a quiet dignity. I marveled at the beauty of it all, but a question lingered in my mind, gnawing at me since we’d walked in.

“What did that guy say to you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Joseph glanced at me, a small, almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Oh, he mentioned he’d seen the show and really liked what I had to say, despite what everyone else around here was saying.”

I frowned, not fully understanding. “What do you mean?”

Joseph sighed, his gaze drifting over the rows of books as if they might help him find the right words. “Well… I kind of ruffled a lot of feathers by being on that show. I got into some trouble for speaking my mind. The guy was just saying that even though I have a lot of haters, having millions of fans is pretty cool too.”

As Joseph spoke, I began to understand the weight he carried—balancing the admiration of millions with the criticism of others, all while trying to stay true to himself. The library around us, filled with wisdom and history, suddenly felt like the perfect setting for this conversation—a sanctuary where truth and courage were valued above all else.

I was new to the whole social media world, with its obsession over followers, but I knew what it meant to be famous. I blurted out, "You have millions of fans?! Like, you’re famous?!"

Joseph just shrugged, saying, "Oh god… I guess I am," as if it hardly mattered to him. His focus was elsewhere, on things with more weight and meaning.

He handed me a beautifully illustrated page from one of Gibran’s older books, then flashed a smirk and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here. You, hungry?”

I hadn’t eaten this much since training for our soccer match in Guangzhou against China’s women’s Olympic team, but now I was starting to feel hungry again. Time felt strange here, slipping by in a way that made it impossible to track.

“Yeah…” I smiled, my attention momentarily caught by the vivid illustrations that seemed to leap off the page.

“Let’s go get some Knafeh!” Joseph said, his voice low but carrying an excited urgency that echoed through the library.

“Somewhat?” I laughed, intrigued by the unfamiliar word.

“Oh, God, it’s the best thing you’ll ever have!” Joseph’s eyes lit up with excitement. “It’s like a sweet dessert on a sesame burger bun, filled with cheese.”

I inwardly cringed, thinking, That sounds disgusting. But I nodded and smiled, deciding, If he’s this excited, I’ll have to try it.

We rode through the quiet streets, the late hour wrapping the city in stillness. As we approached Sea Sweet the glow of its bright white lights cut through the darkness, and I spotted the mermaid logo from a distance. I’d noticed the shop earlier and wondered what kind of magical place it could be. Now, up close, it dazzled like a Disney ride, promising delights that only your wildest dreams could conjure.

Suddenly, Joseph started muttering under his breath in an irritated tone, and then he murmured, "Shit." I don’t think I’d ever heard him curse before—at least not in English. Later, I would discover that Arabs are like the Champions of cursing. You could never out-curse an Arab. Their curses aren’t just simple phrases like "holy shit" or "fuck you." They’re full-on paragraphs of insults that could make a Russian warlord cry from the sheer force of them.

“What’s wrong?!” I asked, my mind immediately jumping to the thought that maybe Sea Sweet was closed and he was upset about missing out on our burger dessert of cheese.

“It’s a surprise checkpoint,” he said, his tone suddenly dead serious. The words hit me like a plunge into the frozen upper lake back home, where no matter how much you think you’re ready, the cold shocks your system, steals your breath, and makes your heart race. It was like that—an icy jolt of reality, and I knew this was serious. How serious, I was about to find out.

“They can do that?!” I asked, startled. “I thought they were only in certain areas.”

“Yeah, usually,” he replied, eyes narrowing as we approached the checkpoint. “But they do this from time to time when something is up...”

I felt like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he blurts out that slow-motion "fuuuuuuck" in front of his dad during the flat tire disaster. Only this time, the word echoed in my mind. My heart pounded in my chest—not just because of the checkpoint, but because of the terrifying possibility that they might be looking for him.

Joseph gripped the wheel of his Jimmy tightly, his knuckles whitening as he rubbed his bare feet against the pedals. I had noticed before that he liked to drive barefoot, a curious detail I’d never gotten around to asking about. Now, of all times, it seemed urgently important that I know. It’s funny how the brain latches onto the most trivial things when under stress, as if focusing on the small stuff can somehow shield us from the looming danger.

“Why do you drive barefoot all the time?” I blurted out, trying to keep my voice steady.

He glanced at me, a flicker of amusement crossing his tense face. “I just like it,” he replied, his tone calm but with an edge that sent a shiver down my spine. Then, his voice lowered, serious again. “And just remember—try and keep your cool. This checkpoint might be a little different.”

The soldier went through the usual routine, asking for our papers. We handed them over, and I watched as he gave me a quick, almost dismissive glance. But something was off this time—their annoyance was palpable, the stoic expressions faltering. These guys never got phased, but tonight, they were. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was American and with Joseph, or if they were just out to crack down tonight.

Without a word, the soldier demanded with his fist that Joseph pull over and get out of the car immediately. As he stepped out, he whispered, “It’s gonna be okay,” but his words felt empty, evaporating in the cold air. 

Joseph politely asked if he could at least put his shoes back on, but the soldier wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he grabbed Joseph roughly, dragging him out like he was nothing. Joseph isn’t a small guy—he’s 6’4” and built like a tank. But with a rifle in their hand, these soldiers can manhandle even the strongest men. They dragged Joseph barefoot across the freezing December pavement, slamming him against a wall and hitting him on the back with the butt of a rifle. All that "keep it cool, stay calm" rhetoric he’d given me flew right out the window. I freaked the fuck out.

