Seven Thousand Square Meters

“I used to have my own restaurant, you know.”

He shifted his weight on the low couch and his rapidly-moving hands stroked his white beard. He looked hard at us, across the room. From my place on the chair, squeezed between two of my co-workers, I watched his wife on the couch next to him, smiling and nodding as if this was a narrative written deeply on her heart.

“In Syria. Before the war. It was a big restaurant. I had many employees. The food was the best you could get; I have pictures with artists who used to come and eat there.” He jumped up from his seat, surprisingly limber for a man with such a white beard and deep wrinkles. “I’ll get my pictures; wait here.”

We waited in silence, smiling awkwardly at his wife who smiled back at us and chatted in Arabic with our organization director. Their adult daughter entered the small room, carrying a child drinking milk from a sippy-cup. She sat on the couch next to her mother, curling her bare feet under the couch. The older woman was explaining that their adult daughter lived there too, along with her husband and three children, as is common practice in these gatherings where housing is scarce, generally inadequate, and expensive. I was feeling proud of my Arabic abilities and that I was able to understand this conversation, when her husband returned with a small pile of photos in his hand.

He handed two photos to me and a few to my co-workers. The photos weren’t very old, but the corners and edges were worn and beginning to curl. They were photos of a large, ornate building, with this man in whose home we were sitting, posing with various groups of people.

“These are all very famous artists and actors and singers. If you watched Syrian T.V., you would know who they are. They’re very, very famous in Syria. They’d come to my restaurant. It was beautiful, see it? Seven thousand square meters, on three floors. Can you imagine it?”

We could imagine it. After we had thoroughly looked at and exclaimed over each photo, we handed them back to him, and he sat down again next to his wife. She took the pictures from him and began looking through them. Her face in that moment, I thought, was a true picture of nostalgia.

The man continued, “But it was destroyed. Air raids destroyed the building. When I came to Lebanon, all I had was my family and four thousand dollars. “In Syria, I was a rich man who helped many people. I used to give food to anyone who needed it-- $100 every day in free food that I’d give to people. And now, look at this. My family relies on food vouchers to survive. I can’t talk to any of my old friends, because I couldn’t bear it if they found out the situation I am in.”

We continued to ask him about his experiences with the local food security project, and about his life in the Palestinian gathering in which he lived and we worked. He continued to reiterate to us this dichotomy of what he used to know--a position of comfort and ability to help others--and what he knows now--a position of receiving assistance from others.

“I don’t like that my family needs to take money from you that could be going to another family. But we have to. You know, we use this food assistance for more than half of our food every month. But I know how money works. And I know that your funds run low sometimes, and sometimes you have to cut families. I understand that. I don’t like knowing that there are families here who have it worse than me, and can’t receive any assistance at all.”

Later, on my own, I found myself reflecting on why that statement surprised me - “I don’t like knowing that there are families here who have it worse than me.” Why was I surprised that someone who was benefiting from a food security program used to run a large, high-end restaurant that celebrities frequented? So many of us have this tendency to put people who experience poverty or violence or hardship into boxes, and are surprised when we meet someone who doesn’t fit into the narrow idea we have of what their life should look like or how they should behave. That’s not fair.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that so many of the people with whom I come into contact in Beirut haven’t been in these situations for most of their life. Sometimes it’s easy to forget to look beyond the scope of the present and remember that people are more than the circumstances in which they find themselves.

Because I’m used to seeing and hearing about the typical cycle of poverty, and the huge difficulty and disadvantages it brings to people. And generational trauma and oppression are very real. However, when war happens, it changes everything. No one, no matter how successful or rich or privileged, is completely immune from the destruction that happens when violence breaks out.

That’s why I’ve committed myself to understanding people and hearing their stories. Everyone has a story in them, and sometimes being present and hearing that story is the only thing I know how to do. I’ve also committed myself to working to unmake the violence that plagues our world, our countries, our schools, communities, and relationships. And whether it’s donating time or money or resources, or learning and educating myself, or intentionally posturing myself as a safe person for those in my community to come to, there’s always something I can do to prevent or reduce violence.

Who’s with me?