I’m checking my e-mail at an Internet café that’s part of a Filipina restaurant. Behind me, the owner is helping her 4th grade son with his English homework. In a shrill voice, she’s explaining the difference between singular and plural, while running back and forth to the kitchen as she’s preparing food. Her explanation and her own English grammar is somewhat lacking. I feel a slight pinge of guilt and an even slighter impulse to intervene, but I ignore it, while I continue checking my e-mail.
Her son is concentrating. He’s really trying to understand and get all the worksheet “problems” correct. The shrill voice doesn’t seem to bother him. This isn’t her normal voice. It’s her English-teaching voice. I find it shrill and grating; her son must be used to it.
At the table next to them, Palestinian husband/dad is smoking shisha with his three friends, joking loudly in Arabic. Instead of the regular hose, however, he’s using a bamboo stick. I’ve never seen anyone smoking arguile through bamboo.
People walk in and out, announcing themselves with a “Come sta?” or an ironic “Salaam wa lekom” which induces laughter.
Soon enough, the karaoke might start. It'll be hard to resist belting out my faves--"Me and Bobby McGee", "Ice, Ice Baby", "Baby got Back" if I'm feeling particularly obnoxious, or "Take a Look at Me Now" if I'm feeling particularly depressed. And since it's Filipina's, I can also choose from some Christian classics, like "Amazing Grace."
I’m grateful that no one’s asking me to help. They know “auntie” is an American who teaches English. They also know that “auntie” charges a lot of money for her services. So I’m left to the computer with all the normal mayhem behind me. The wall is a mirror, so I can just look up and check out the action. This is my new favorite spot.
March 25, 2009
March 11, 2009
I hadn’t seen Marie in weeks
I saw her today. Usually in the mornings, when I’m eating, I stand at the window and look for her. If it’s after 7, which is when the mom leaves with the kids, she’ll stand at the window. We’ll balcony talk, or she’ll just signal me to go into the hall where she can open the door.
I hadn’t seen her in weeks. And I don’t think I made any major change to my routine. She wasn’t coming to the window. A couple days ago, Lilu, the Sri Lankan woman who cleans for us twice a week, told me that another Lebanese woman saw me talking to Marie and the other Malagasy woman who lives on the other side of me. So that even though I was trying to be so careful not to get anyone in trouble, I probably got Marie in trouble.
When I saw her today at the window, she told me to come to the inside hall, where she opened the door. She is still trapped inside the apartment by an outer iron gate. But through the bars of the gate, we can talk and pass things back and forth. She said she really missed me. She was smiling and really excited to be talking to me. She said that the madame is actually good. It’s just the kids who are very bad—“tres bravade” (or something like that.) They kick her. They insult her. “You’re black. You’re ugly. You smell.” So instead of being abused by the madame (the one who statistically commits most of the abuse), this woman is being tormented by a three and four-year old.
The last time I had seen her she had asked me to bring her perfume. I brought her deodorant instead, which she was happy with.
Then she wanted to pray. We held hands through the iron bar. I started in English. She finished in Malagasy. I kind of hugged her, and then kissed her on the cheek. I told her I was leaving, and that if she needs anything she can ask my roommate or Lilu. Tears were shed. Allah m3ha.
I hadn’t seen her in weeks. And I don’t think I made any major change to my routine. She wasn’t coming to the window. A couple days ago, Lilu, the Sri Lankan woman who cleans for us twice a week, told me that another Lebanese woman saw me talking to Marie and the other Malagasy woman who lives on the other side of me. So that even though I was trying to be so careful not to get anyone in trouble, I probably got Marie in trouble.
When I saw her today at the window, she told me to come to the inside hall, where she opened the door. She is still trapped inside the apartment by an outer iron gate. But through the bars of the gate, we can talk and pass things back and forth. She said she really missed me. She was smiling and really excited to be talking to me. She said that the madame is actually good. It’s just the kids who are very bad—“tres bravade” (or something like that.) They kick her. They insult her. “You’re black. You’re ugly. You smell.” So instead of being abused by the madame (the one who statistically commits most of the abuse), this woman is being tormented by a three and four-year old.
