Only if You Are a Tourist

was taken by happiness I had not felt in years; a restaurant on a hill, an open night from the mountain to the edge of the sea; and that remote lit spot known as Beirut. The place was packed with Arab tourists; their eyes revealing their joy as if they were scared of having their Lebanese summer stolen from them or of being prevented from embracing an Arab oasis so old that there is no need or excuse to test or certify its Arab character.

Lebanon seemed so glamorous indeed. This had nothing to do with Fakhreddin al-Maani, Gibran Khalil Gibran and Amin al-Rayhani; the bridge between the East and the West; the fact that the alphabet sailed from Byblos; the Baalbek fortress; the pioneers of the Renaissance; or the first migrants who sailed the seas carrying their backpacks and building empires as they sang old folk songs.

I must admit. My interests were far fewer; my ambitions far narrower; my preoccupations far smaller. After all, I am just an ordinary citizen. History did not select me for a saving mission; no one assigned me to install torches at dangerous corners; no one appointed me as the custodian of the compass. Moreover, experience has taught me to be scared; scared of those who claim delegation from the sectarian community, from the nation, or from history or the motherland; scared of those who confiscate the voices of people and claim that they are nothing but candles; scared of nations that constantly need blood and martyrs as the fish need water.

I said to myself that an ordinary citizen has the right to spend a happy night despite Georgia's recklessness, Russia's gluttony, the retreat of America's prestige, the wolves let loose in the jungle of regions, the "government of national revenge," and the fact that the deputy prime minister, deprived of a roof and an office, is not empowered to facilitate spiteful missions required by the politics of reconciliation and partnership. An ordinary citizen has the right to spend a happy night despite the Doha Agreement cooked in hot sauce and the horrors of the debates over the ministerial statement; despite the tears which citizens shed as they mourned the absence of big men such as Saeb Salam, Kamal Jumblatt, Raymond Eddeh, Bahij Takieddin, and Nasri Maalouf; despite the electoral law; despite the rights of regions, sects, confessions and alleys; despite the talk about hegemony, victory, revenge and marginalization; and despite the preoccupation with the issue of the missing in a missing country that seems to be so hard to be found.

I was glad to find a seat at a restaurant on a hill. I was relieved as I wondered how the hill survived the quarries crushing the mountains; how the nearby trees survived the hands of those who hate greenery and prefer burnt forests begging for local and Cypriot firefighting planes. I was happy because the roads were open and the Labor Union did not implement its threats of escalation. I like the Labor Union with its innocent statements that smell of burning tires.

Nothing more than a calm night is needed. Forget Baal Muhsin and Bab el-Tebbeneh; the lines of demarcation inside the council of ministers; and the appointments scandal. God forbid! The names of senior officers are now in the nominations market. Their names are subject to unusual testing; a reading of names, orientations, friendships, and enmities. This is just outrageous! What army has its commander selected in this manner? What prestige will it have? Lebanon is indeed exposed, far more than we had thought or anticipated; things are far worse than the worst pessimists had described.

Tonight, the borders of the nation are the borders of the table. Harmony is a real salad bowl and has nothing to do with harmony inside the government. The lettuce gloats next to the cucumber which remains better than the national choices made so far. The carrots are slim, and the cucumber is homegrown at the nearby garden. The mints happily lean over the arugula; in a while, the stubborn mountainous tomato will whine as it is slaughtered under the garlic, sumac and oil.

Such a tasteful nation! Tabbouleh is an experience of coexistence between parsley, bulgur, tomatoes, onions and oil. Arranging this coexistence is the task of the wise. Unbalanced quantities ruin the experience and unilateralism poison it. A third plus one makes it flavorless. Tabbouleh is with the right quantities or it simply cannot be. Like the salad, the kebbeh can be eaten raw or once grilled at the fire of the resistance. The beauty of the Lebanese cuisine lies in its diversity: hommos, shanklish, homegrown cheese, fried pastries, sausages and basterma, not to mention the eggplant and the variety of pickles. Forcing the Lebanese table to wear a unified dress is harmful to national health.

Envy is a shameful feeling. One, however, has to admit it sometimes. I envied the Arab tourists at the adjacent table. The tabbouleh does not remind them of the ingredients of coexistence; nor does the variety of plates remind them of the multiplicity of sects and confessions. The colors of vegetables and fruits do not take them back to March 8 and March 14. The summer ends tomorrow and they will be leaving. They will leave the Lebanese alone with the "government of national revenge" and the scent of turbulences and elections. The Lebanese disintegration is at its peak. The gates are wide open for all kinds of adventures and adventurers, for the suicides and the suicidal. This is a tasteful country, but only if you are a tourist.