“Well I’m not going to let it spoil my year. Besides I don’t care much for politics anyway. Tell me some more about this place.” A drop of olive oil ran down his chin. “God this stuff is good.”
“Did you know that Beirut was founded by the Phoenicians around 3000 B. C? Its location on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean, sheltered by a large sweeping bay, made it a perfect launching place for their ships. Whole fleets ventured forth, explored new lands, and traded with other civilizations.”
“Wow! 3000 BC. That’s as old as the Egyptians.”
“The Phoenicians were clever, intrepid, and commercially minded. They amassed a great deal of wealth as well. And they left a monumental legacy to the world.”
“What was that?”
“They invented the alphabet, my friend. In addition the Phoenicians invented glass making and excelled in producing textiles, carving ivory, and working in metal, stone and wood. As a result of their ingenuity and trading fleets Beirut became a thriving port and the crossroads between the exotic East and the developing West.”
“I should have paid more attention in my history classes.”
Samir pushed his lamb around the plate. “However all this wealth and power came with a price. Inevitably, over thousands of years, numerous civilizations invaded the country-Egyptians, Hyskos warriors from Asia, Alexander the Great, Marco Polo, Romans, Muslims, Crusaders, Ottomans, and most recently the Shiites. But what’s amazing about this country and its people is that throughout centuries of conquest and foreign domination, the Lebanese culture held steadfast to two things: their determination for independence and their predominantly Christian beliefs.”
“Samir?”
“What.”
“I met an amazing woman this evening. A gorgeous red haired beauty with seductive green eyes.”
“She was Jordanian.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“She has to be Jordanian, Matt. What am I going to do with you? I’m talking about real history and culture and all you can think of is a woman.”
Matt grinned. “What say we get some sleep?”
“You won’t sleep. The green-eyed goddess has you firmly in her grasp.”
“Not yet,” said Matt. “Not yet. But I hope it won’t be too long.” He stood up from the small table. “Thanks, Samir. It’s been an absolutely great day but I’m totally exhausted. Let’s get some sleep. But tomorrow I’d like you to show me some more of this magical city.”
It was Samir Hussein who first introduced Matt to the mysteries of the Souk, also known as the covered bazaar. “This reminds me of the Souk in Jerusalem where I grew up,” Samir said as he took his new American roommate on a tour. “The souk is the heart and soul of every Middle Eastern city. This is where political ideas are born, discussed, argued, and often acted on.”
Matt felt like he had been transported back in time. The narrow passages and dark alleyways of the covered bazaar engulfed him. Samir showed him of the different areas within the Souk. The spice market and its aroma assaulted his nostrils. Matt’s mind reeled with exotic images of camel trains and cargo ships, all brimming with trading goods bound for the coast of Lebanon. Samir was still talking.
“Marriages are arranged here and disputes settled. World events are discussed in every shop and at every intersection. All forms of business are conducted in these narrow alleyways. In fact, the Souk is the center of news and information. Modern governments have tried to shift these activities to more formal institutions, like courts and houses of parliament, but the Souk is still the center of life for most Middle Easterners.”
“Why are the shopkeepers and customers always arguing with each other?” Matt felt uncomfortable at the belligerence that seemed to be erupting from nearly every stall.
Samir laughed. “They’re not arguing, they’re negotiating. It’s a custom in the Middle East. Unlike the States where prices are fixed, here they are fluid. Bargaining is a way of building relationships. A person who negotiates well is respected. At the end of what seems like a heated argument to you, if both the buyer and the seller are pleased with the price, the relationship deepens.”
“But that’s not fair. What if you don’t know what a reasonable price for an item should be? You could get screwed.”
Samir’s dark eyes watched him. “If you learn anything from your year in Lebanon, Matt, it’s that life isn’t fair. You’re blinded by the American concept of all people being created equal. The truth is, people aren’t equal. Some are more gifted than others, some are born to rich families, some to poor shepherds, some are lazy, some dishonest, some kind, some cruel. It’s the same the world over, only in the Middle East the differences are starker.”
Matt said nothing.
“Is everybody in the US as naive as you?” grinned Samir.
“I just assumed the whole world thought like we do, only they were a little behind in technology…”
“My father has a saying: If you don’t understand your enemy, you can’t defeat him. Ignorance of one’s enemy is a fatal weakness.”
Matt was about to ask why everyone in the Middle East seemed to talk about enemies rather than allies, but a shop caught his eye.
“Wow, this is a cool stall,” Matt said, changing the subject. They squeezed into the tiny space where leather-bound volumes of all sizes and colors were piled high on brightly colored carpets. “I’d like a journal to record my experiences this year.”
“Now you are talking more like an Arab-we are great believers in keeping journals to record our thoughts and our conversations with God. The written word is sacred, and learning to read and write is an important milestone in the life of young Arab men.”
Samir greeted the shopkeeper in Arabic. “Here,” he whispered to Matt, “I’ll help you negotiate a price. Pick out two journals, one you like and the other you don’t like. It’s the way to get the best price, by negotiating for one against the merits and defects of another.”
Matt never knew anyone could talk as fast as Samir and the shopkeeper while they were haggling. It was the verbal equivalent of a long, intricate wrestling match, with the two opponents in close contact, circling and shoving and pinning each other, and when it was finally all over, they stood back, shook hands and smiled. While the shopkeeper poured tea, Samir handed the journal to Matt, beaming at the reasonable price he had wrangled.
On the third day, Matt met Maha on the AUB tennis courts.
“Whoa. I’ve never played on clay courts before. We don’t have many back in the states. It’s slippery.” Matt chased a return from Maha, slid on the ochre surface and tumbled into a heap at the baseline. Her giggle reached his ears and he began to laugh as well.
They abandoned the court and spent the next three hours sitting under a large banyan tree overlooking the Mediterranean. “Isn’t this a beautiful campus? I just love it here, so different from Jordan. So peaceful.”
“Tell me about your life, Maha.” Matt listened as a whole new world was revealed to him.
During Matt’s first week at AUB, he and the fourteen other American students were invited to the College Hall offices of the President of the University, Dr. Samuel B. Kirkwood, for a reception marking the official start of their junior year abroad. The students were from all over the States, from elite universities like Harvard and Stanford, to small choice colleges like Oberlin and Sweet Briar.
“So why are you here?” A lanky, sandy-haired student sat next to Matt at the back of the reception room at College Hall. Matt stared at the expensive Nikon camera around his neck, complete with a professional flash attachment.
“It’s a long way from Seattle and my father. Besides, isn’t this the most exotic place you’ve ever seen?”
“It certainly is. All the ruins, the Cedars, the snow covering the mountains. And those dark alleyways in the bazaar. I’ve already shot ten rolls of film and it’s only the first week.” His voice had a nasal quality. “By the way, my name is Theodore Janus, from Ohio State. But everyone just calls me T.J. What’s yours?”