The last time I had seen her she had asked me to bring her perfume. I brought her deodorant instead, which she was happy with.
Then she wanted to pray. We held hands through the iron bar. I started in English. She finished in Malagasy. I kind of hugged her, and then kissed her on the cheek. I told her I was leaving, and that if she needs anything she can ask my roommate or Lilu. Tears were shed. Allah m3ha.
Sunday's Sit-In for Migrant Domestic Workers
We put it together in a week and a half. Check out the media coverage and the pictures: Al Akhbar, Al-Mustaqbal, As-Safir, iloubnan, Facebook.
“F--- this racist, backward country!” was suggested by a friend in an e-mail. But I didn’t suggest that in the meeting, so as not to throw off our Lebanese-foreigner coalition. (But I still get a good hoot thinking about that one!)
When an Ethiopian woman showed up to the café to work on the posters, we got the idea that they should be in different languages. So Hayeon went to El Dorado to recruit some Filipinas to get some posters written in Tagalog. The day of, we got some Sri Lankans to write other posters, right on the sidewalk. The other organizers told me 20 posters would be more than enough. I made 35, and they were all used.
About 100 people came, which the other organizers were very surprised and happy about it, but still left me disappointed. I was hoping there would be more migrants. On Tuesday, I went around the Filipina section of Hamra with Liberty, another Filipina. We put posters on the walls and talked to shop and restaurant owners. Sometimes we were met with suspicion, "Why are you helping us?" Other times, we were met with sincere enthusiasm: “The government is really going to change?” “You think the Lebanese will really care about this?” “Thanks for helping us.” And then I’d be invited to sit and eat. It helps A LOT to be an American. Once they realize I’m not Lebanese, barriers go down, and a certain level of trust is extended.
My main East African organizational contacts were all booked. The Ethiopian churches had a big mission conference that weekend. The Malagasys were having a meeting with their consulate in Dora. The Sudanese had a big funeral. But since it was going to be in Hamra on a Sunday, I figured we could just get random passers-by the day of. That didn't really work. Of course, people were thrown off by the cameras.
Out of the almost 1000 people on our Facebook group, and 77 confirmed guests, about 5 new faces showed up.
When I told the other organizers I made 400 copies of the fact sheet, I was met with, “Wow, Jane, thinking big.” We ran out after 40 minutes, and someone had to make more. Someone said, “100.” I said, “200,” knowing that wouldn’t be enough. I was right. We handed out all the copies. People in their cars were stopping, asking for the papers, curious about what was going on. Demonstrations and protests, with people holding up funny, colorful signs isn’t too common a site in Lebanon.
Shout outs go to the Feminist Collective (for rallying tons of supporters in cool, black T-shirts), the AUB UNESCO club (for donating funds), IndyAct, CRTDA and Kafaa (for officially sponsoring it), and to Nadim from Human Rights Watch (for all his moral support and vision).
Now, it's time to plan for May Day!
We had a fun time making the posters, thinking of appropriate slogans that would be edgy enough, but not invoke completely defensive reactions. Since it was on the occasion of International Women’s Day, we said “Migrant Domestic Workers Rights = Women’s Rights= Human Rights”. Then we did personal-ish statements along the lines of, “I worked for three years and never received my salary.” A particularly weird, fun, thought-provoker (and personal favorite) was “The Mister Beats Madame Everyday.” I made that poster.
“F--- this racist, backward country!” was suggested by a friend in an e-mail. But I didn’t suggest that in the meeting, so as not to throw off our Lebanese-foreigner coalition. (But I still get a good hoot thinking about that one!)
