Encounters over Coffee: The Judge
The lockdown measures imposed last Spring as a reaction to the aggressive spread of the novel coronavirus deprived my neighbourhood in Hazmieh – much like the rest of Lebanon – from most of our favourite coffee spots. On the surface, this might look like a trivial issue amidst other consequences of much more catastrophic proportions. However, it did leave a scar, for such joints have been monitoring for centuries the pulse of our communities, and their absence provoked a sense of loneliness too acute for our Mediterranean temperament. As, one after the other, our treasured corners of repose rolled down their rails, I, along with other restless residents of our town, found refuge in a newly opened café, which, conveniently hidden in a patio, continued to operate, embodying, to an extent, the unruly disposition of my people. Its modern and comfortable tables, adequately spaced out to adhere to the safe distancing guidelines, became a haven for most members of the community who, in need of fresh air and some kind of normalcy, would frequent the shop for refreshments, the freshly cooked plat-du-jour, and, above all, a casual exchange of pleasantries with the other patrons. It did not take long for the café to become the neighbourhood’s main haunt, a point of reference with a gravitational impact where, within a few weeks, strangers turned into friends and small talks into honest discussions destined to offer inspiration or healing in this time of distress.
My daily visits to this hidden gem evolved into a ritual that helped me endure the monotony of the lockdown and the confusion caused by the speed with which most countries, especially Lebanon, seemed to sink into quicksand. I would buy a newspaper – the old-fashioned kind, the one that leaves ink stains on the fingers and exudes a stale aroma treasured by bookworms the world over – and would settle at a corner table facing the rest of the sitting area from a comfortable angle. As I would sip my coffee and update myself on the regional and global news, other clients would come and go, some merely nodding, others spending time at my table or inviting me at theirs, the overall ambience reminding more of a Quartier Latin bistro rather than a modern coffee shop at the outskirts of Beirut. Bit by bit, stories unfolded around me, a few of them collected via involuntary eavesdropping, others confessed with the dramatic intensity that is typical in the region, all of them, though, converging towards what an outsider would perceive as a perpetual quest for identity. Soon, several disconnected incidents, trivial and inconsequential on their own, found meaning within a broader design that bore our unique blend of chaos, solidarity, joie-de-vie, and humanity, ultimately turning the café into a miniature portrayal of Lebanon and a kaleidoscopic representation of our unusually fractured state of being.
With my newspaper, early in the morning.
One such story revolved around a senior Judge, who, for the purposes of this article, let us call him Paul. Unlike many of the other clients of the café, Paul was an old acquaintance of mine, our friendship dating to our university days, around 25 years ago. Connected by our dreams for a reformed Lebanon that would proudly stand as a beacon of peace on the crossroads between the East and the West, we had spent plenty a night exchanging passionately ideas and plans in which we saw ourselves, with the arrogance of our youth, featuring in prominent positions and roles of decisive importance. Paul had struck me, since then, as an individual with an exceptional zest for creativity: a highly educated and adventurous spirit, keen to divert from the paved path when he believed it would be purposeful and beneficial for the progressed image of Lebanon he carried in his heart.
Years passed by, and our paths separated, as he followed a career into the public service, and I climbed the corporate ladder. For over two decades, our communication was limited to a typical exchange of wishes on birthdays or Eid holidays, until last October, when vox populi, expressed through a series of fiery street protests, led to such changes in the political leadership that, at first sight, our hopes were rekindled. The technocratic experience of the new team at the helm of Lebanon promised practical solutions, and this appealed to both our academic background and quixotic dreams for our homeland. Soon, we resumed our communication almost from where we had left it – only to be quickly disappointed by the inevitability of the financial collapse and the lack of any initiative capable of achieving the coveted turnaround.
The lockdown period found us both spending a few of the morning hours in the same café. Paul was often surrounded by an entourage of eager listeners, and it was not uncommon for him to engage in rhetoric analyses that combined historical details with a wealth of personal experiences. I listened carefully to his arguments, sometimes even contributing to the discussions myself. The points were well-made, supported by evidence, practical, and non-offensive, focusing on solutions rather than theories or accusations.
Heated discussions around politics are quite familiar in most Lebanese gatherings, during which our fervent need to express our opinion often borders the realms of psychotherapy. Technology and social media have offered additional platforms for self-expression, usually creating more estrangement than unity, overall, though, polling the public sentiment. Still, Paul’s case was different. His position, with its classified files and confidential information, dictated that he should remain reticent, avoiding public criticism or other expressions of sensitive opinions. Undoubtedly, my friend had the experience and the necessary acumen to acknowledge such a delicate situation; yet, the devastating freefall of the Lebanese economy, combined with the absence of any hope for the foreseeable future, pushed him to the end of his tether, and his disillusionment found its way into most of the stories he shared verbally or online.
About a month ago, as we were preparing to sit for a cappuccino and one of our beloved socio-political exchanges on the side, his phone rang. The conversation was short but poignant enough to momentarily drain the colour off his face. I did not need to ask: it was clear that, despite his influence, knowledge, and expertise, his career had hit a wall – at least, for the time being. With his usual competency, he moved quickly from shock to acceptance, and – funny how the human mind works – his first thought was of a practical nature, carrying some financial but no emotional weight. Apparently, he had just acquired new containers for his security offices and, given the recent developments, he was eager to conveniently dispose of them. By coincidence, I was able to help, and a fair deal with a company was promptly secured – a testament to the Lebanese solidarity in case of need and the tightly weaved network that comprises the fabric of our small country and can frequently devise solutions out of thin air. Naturally, the satisfaction of the unexpected sale was short-lived, for much more significant challenges had to be addressed. However, as I observed shades of melancholy settling on his features, I was surprised to apprehend that I was experiencing myself sorrow and grief, not connected to the career hiccup of a friend, but, mostly to a feeling of despair for the fate of my country.
Lebanese uprising – summer 2020 (photo sourced from the Internet)
Our hopes for a technocratic approach towards a viable economic recovery have turned vain and sour. The go-to practices of Lebanon – outdated, almost medieval – continually clash with the demands of the modern era. The unique temperament of our people – creative, passionate, arrogant, and often naïve – has not helped us yet find our footing in the world. We remain a nation, damaged to some extent, in need of healing and inner growth before we can rise to our full potential. I choose to believe that people like Paul, with their education, dedication, and intellectual valour, are destined to act as pioneers towards a more promising future. Ultimately, though, it is up to each one of us to accept the responsibility bestowed on our shoulders and become the better version of ourselves, beyond petty egos and extravagant displays of status. Paul’s story is not one of conformity, nor is it of rebellion. Its inspirational qualities may be ambiguous. And yet, it reminded me that remaining loyal to one’s ideals, regardless of risks or uncertainties, is the cornerstone of self-worth, pride, humility, and dignity. As we will soon need to rebuild Lebanon from its ashes, let us keep this message at heart. Who knows, this time we might just get it right.
Samer L. Mounzer
