Safety to Suspense

From the Camp to Tripoli

Previously:

Arriving in Beirut via Paris was a whirlwind, a frantic rush through Charles de Gaulle Airport that mirrored the chaotic energy awaiting me. The moment I stepped off the plane, the vibrant yet tumultuous spirit of Beirut hit me—a sensory overload of new scents, bustling crowds, and an undercurrent of anticipation. This trip was more than a holiday escape; it was a leap into the unknown, guided by the hope of rekindling a connection with Joseph, whose life in a Palestinian refugee camp was a world apart from my own. As I navigated the bustling streets and faced the wary scrutiny of customs, the reality of my journey began to crystallize. Beirut was not just a backdrop; it was a crucible of history and survival, and I stood on its threshold, ready to explore the complexities that lay within.

I walked down the alley, greeting everyone with a warm "Marhaba" as I passed by. People were lined up in their plastic chairs, staring at me and smoking cigarettes, their faces etched with the wrinkles of smiles, stress, and tears.

The air was thick with the scent of tobacco, a unique aroma unfamiliar to my senses from back home. It wasn’t the kind found in the States or even in France; it had its own distinct quality. Perhaps it was the way it was grown or packaged, much like how wine varies by region.

The murmur of conversations in Arabic, a language that was still so new and foreign to my ears, filled the alley. Each "Marhaba" was met with a nod or a wave, small gestures that made me feel in a tiny way, a bit less of a freakish alien in this land. I recognized the greeting and sipped it in like a cold drink of water in this desert oasis.

Joseph opened a wine-colored metal door with a dramatic flourish. "I hope you’re hungry," he said with a jaunty grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"I’m not really," I admitted, giggling and whispering the last part more to myself, but Joseph caught it and laughed.

"Well, we’ll figure it out," he said reassuringly, his smile unwavering.

Stepping inside, I immediately understood why Joseph had arranged for me to stay at Rafik’s place instead. There was literally no space for me to sleep. His home was about the same size as my childhood bedroom back in the PNW, in the neighborhoods built by Microsoft, Costco, and Amazon. The contrast was stark and humbling.

The living room was a modest space, just enough for a loveseat and a few chairs. An accordion door, the kind that squeaked with every movement, connected the living room to the bedroom and a small balcony that was converted to another bedroom. If you were playing cards in the living room, you could hear the shuffling of the deck in the bathroom. 

I took in the rooms with a single glance and wondered where everyone actually slept. The living room was adorned with a colorful painting of flowers on one wall and an old TV on the other, a relic from my childhood that seemed fit to play episodes of “Knight Rider.” The ceiling, just an inch above Joseph’s head, made him look even more of a giant.

On the opposite wall, a small mantle held a statue that looked remarkably like the one in Rio de Janeiro. Joseph noticed my curious glance and explained, "That’s Harissa, a cherished spot here in Lebanon." 

This statue, which I would later visit, became one of my most treasured spiritual sanctuaries, offering solace and clarity in both desperate and joyful times. After a decade of heart-wrenching miscarriages, I believe Harissa had a hand in bringing Ode Joy into our lives, along with the many prayers from people around the world.

There is something magical about the Middle East, a place where miracles do happen. Jesus walked these lands, and wars and tensions have been fought over them for centuries. Perhaps this is why—because this is the land where miracles can occur.

The room, despite its modesty, was filled with a sense of warmth and history. Every item seemed to tell a story. In the room, ornate crosses adorned the walls alongside fancy ashtrays and a deck of cards ready for a game. An array of colorful and sticky desserts, more vibrant than a rainbow, adorned the table, inviting indulgence. Thick, fuzzy blankets with great art on them provided warmth, an altar with saint statues and sculptures of unknown relics. The centerpiece, where everything took place, was a worn-out loveseat that looked like it was from the 1950s, its faded upholstery showed true grit. It was a far cry from the luxury I had known back home, but it had a charm that spoke of resilience and simplicity.

The concrete walls, covered in a mix of thick old paint and stained streaks from rainwater, held an old picture of Joseph as a baby, captured on what looked like 1960s film photo paper. It was so vintage and cool, like something you'd find in an old family album from one of my aunts or uncles back home.

Joseph’s home, much like the man himself, was a blend of contrasts—humble yet welcoming, old school yet filled with depth. As we settled in, my appreciation grew for the life he led and the community that revered him like a long-lost prophet. It was a stark reminder of the richness of human experience, far beyond material wealth or comfort.

In that small, garlic-filled room, fragrant with onions and olive oil, I began to understand the essence of Joseph’s world—a world where connections were deep, hospitality was genuine, and every day was lived with a sense of purpose and community. It was a world that, despite its hardships, held a beauty and warmth that I was only beginning to grasp.

Joseph pointed to the back of the living room, where there was a tiny door opening. "Come and meet my mom," he said.

Suddenly, I felt a wave of nervousness wash over me. Though I had seen her earlier when she rushed out to help me, we hadn't spoken. It was all a blur of hurried intros and quick glances.