When an Ethiopian woman showed up to the café to work on the posters, we got the idea that they should be in different languages. So Hayeon went to El Dorado to recruit some Filipinas to get some posters written in Tagalog. The day of, we got some Sri Lankans to write other posters, right on the sidewalk. The other organizers told me 20 posters would be more than enough. I made 35, and they were all used.
About 100 people came, which the other organizers were very surprised and happy about it, but still left me disappointed. I was hoping there would be more migrants. On Tuesday, I went around the Filipina section of Hamra with Liberty, another Filipina. We put posters on the walls and talked to shop and restaurant owners. Sometimes we were met with suspicion, "Why are you helping us?" Other times, we were met with sincere enthusiasm: “The government is really going to change?” “You think the Lebanese will really care about this?” “Thanks for helping us.” And then I’d be invited to sit and eat. It helps A LOT to be an American. Once they realize I’m not Lebanese, barriers go down, and a certain level of trust is extended.
My main East African organizational contacts were all booked. The Ethiopian churches had a big mission conference that weekend. The Malagasys were having a meeting with their consulate in Dora. The Sudanese had a big funeral. But since it was going to be in Hamra on a Sunday, I figured we could just get random passers-by the day of. That didn't really work. Of course, people were thrown off by the cameras.
Out of the almost 1000 people on our Facebook group, and 77 confirmed guests, about 5 new faces showed up.
When I told the other organizers I made 400 copies of the fact sheet, I was met with, “Wow, Jane, thinking big.” We ran out after 40 minutes, and someone had to make more. Someone said, “100.” I said, “200,” knowing that wouldn’t be enough. I was right. We handed out all the copies. People in their cars were stopping, asking for the papers, curious about what was going on. Demonstrations and protests, with people holding up funny, colorful signs isn’t too common a site in Lebanon.
Shout outs go to the Feminist Collective (for rallying tons of supporters in cool, black T-shirts), the AUB UNESCO club (for donating funds), IndyAct, CRTDA and Kafaa (for officially sponsoring it), and to Nadim from Human Rights Watch (for all his moral support and vision).
Now, it's time to plan for May Day!
February 11, 2009
I left my wallet in the taxi
So the guy went to my old school because I had my ID in there and to AUB because I had my hospital card in there. But he didn't leave the wallet at any of those places. Instead, AUB called me and tried to get him to come to campus to give it to me. But he refused. So I had my Lebanese friend go meet him and get it from him.
When I spoke to the guy on the phone, he told me of all his efforts to find me, driving everywhere, Facebooking me, etc. I told him I'd pay him L.L.50,000 ($33). He said, "Just..." So then I told him I'd think about it.
I told my friend to give him $50, but the guy refused. Having found a $100 bill inside, he said he would take that, otherwise I wouldn't get the wallet back.
We had no choice but to give it to him.
So then the guy friends me on Facebook. Of course, I subscribe to the mantra that just because we're friends on Facebook doesn't mean we're friends in real life. . . but was he seriously???? The jerk steals from me, and then wants to befriend me on Facebook.
Being Lebanese, he must think it's normal to extort money from people. I mean it would have been weird if he didn't, right?
When I spoke to the guy on the phone, he told me of all his efforts to find me, driving everywhere, Facebooking me, etc. I told him I'd pay him L.L.50,000 ($33). He said, "Just..." So then I told him I'd think about it.
I told my friend to give him $50, but the guy refused. Having found a $100 bill inside, he said he would take that, otherwise I wouldn't get the wallet back.
We had no choice but to give it to him.
So then the guy friends me on Facebook. Of course, I subscribe to the mantra that just because we're friends on Facebook doesn't mean we're friends in real life. . . but was he seriously???? The jerk steals from me, and then wants to befriend me on Facebook.
Being Lebanese, he must think it's normal to extort money from people. I mean it would have been weird if he didn't, right?