“What the hell!” I cried out, my voice cracking with panic. “Stop! Just stop!” I screamed, my mind racing with disbelief. They can’t just beat people on the street like this! But then again, I knew better—back home, this happens if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was aware of the privilege my skin tone afforded me, keeping me from living in constant fear.

Joseph’s eyes locked onto mine, silently begging me to stop, but I couldn’t. The more I yelled, the louder the soldier laughed and the harder he slapped Joseph around. Joseph just stood there, without a single reaction to the slapping. Tears blurred my vision, but I kept screaming, desperate to make it all stop.

My screams echoed through the narrow streets, desperate and pleading, but no one responded. The few who passed by barely glanced our way, their indifference cutting through me like a knife. It felt like the world had turned its back on us, leaving us to endure this night terror alone.

My screams must have drawn attention because a higher-ranking soldier emerged from the checkpoint’s military truck and approached us. He pointed at me to be quiet, his presence so calm and commanding that I stopped mid-scream. He then walked over to Joseph and the soldier, and the three of them spoke quietly.

Moments later, I watched as Joseph, barefoot and red-faced, limped back to the car. His once strong and steady feet now seemed fragile, vulnerable against the cold, unforgiving pavement.

"They figured out I was the wrong guy," he muttered, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth that usually defined him. "Let’s get out of here. Sorry I’m not hungry anymore. We’ll try Knafeh another time." His words were casual, almost as if we were simply rescheduling a dinner, not leaving behind a scene of violence and humiliation.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. I just stared at him, my face streaked with tears, my heart pounding with a fury that I had never felt before. His body was hurt, but his soul seemed walled up and protected, like a castle surrounded by a moat. 

The way he accepted this, the way he endured in silence, filled me with a rage so deep it scared me. It wasn’t just anger—it was a primal, vicious need for vengeance. “We have to do something,” I hissed, my voice trembling with the intensity of my emotions. “Anything.” 

Joseph shook his head, the motion slow and weary, as if even that small act took more strength than he had left. "That's what they want," he replied, his voice calm, disturbingly calm. "You have to be smarter than that."

I stared at him, utterly bewildered by his composure. How could he be so calm? How could he channel Bruce Lee in a moment like this? My mind was consumed with the need for justice.

But Joseph, with his quiet strength, his unyielding resolve, stood as a wall against my fury. His restraint, his refusal to feed the fire of hatred, only stoked my anger further, until I was left shaking with the force of it, trapped between my helplessness and his calm.

He continued to drive down the highway with his eyes locked on the road and I continued to look at him and ponder… This was a man who had been through hell, and yet here he was, refusing to give in to the darkness, to let it consume him. His strength should have comforted me, but instead, it only highlighted my own weakness, my own inability to accept the brutal reality that we were facing.

I wanted to fight, but he made it clear that this wasn’t a battle for fists or fury. And that realization—that the world could be so unjust, so unyielding—only made me hate it even more.

Joseph's old Jimmy rumbled to a stop beneath the bright neon lights of the looming Casino, its glow reminiscent of a mini Vegas. But instead of pulling into the Casino’s lot, Joseph swung the wheel sharply, guiding us into the cracked asphalt of an abandoned restaurant parking lot. The juxtaposition was jarring—the high life of the casino above and the desolation of the empty lot below, with only the crashing waves of the Mediterranean to fill the silence.

We stepped out into the cool night air, the salty breeze soothing our skin as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon. The Mediterranean whispered against the shore, each wave a soft embrace. Without a word, we found ourselves sitting on the cold concrete, boots brushing against scattered debris, as the rising sun slowly painted the sky in hues of pink and orange.

I pulled my knees to my chest, finding comfort in the warmth of my Ugg boots—more than just footwear, they were a connection to home. My mom had gotten me my first pair back in eighth grade, a huge deal in the chilly, trend-lagging Pacific Northwest. Nobody had Uggs there, but my aunt in California kept my mom updated on the latest trends. I was thrilled to be ahead of the curve, wearing those soft, tan boots on our rain-soaked streets. My mom was always like that, going above and beyond to keep me in step with my cousins. She even got a pair for my best friend for Christmas, wanting to share that little slice of trendy warmth.

As I sat there on the cold concrete, memories of home wrapped around me like a familiar blanket, those boots becoming a strange comfort in this foreign land. The Casino’s neon lights buzzed and blinked in the background, a stark contrast to the serene rhythm of the Mediterranean waves crashing before us. I couldn’t help but wonder what my mom would think, seeing me here, half a world away, clinging to something as simple as a pair of boots. But memories—they ground you, reminding you who you are and where you’ve come from, even when you find yourself on the edge of an abandoned parking lot in Beirut, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.

Joseph leaned in closer, his presence warm beside me. While I watched the rising sun, I felt his gaze on me. "Pretty beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and tender.

“So beautiful,” I replied, the words slipping out almost as a sigh.

He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “My hands are cold… do you mind if I warm them in your Ugg boots?”

A smile tugged at my lips, and as the first rays of sunlight touched my face, I said, “No, I don’t mind,” the grin growing wider as I looked at him. 

And in that quiet moment, as his hands slipped into my boots and our laughter mingled with the soft sounds of the morning, I felt something shift—something I knew neither of us could ignore.