The Seam Line

Mar Elias Camp

Previously:

After narrowly escaping danger at the Bridge of the Buried checkpoint, Joseph and I drove towards downtown Tripoli, where tension remained high. Joseph's calm reassurance belied the perilous situation as we navigated the dark, historic streets. In Tripoli, we met his vibrant friend Lita, who guided us through the city's contrasting scenes of modern struggles and timeless beauty. I marveled at a towering sculpture made from electronic waste, reflecting the region's complexities and resilience. In an 800-year-old pub, I learned about Joseph's past and the harsh realities faced by Palestinian refugees. This journey deepened my understanding of the Middle East and solidified my admiration for Joseph's ability to bridge worlds. As we prepared to return to the camp, the risks we faced settled in, culminating in a tense drive back with Joseph arming me for safety. 

Joseph drove past downtown Beirut, and we found ourselves in a part of the city we had yet to explore. The atmosphere here felt distinctly different, though I couldn't quite pinpoint exactly why. There was an intangible shift in the air, a vibe that set it apart from the other areas of Lebanon we had visited.

A loud, melodic, and soothing sound echoed through the streets as we drove down a crowded road and like a swift jigsaw puzzle connecting in my mind, I realized it was the same melody I had heard once long ago.

I first heard it when I was in Morocco. At the time, I didn't realize it was specifically for the Muslim call to prayer; I just thought it was the sound of Marrakech. The snake charmers, the mint tea, the bustling souk, the endless maze of spices and hustlers, the rug sellers, the men holding hands in their shepherd cloaks, the loud car horns, and then the call to stop. The city nestled into a pause, a respite, to pray. The rhythmic, almost monk-like meditation transported me back to another time. Before iTunes or Spotify existed, I remember getting a bootleg cassette by a Moroccan singer. It turned out to be prayers. To this day, I’m still in search of that artist and that collection.

"I love hearing this! It takes me to a place I can’t really describe," I said, my voice filled with reverence.

Joseph, surprised, said, "I didn’t know you were Muslim."

"Oh, I’m not! I just love the way it sounds and how it makes me feel."

Joseph laughed. "Of course you would say something like that. Are you religious, though? I never really asked what your religion is."

“No, not one specific religion. I'm more of a ‘buffet' type—I take a little of this and a little of that, I enjoy dabbling in different beliefs,” I answered.

As we delved deeper into the traffic of downtown Beirut, the cars grew smaller, tighter, and louder. The call to prayer began to fade, giving way to a heart-wrenching scene. Children, starving and begging on the side of the highway, came into full technicolor view. This S-curve literally divided the East and West of Beirut, the Christian and Muslim sides. Everything that didn’t fit, or had no place to call home, landed there.

Joseph called this spot "The Seam Line". Here, I saw kids running up to cars, wanting to wash windows or beg for food. Filthy and covered in exhaust from sitting on the highway all day, it broke my heart. I saw kids as young as five digging through garbage and eating rotten food. So much poverty and hunger in so many places around the world. Why are we still living like this in the 21st century?

We reached a large roundabout with old willow trees in the center. It reminded me of the gnarly willows in the old golf course park near my childhood home. My friend Erika and I used to climb these trees and sit for hours in the twisted branches, philosophizing about life and dreaming of where we would one day travel. I didn’t realize they had those trees in the Middle East.

A large United Nations banner hung above an old building with long stairs that seemed to lead nowhere. Joseph made a full circle around the roundabout and then parked his GMC. He looked at me and said, “Welcome to Mar Elias.”

Intrigued, I asked, “Tell me about this camp.”

Joseph explained that Mar Elias was one of the original Christian Palestinian refugee camps in southwestern Beirut. “It is no longer Christian, though. My camp is the only Christian refugee camp left in the world, I think.”

As I listened, I wanted to say so much, yet every thought seemed inadequate. So I blurted out, “So you’re like “The Last of the Mohicans?”

Joseph smiled and nodded.

Although Mar Elias shared many similarities with Joseph's camp, it felt distinctly different. It was smaller, with narrow passages between houses that felt more like hallways with no room for cars. Compared to this, Joseph's camp seemed almost affluent. I wasn’t really prepared for this.

As we navigated the narrow corridors, I couldn't ignore the stencils of Yasser Arafat's face plastered all over the walls. It was like Banksy or Fairey had decided to leave their mark on this camp. The sight unsettled me. Arafat's face, with his distinct features, reminded me of a character that belonged in the Galactic Federation from Star Wars or something. The surreal mix of street art and history was both fascinating and disconcerting, making me feel like I had stepped into a bizarre art gallery on Tatooine.

My gut twisted with fear. Was I in danger? No, I was with Joseph. But why was this man whom I had always considered dangerous, idolized here? It was almost like the reverence for Che Guevara, but I realized I knew little about Arafat. Wasn’t he dead? Was he a martyr or a hero among the people at this camp?

All of a sudden, I just wanted to get out of there quickly. My anxiety spiked as I started to hear cries and screams, adding to the tension. I looked at Joseph for reassurance. He smiled at me. Why is he smiling? I wanted to run.

He gestured over his shoulder, and I turned to see 20-plus kids running after me, waving something in their hands. Were they carrying guns? No. Oh my god, April. They were toys and gifts, screaming my name with joy and laughter.

The children at Mar Elias had apparently already heard a lot about The Questioneers and were eager to meet me.

I had never really liked talking in front of a crowd; it always made me super nervous. But here, with Joseph introducing me to all these kids, and translating; I wasn’t alone and it didn’t seem so bad.

"Hey everyone, I'm really excited to be here with you all today. Thanks for having me. I heard you already have some amazing stories and pictures to share." Joseph looked at me to see if I was done with my sentence, then began to translate.