More New Neighbors
My neighbor, Marie Monique’s, teeth hurt. She stands at the window and puts her hand at her check and shuts her eyes and squinches her face to show me that her teeth hurt. The people who live next door to me obviously aren’t doing anything about it. I asked her, “Doctor?” and she shook her head no. So through the iron outer gate, she opened the door and I gave her a little bottle of Advil, explaining in my bad French, 2 every 4 hours, no more than 6 in one day.
Then she introduced me to my other neighbor. I had no idea that right next to me on the other side is another Malagasy woman named Lala. Actually the entrance to her building is different from mine. But if I stick my body partly out the window, I can hand her stuff. She speaks some English.
I gave her a kid’s school book to practice from. I called Aimee, the woman in charge of the Malagasy church, and handed Lala the phone. She was beaming. Lala’s sister lives in Saida (a city about 1 ½ hours south of Beirut). But she has never seen her. She never gets to leave the house. And she always has her ears perked, to listen if the madame is coming. She gets very nervous when we talk, and once she just left. I’ve only talked to her twice.
Then I met the woman who lives two floors down from me. She’s Ethiopian. We were yelling in Arabic, so there was a lot of room for miscommunication. She’s also locked in the house, and has been for two years. She said, “Ba3rif. Haram.” (I know. Poor me.) And shrugged her shoulder, with a sad look in her eyes, but a smile on her face. I didn’t understand her smile, as if she were looking on the bright side. . .
Then I went inside to the hallway and talked to Marie Monique. And then we prayed. We hold hands through the iron gate, and we each pray in our own language. Those of you who read my blog and believe in prayer, please pray for these women—a lot.
Then she introduced me to my other neighbor. I had no idea that right next to me on the other side is another Malagasy woman named Lala. Actually the entrance to her building is different from mine. But if I stick my body partly out the window, I can hand her stuff. She speaks some English.
I gave her a kid’s school book to practice from. I called Aimee, the woman in charge of the Malagasy church, and handed Lala the phone. She was beaming. Lala’s sister lives in Saida (a city about 1 ½ hours south of Beirut). But she has never seen her. She never gets to leave the house. And she always has her ears perked, to listen if the madame is coming. She gets very nervous when we talk, and once she just left. I’ve only talked to her twice.
Then I met the woman who lives two floors down from me. She’s Ethiopian. We were yelling in Arabic, so there was a lot of room for miscommunication. She’s also locked in the house, and has been for two years. She said, “Ba3rif. Haram.” (I know. Poor me.) And shrugged her shoulder, with a sad look in her eyes, but a smile on her face. I didn’t understand her smile, as if she were looking on the bright side. . .
Then I went inside to the hallway and talked to Marie Monique. And then we prayed. We hold hands through the iron gate, and we each pray in our own language. Those of you who read my blog and believe in prayer, please pray for these women—a lot.
January 31, 2009
Olive Oil Tasting
Many of you have probably attended wine tastings (though I never have.) Last night, however, I went to an olive oil tasting. Some people tell me this is becoming popular in the U.S.
I went to a very small restaurant/bar in Genmayze, where 14 of us were seated at a long table. A woman from a local NGO explained to us how most Lebanese olive oil is garbage. Though of course the Lebanese and people from the villages are very proud of their traditional agricultural products.
Extra virgin is cold pressed and has no more than .8% acidity. But even if oil passes the laboratory tests for acidity and peroxide levels, it still can't be considered "extra virgin" until a professional taster deems it as such. If olive oil is labeled "pure", "refined", or "light", run the other way--full speed! Its taste and acidity has been chemically controlled.
In 2004, 3% of olive oil production in Lebanon was classified as extra virgin. Today, through the work of NGOs educating small farmers (defined as having less than 5 dollum, 5,000 square feet), who are 50% of the growers, the production is now at 10%.
It's a very sensitive process that entails not hitting the trees with sticks (which also stymies their production the following season), to not putting them in bags but leaving them in crates, to taking them to the press in less than 48 hours, and using a modern mill, instead of the traditional stone ones (which are 87% in Lebanon) because that exposes the paste to air which starts fermentation.