Joseph spoke to his mother in Arabic, introducing me. I realized I had no idea what the proper etiquette was. Should I hug her? Shake her hand? Kiss her on the cheek? I ended up merely waving and saying, "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm very happy to be here, and thanks for having me!" As I spoke, something struck me forcefully—not only was I very awkward for some reason, but Joseph’s mother was not what I had expected. She looked like she had stepped out of another time, like Elizabeth Taylor in “Cleopatra”, only she should have starred in a movie about a famous Phoenician queen. She was beautiful, reserved, powerful, and intimidating all at once. As she smoked her cigarette and cooked, she exuded an aura of grace and strength.

The kitchen, the size of a powder room, was a marvel of efficiency. It made even the tightest galleys on fishing boats seem spacious by comparison. There was no running water. She cooked on a small gas burner, the kind used for camping in the woods. How was she managing to prepare this gourmet meal in such conditions? It seemed impossible. My mind flirted with the idea that perhaps she had ordered the food in and was merely pretending to cook, like a scene out of a Martha Stewart show. The authenticity was undeniable. This was her domain, and she commanded it with expertise and finesse. Every movement she made was deliberate and practiced, a dance of culinary skill honed over years.

Joseph took a plate from his mom, and we went into the living room, before I could even blink my eyes. There was a folded out table put down with a plastic tablecloth, chairs, and it was set. Now this was some real life Mary Poppins shit. Where did the table come from? And how did they set it up in like 5 seconds?

I took the plate and stared at the chicken taouk sandwich with fries in it. Yes, fries. She had hand-cut, peeled, and fried them all herself. I’d never seen fries in a sandwich before. Fries dipped in a Wendy’s Frosty? Absolutely. But fries in a sandwich? I was about to discover a new sort of sandwich heaven.

It had to be the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. "What is this amazing sauce on it?" I asked.

"That’s garlic paste," Joseph replied.

"OMG, I’m in love! I want this on everything," I exclaimed. 

Even though I was still full from Isabelle and Rafik’s spread this morning, I devoured the entire thing. Coleslaw and all.

As I savored each bite of my sandwich, I marveled at the assortment of all the other dishes she had prepared. Each one looked like it had taken hours, if not all night, to make. The flavors were rich and complex, a testament to her culinary mastery. I tasted roasted eggplant with a smoky sweetness, tomatoes bursting with freshness, and a tabouli unlike any I had ever had, hinting at spices I couldn’t quite place. It was a feast created in a space where I doubted I could even manage to make a PB&J.

As I finished my meal, I felt a surprising sense of belonging. The simplicity of Joseph’s home, his mom’s warm cooking, and their genuine hospitality made me feel deeply connected. It wasn’t about material stuff but about strong relationships and community.

This humble home, with its modest kitchen and powerful matriarch, opened my eyes to a new way of seeing the world. Contrary to media portrayals, I quickly learned that women here were worshiped and adored. Life was celebrated every day, in every meal and every shared moment. I found a beauty that went beyond my old ideas of comfort and wealth.

"Yalla!" Joseph said, getting up, grabbing my plate, and motioning for me to follow.

His brother swiftly wiped down the table, putting everything back into place in an instant. I barely had time to process what was happening.

"That’s it?" I blurted out, surprised by how quickly everything was moving.

Still in a good food coma from my new favorite sandwich, I asked, "Where are we off to?"

"I’m going to take you to meet my best friend in Tripoli," Joseph replied with a grin.

"Oh, cool," I said, not entirely sure where Tripoli was. It sounded vaguely familiar, but was I confusing it with an Italian town?

Joseph spoke with his dad and brother, and the conversation quickly became heated. I couldn't understand the words, but the tension was undeniable. His brother, sweet and kind, turned to me with a smile, "It is so great to have you here! "We’ll hang out later tonight?" I nodded eagerly, liking his infectious enthusiasm.

Joseph’s dad, on the other hand, intimidated me. He reminded me of someone from “The Godfather.” You definitely did not want to mess with this man. He demanded respect with a hint of fear. He was the kind of man you'd want on your side—a good man to have your six, and you definitely did not want to be on his shit list. Joseph unfazed, finished his heated conversation with his dad & nods to me so we can leave.

We started up the highway towards the north. Here, they say "going down," which struck me as odd. Heading north feels like driving up, not down. It struck me as a backward way of referring to it. Maybe it's like the toilet swirl in Australia going the opposite way when you flush.

As we drove by the Mediterranean Sea and out of the city, the highway grew smaller and windier, becoming desolate. An old plastic factory loomed in the distance, emitting an awful smell. I noticed people on the side of the road with broken-down cars, waving us down for help. One after another. 

I kept wondering why Joseph was ignoring these people. This seemed so unlike him. He’s the type of guy who buys sandwiches for homeless people, sticks up for strippers in New Orleans, and rescues animals to find them homes. I didn’t get it. 

Then, up ahead, I saw a very old woman with a cane, barely able to walk, her hand in a sling, waving us down by her broken-down car. "You have to stop for her, Joseph! This just isn’t right!" I pleaded. 

As the words left my mouth, a young man suddenly darted from a bush and hurled something long and black at us. Joseph grabbed me with his right hand and pushed me down then covered my head with his arm as he swerved on the highway to avoid the foreign object that was hurled at us. Everything buzzed, and time slowed to a frame-by-frame, like editing a piece of film—only this was my real life. My life now…