July 14, 2022. The evening I returned to Beirut following two months of absence, it was the same taxi driver, from the same taxi company, “Star”, who was waiting for me at the same parking space B5 from the airport where we usually meet. By voice notes interposed on WhatsApp, the day before my return, I let him know that I’m going home and at what time, and he invariably replies the same thing: “Eh habibé, ya ahla! Lek, metel el 3adé, 3al B5”, “Mwaffa2. Bel Salémé”, “Wlak tekram”, always decorated with GIFs of rosaries, Saint Charbel and the Virgin to whom he says he entrusts me; when I see Parisian taxi drivers frown and shoot me in the rear view mirror, when I hear them let out a long “haaa!” with a sigh, should I venture to ask them to change the radio station. Elie is waiting for me at place B5, in the hot, sticky stench of the airport parking lot. Leaning once morest the hood of his white Toyota, in a red polo shirt, flabby jeans held up by a tight belt, his eyes elsewhere, nowhere, and a Cedars between his fingers. He insists on carrying my suitcases and putting them in the trunk, he says my bi sir and I say no my bi sir and he goes one better and we end up doing it together. The white Toyota sags, the white Toyota struggles to start, the white Toyota adds a layer of worries to Elijah’s already overflowing pile of worries. And there, as always, getting into Elijah’s white Toyota, on returning from a trip, is to take the pulse of Lebanon in a few seconds, it is to receive the health check of this country where the we now arrive without really knowing what to expect. The season of arrivals.
But yes, it’s normal
In the white Toyota driving in the dark, we arrive in barely ten minutes at the level of the avenue Charles Hélou, almost at the level of the port, almost at the level of death. That evening of July 14, 2022, like the evenings that preceded it, the silos were burning. I had got wind of the information, but only diagonally, without dwelling on it, without taking the measure of the thing, since I had just returned from a week’s vacation and that week I had voluntarily decided to stop the news, mute whatsapp groups, take a break, catch my breath. In front of the silos that Elijah doesn’t even look at, I see the red flames and I say to him, in a panic: “But Elijah, stop, the silos are on fire! You have to do something, call someone, call the fire department, I don’t know. Élie brakes suddenly, the white Toyota jumps up and stops. ” You scared me ! Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it’s normal, it’s been like this for a week, the fire starts at nightfall and it stops at daybreak. Elijah speaks to me of this fire which begins and stops as the natural, normal, banal progression of something, as one speaks of a sun rising and setting, as one speaks of the passage time. “Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. Back home, the first thing I did was go to the L’Orient-Le Jour website. I read regarding normal fire, even more, on the home page of the website, I read regarding this upside-down sun that appears at sunset and disappears by who knows what mystery at dawn. I looked at the silenced WhatsApp groups, I reacted late, I sent messages to my friends, and everyone answered me the same thing, the same words as Elie: “You you’re late. Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. In just a few seconds, I had taken the pulse of the country.
During the first days that followed, each time I drove past the silos, I braked suddenly and stopped. Then, over the days, I started to only slow down on Avenue Charles Hélou. A week later, I no longer braked suddenly, I no longer slowed down on Avenue Charles Hélou, I no longer looked at the silos. I hardly saw the fire anymore. “Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. In just a few days in Lebanon, I had gotten used to it. Only a few days in Lebanon had been enough for my body and my mind to adapt and reprogram themselves in absurdity mode, in madness mode. In “but yes, it’s normal” mode.
completely schizophrenic
In only a few days, my biological clock had mimicked that of the generator, my steps and my arms knew how to lead me from the entrance of my building to the lock of my door, then my bathroom, then my sink, then my toothbrush, then my towel, then my bed, all in the dark, all without tripping over anything. Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. In just a few days, hardly had the rumor of a gasoline shortage begun to circulate when imperceptibly, mechanically, by reflex, my car was already lined up in a line of cars, in front of a gas station where full for a million Lebanese pounds, a pile of banknotes as thick as a pound, as thick as a salary, had not even held the shadow of a surprise. “Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. In just a few days, I had understood the incomprehensible, I had bought into the rules of the game, the crowds outside the bakeries and the crowds in the clubs and the bars and the restaurants and the beaches and the hotels. Within days, I had become completely schizophrenic. “Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. »
So much so that when last Thursday – while I was at the Sfeir-Semler gallery for an opening – when I received a notification from L’Orient-Le Jour stating that “tomorrow followingnoon, there will have more public electricity in Lebanon,” I put my laptop away and continued to listen to artist Ania Soleiman tell me regarding nature’s impact on technology. I finished the evening in the laughter of my friends, on a terrace of Abdel Wahab where the arak had the taste of the smoke of the generators around. “Ftakarna fi chi, I thought there was something serious. But yes, it is normal. »
Soon, by interposed voice notes, I will tell Elie that I am leaving, and he will be waiting for me under the house, ready to help me carry my suitcases and my heart which weighs tons. Departure season. This other season wedged between summer and autumn arrives almost theatrically each time, like a twist of fate. Unlike the real seasons, this season does not suggest the passage of time, on the contrary. This season brings us back to the vicious circle of our Lebanese lives, to the inevitability of uprooting, to the inevitability of the cycle of comings and goings which is ours and forever. This season makes us realize that we, having returned for the summer from the most normal normality, we need so little time to get used to the anomalies, to the madness of this country. This season reminds us that we may hate it, fear it and find it crazy when we are far away, once we come back and taste it, Lebanon sticks to our skin, comes back into our systems like an addiction, and it becomes, as always, so difficult to leave it.
July 14, 2022. The evening I returned to Beirut following two months of absence, it was the same taxi driver, from the same taxi company, “Star”, who was waiting for me at the same parking space B5 from the airport where we usually meet. By voice notes interposed on WhatsApp, the day before my return, I let him know that I am going back and…