The ideal time to harvest is in October when the color changes from green to black. But Lebanese farmers usually wait until later in the season when the olives are fatter.
I was riveted by all this information.
Then came the practicum.
In front of me were 5 plastic cups with some olive oil. Foil covered the tops, and they were labeled A through E. With full concentration, we were to hold the cup in front of us, and then put it in the palm of our other hand, turning it in a small circle, to mix it up and heat it up. Then we were to smell and put the foil back on.
Then, we were supposed to line them up from best to worst. The best is if you took an olive from the tree and squeezed it. The worst is you're at a stone mill, with a car running outside, the exhaust mixing with people smoking cigarettes, and people stepping on the stuff, and using dirty crates and machines--chemical contamination.
D and E were about the same and the best. They had that robust, distinctive olive oil scent that I've come to appreciate since I've come to Lebanon. A was insipid and bland. B and C were both putrid and chemically.
Then we tasted. I slirped it back, hearing the air slide through my teeth and cross my tongue. In between, I ate apples and drank water to clear my palette.
After that, I deemed E to be the best and C to be the worst.
Check it out!!!
A is the best and most pure.
D and E are contaminated!!!! B and C are the best but a year old, so they got rancid. Olive oil isn't good the following year. It lasts 18 months at the most.
So I thought D and E were the best because that's what I've gotten used to from living here for so long. I'm always eating the real-deal stuff that people buy from their neighbors in the village. And really, it's all contaminated! That robust, distinct flavor is exhaust and cigarettes and other pollutants.
Wow! It's like my whole world has been turned upside-down. . .
I went to a very small restaurant/bar in Genmayze, where 14 of us were seated at a long table. A woman from a local NGO explained to us how most Lebanese olive oil is garbage. Though of course the Lebanese and people from the villages are very proud of their traditional agricultural products.
Extra virgin is cold pressed and has no more than .8% acidity. But even if oil passes the laboratory tests for acidity and peroxide levels, it still can't be considered "extra virgin" until a professional taster deems it as such. If olive oil is labeled "pure", "refined", or "light", run the other way--full speed! Its taste and acidity has been chemically controlled.
In 2004, 3% of olive oil production in Lebanon was classified as extra virgin. Today, through the work of NGOs educating small farmers (defined as having less than 5 dollum, 5,000 square feet), who are 50% of the growers, the production is now at 10%.
It's a very sensitive process that entails not hitting the trees with sticks (which also stymies their production the following season), to not putting them in bags but leaving them in crates, to taking them to the press in less than 48 hours, and using a modern mill, instead of the traditional stone ones (which are 87% in Lebanon) because that exposes the paste to air which starts fermentation.
The ideal time to harvest is in October when the color changes from green to black. But Lebanese farmers usually wait until later in the season when the olives are fatter.
I was riveted by all this information.
Then came the practicum.
In front of me were 5 plastic cups with some olive oil. Foil covered the tops, and they were labeled A through E. With full concentration, we were to hold the cup in front of us, and then put it in the palm of our other hand, turning it in a small circle, to mix it up and heat it up. Then we were to smell and put the foil back on.
Then, we were supposed to line them up from best to worst. The best is if you took an olive from the tree and squeezed it. The worst is you're at a stone mill, with a car running outside, the exhaust mixing with people smoking cigarettes, and people stepping on the stuff, and using dirty crates and machines--chemical contamination.
D and E were about the same and the best. They had that robust, distinctive olive oil scent that I've come to appreciate since I've come to Lebanon. A was insipid and bland. B and C were both putrid and chemically.
Then we tasted. I slirped it back, hearing the air slide through my teeth and cross my tongue. In between, I ate apples and drank water to clear my palette.
After that, I deemed E to be the best and C to be the worst.