I noticed a shy-looking boy with his hand raised. "Yes, you in the back," I said. "So, we can join?" he said softly.

"Absolutely," I replied, feeling glad.

Joseph’s translations were so seamless and fast that it felt as if the kids and I were speaking the same language. It was a feeling I had never experienced before when working with The Questioneers in places where English isn't spoken. In Panama, the language barrier made it much harder to connect with the kids. But here, Joseph was the bridge between worlds, an enigma of a man who seemed almost too good to be true.

I picked a precocious girl who was waving her hand wildly. "What kind of pictures can we take? And do other kids really want to see stuff about us?"

Impressed by her curiosity, I nodded. "Good questions! You can take pictures of anything that tells your story—your daily life, your family, your school, or anything important to you. And yes, other kids are very interested in seeing what your life is like. It's a way for all of us to connect and understand each other better, no matter where we live. They've asked me about your life and want to know what it’s like to live in other parts of the world."

The kids started asking more questions, and the conversation grew heated and passionate. Joseph asked if he could just answer in Arabic because there were so many kids and so little time. I nodded, trusting him to convey the essence of The Questioneers—connecting kids worldwide, creating a village of empathy and understanding, and encouraging self-expression through photography and storytelling.

The positive energy in the room was overwhelming, and I knew Joseph was representing The Questioneers in the best way possible. As he translated their questions and my answers, it was clear that he wasn't just bridging languages but cultures and hearts. Watching him, I sensed, without fully comprehending, a pleasant, buzzing feeling taking root in my chest, like a sip of warm mint tea, grateful for his presence and his ability to make this connection so profound.

What struck me first was the sheer joy of these kids. Amidst poverty and harsh conditions, they radiated genuine happiness and a zest for life. They were thrilled to be seen and heard and to have someone interested in their stories. 

A few times, I had to hide my tears with my sunglasses, even though it was the middle of December, and no sunlight reached the alleyways.

A little girl approached me and pulled me to the side, eager to share her stories and her dreams. She spoke a million miles per minute, I had to wave Joseph over to help translate, but he was mobbed by other eager kids and had his hands full.

In her face I saw pain but in her eyes, I saw hope. She spoke a lot and I understood so little. The little I understood was that I did not understand how hard these kids have it.

Despite our different upbringings, there was an undeniable connection—a thread of the unseen, the lost, the misfit.

I was considered a misfit in a completely different way. My parents were divorced, which was rare at the time, and my mother was a Christian Scientist—a belief I didn't share. Sunday school was mandatory, which I loathed, preferring to sleep in and do ballet instead. And before you think of Tom Cruise and Scientology, it’s very different.

Christian Scientists don't believe in doctors or medicine, requiring self-healing. As a result, I couldn't see a doctor when ill and had to sit out health classes, waiting in the office like I was in trouble. Despite my disdain, certain aspects of Christian Science philosophy intrigued me, such as Mary Baker Eddy's early observations on energy and the power of thought.

By age 11, I had read her book cover to cover a few times. It's no wonder Mark Twain found her fascinating, and this likely explains why Val Kilmer spent 13 years creating a one-man show about Twain's conversations with Eddy.

I hated being judged as an outcast at school because I couldn't see the nurse or participate in physical check-ups. Despite this, the kids liked me, possibly due to my adaptability. This early alienation helped me fit in anywhere later, but it was a high price to pay starting at age five.

I worked hard to ensure my circumstances didn't affect my friendships, using wit and kindness to avoid being labeled as unusual. It worked; I built a solid foundation of friends and loved my school. That was until my mom remarried, we moved, and I had to start from scratch all over again.

The little girl grabbed my hand and snapped me back into the streets of the camp. She gave me a bracelet from her own wrist, hugged me, and thanked me for being there. I hugged her back, and we shared a true moment of connection beyond borders and languages.

Out of the quietness of the moment, I heard Joseph calling my name loudly. I turned to see the sea of kids we had just talked to, all standing and shouting, "Thank you, April, for coming." Their English was broken and heavy, but it sounded so pure. I felt like a rockstar receiving a standing ovation, creating one of the most memorable send-offs I’ve ever experienced. It was a moment I will never forget. When things get tough and people doubt what we’re doing with The Questioneers, I think of this day and the impact it had on these kids. This is the fuel that keeps me going, the proof that our work matters.

It was getting dark, and it was time to leave. There were certain places Joseph had told me I couldn’t stay past dusk. I never pushed this or questioned the condition, maybe because I didn’t want to know why or perhaps because I already knew.

Back in the GMC Jimmy, driving through Beirut, I turned to Joseph. "So… what was with all the Arafat stencils? Is he some sort of martyr or something?" I needed to tread lightly here. What if Joseph admired him too? I was quickly realizing that much of what I feared were simply things I didn’t understand, especially those that had been taught to me.

Joseph scoffed, then said, "If you have to be assassinated at the age of 75, then you are pissing off some people. He was the president—he is to Palestinians what JFK is to Americans. And don’t forget, Nelson Mandela was considered a terrorist for a very long time."

I stared out the window, absorbing his words, which hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt an overwhelming urge to rest my head against the glass and pass out.

Just then, the skyline of Beirut appeared on the horizon, twinkling against the night sky. A few raindrops began to fall, making the streets shimmer. I glanced at Joseph, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, and wondered how much this man had witnessed, how much of the world he had seen. 

A lot, I reflected. Much more than his young age suggested. People were always shocked when they found out his age. Even I thought he was joking when he told me. I always assumed he was much older. But as I would soon discover, a year living in war adds many years to your age. By that calculation, he was about 50 years old, though in earth years, he was only 23.

As the rain was getting heavier, so were my eyelids… then Joseph’s cell phone rang three times… He looked at me with concern in his eyes and started speeding down the highway.