Check it out!!!
A is the best and most pure.
D and E are contaminated!!!! B and C are the best but a year old, so they got rancid. Olive oil isn't good the following year. It lasts 18 months at the most.
So I thought D and E were the best because that's what I've gotten used to from living here for so long. I'm always eating the real-deal stuff that people buy from their neighbors in the village. And really, it's all contaminated! That robust, distinct flavor is exhaust and cigarettes and other pollutants.
Wow! It's like my whole world has been turned upside-down. . .
January 28, 2009
Being Black in Lebanon
Being black in Lebanon means you’re a servant.
It means that if you’re sitting on the bus, people will solicit you to come to their house and clean for the going rate of 7,000 L.L./hour (a little less than $5).
It means that if you’re walking with your white friend, and she’s carrying her bag or her baby or her groceries, you will get yelled at for not doing your job.
It means if you’re at a restaurant with non-black people, the wait staff will never ask for your order or expect you to pay.
It means people will ask you, “Are you Sri Lankan or Sudanese?”, and when you answer “American” in a perfect native-speaker American accent (because you don't speak any other language), people will ask, “But are you Sri Lankan or Sudanese?”
It means you are free game for men to grab and touch you.
It means you will be called ugly and “slave” to your face. (Actually this requires an explanatory note. The word “3bd” literally means slave or servant in Arabic. The common name 3bdallah means “Servant of God”. Arabs use this word to refer to black people. Instead of saying the color black, “aswad”, from which the country name Sudan comes, people say “servant/slave”.)
If you're coming for a visit, be prepared. It helps to not speak Arabic. It's tiring, frustrating, upsetting, offending to know the things they are shouting/whispering/chiding at you on the street and in the homes of your hosts.
It means that if you’re sitting on the bus, people will solicit you to come to their house and clean for the going rate of 7,000 L.L./hour (a little less than $5).
It means that if you’re walking with your white friend, and she’s carrying her bag or her baby or her groceries, you will get yelled at for not doing your job.
It means if you’re at a restaurant with non-black people, the wait staff will never ask for your order or expect you to pay.
It means people will ask you, “Are you Sri Lankan or Sudanese?”, and when you answer “American” in a perfect native-speaker American accent (because you don't speak any other language), people will ask, “But are you Sri Lankan or Sudanese?”
It means you are free game for men to grab and touch you.
It means you will be called ugly and “slave” to your face. (Actually this requires an explanatory note. The word “3bd” literally means slave or servant in Arabic. The common name 3bdallah means “Servant of God”. Arabs use this word to refer to black people. Instead of saying the color black, “aswad”, from which the country name Sudan comes, people say “servant/slave”.)
If you're coming for a visit, be prepared. It helps to not speak Arabic. It's tiring, frustrating, upsetting, offending to know the things they are shouting/whispering/chiding at you on the street and in the homes of your hosts.
January 21, 2009
My New Neighbor
My new neighbor moved in when I was in New York last month. Her name is Marie Monique, and she's from Madagascar. I can't talk to her very much. But I say things like, "Je m'appelle Jane. Je suis americaine." She came on a contract to work and live in a house as a domestic worker.
The woman who had her position before her, Helen, was from the Phillipines. Helen and I talked a lot. I gave her books to read in English and materials to learn Arabic. The Arabic materials really opened up a whole new world for her. After three years, she was speaking very well, but she never saw it written. Now she could learn the correct sounds and some of the grammar, and she could start to fix her own mistakes. Helen spent most of her time locked in the house alone. (They locked her in out of the common fear/perception/myth that "maids" will run away--after stealing all your stuff.) So she was able to watch a lot of TV, which greatly improved her English.
I see Marie most of the time from my kitchen window when she stands at hers. Across the way, we talk. I'm teaching her Arabic. The sooner she's figuring out what they're saying, the better for her. That's how I figure it.
This morning, I called the pastor of the Malagasy church, a woman who's been here for 10 years. Marie can open the door, but not the iron gate in front of it. So through the bars, I handed her the phone. I'm sure she has not talked to anyone in her language since she arrived. She was asking about making phone calls. Her employers haven't taken her to the centrale to use the phone yet.
What to do? I didn't dare talk to the employers when Helen was there. I didn't want her to get in trouble and make her situation worse. But I wanted to talk to those people after Helen left, before the new woman came. Sadly, I missed my window of opportunity because I was in New York.
My roommate came in late last night from the U.S. She saw me in the hall talking to Marie. I introduced them briefly. Later, all tired and jet-lagged, she mumbled, "Why am I back in such a f--- up country that trades in slaves?"
This woman came to work under a "contract." She will not see her wages for the first three months. (It's illegal under international law for the agencies to do this.) I wonder what it's supposed to be, maybe $100/month? I'll ask. And then I'll ask when she sees it. She doesn't really know what she's in for. In the meantime, I'll try to learn some French.
The woman who had her position before her, Helen, was from the Phillipines. Helen and I talked a lot. I gave her books to read in English and materials to learn Arabic. The Arabic materials really opened up a whole new world for her. After three years, she was speaking very well, but she never saw it written. Now she could learn the correct sounds and some of the grammar, and she could start to fix her own mistakes. Helen spent most of her time locked in the house alone. (They locked her in out of the common fear/perception/myth that "maids" will run away--after stealing all your stuff.) So she was able to watch a lot of TV, which greatly improved her English.
I see Marie most of the time from my kitchen window when she stands at hers. Across the way, we talk. I'm teaching her Arabic. The sooner she's figuring out what they're saying, the better for her. That's how I figure it.
This morning, I called the pastor of the Malagasy church, a woman who's been here for 10 years. Marie can open the door, but not the iron gate in front of it. So through the bars, I handed her the phone. I'm sure she has not talked to anyone in her language since she arrived. She was asking about making phone calls. Her employers haven't taken her to the centrale to use the phone yet.
What to do? I didn't dare talk to the employers when Helen was there. I didn't want her to get in trouble and make her situation worse. But I wanted to talk to those people after Helen left, before the new woman came. Sadly, I missed my window of opportunity because I was in New York.
My roommate came in late last night from the U.S. She saw me in the hall talking to Marie. I introduced them briefly. Later, all tired and jet-lagged, she mumbled, "Why am I back in such a f--- up country that trades in slaves?"
This woman came to work under a "contract." She will not see her wages for the first three months. (It's illegal under international law for the agencies to do this.) I wonder what it's supposed to be, maybe $100/month? I'll ask. And then I'll ask when she sees it. She doesn't really know what she's in for. In the meantime, I'll try to learn some French.
Wani just called from Sweden
He is very happy and can't believe how much God has blessed him. The only problem is that it's too cold.
He lives in a town about 500 km. north of Stockholm. He's the only Sudanese there. The government will pay him $1000/month for two years. His rent is $500/month. He is taking 4 hours of Swedish a day and 3 hours of music lessons. When he becomes a professional musician, he will earn more than $5000/month with 40% going to taxes.
He lives in a town about 500 km. north of Stockholm. He's the only Sudanese there. The government will pay him $1000/month for two years. His rent is $500/month. He is taking 4 hours of Swedish a day and 3 hours of music lessons. When he becomes a professional musician, he will earn more than $5000/month with 40% going to taxes.
Waiting and Expecting
I was talking to a Belgian free-lance journalist at a bar this weekend. I asked him how work is. In general, Beirut is a pretty flooded market for foreign free-lance writers. He said it's slow, but he's sure things will pick up in a couple months.
February 14-Hariri trial starts in the Hague
February-Israeli elections
June 7-Parliamentary elections
February 14-Hariri trial starts in the Hague
February-Israeli elections
June 7-Parliamentary elections
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