š days 247-285: lebanon
closed brain
closed brain
š§ šŖš
Iāve put off writing here. Writing here scares me. It requires an openness of mind and freedom of thought, the ability to wander through memories and, like rummaging through a candy store, picking out the ones that entice me enough to type them down. When writing I desire a close proximity to my feelings, a groundedness and a lively connection to the songs Iāve listened to the past period and the stories Iāve lived through.
If youāve got some speakers, play the song linked on the right side now. Imagine that the island in the picture (taken from the 2004 Studio Ghilbi film āHowls' Moving Castleā) is my house: my bike (I do view my bike as my house - on my bike I have everything I could desire, even Christmas lights to make spooky environments cosy!). I want to be Howl, the main character, in his moving castle. Floating through the clouds, whimsical and dreamy and free, making my way through the 25 borders and exploring the world.
Screenshot from one of my favourite Ghibli films: Howls Moving Castle (2004). His moving castle is my bike (the bike I now named āgentleā).
I like to feel close to the words I write, imagining that, when you read it, you feel as if Iām physically close to you, speaking them into your ear. But that kind of associative writing, the daydreaming that I enjoy during writing, that floatiness and ability to be wander openly: I donāt feel like I can do that right now.
On the contrary. For my supportive uncles Piet and Geurt and my sweet aunties Mirjam and Hennie, and all other people who might not follow the developments in the youth vocabulary: when I say that Iām āon the grindā, it means Iāve been working hard. Busting my ass. Putting in a sweat. Thatās how my time in Lebanon has been like, and itās what Iāll tell you about in this blog post.
For the time being, let the theme song of Howls Moving Castle play in the background. Because when I left you off, in the village of GĆ¼neyyurt in the Turkish Taurus mountains, I was still floating around! Also, I spilled yoghurt on my camera lens, so it broke. Youāre used to many photos in my blog posts. Now, there are only a few (taken with my phone).
šØ āship tomorrowā.
I remember being very proud of sending you my newsletter on my birthday (it was April 3rd). A clever trick, because it meant that whoever read that newsletter couldnāt possibly forget my birthday. I got many birthday wishes. Thank you, hihi.
video: crossing TĆ¼rkiye ā Lebanon
On that last blog post I told you how I would spend my birthday: by watching a football match. Sounds un-Sebastiaan? Absolutely correct. Two important clubs were set to play each other (I already forgot their names, but anyone I told nodded affirmingly with wide eyes). When it became clear that this was my birthday plan I quickly called my friend Erik, who briefed me on the teams and which players to look out for. That night, I fit right in. At 0:00 a chocolate muffin with a candle was brought out, along with vitamin water (I was a cyclist, so I got a healthy beverage). 15 sweet Turkish boys sung me off into my 25th birthday.
I wanted to get to Lebanon and beyond, to Syria, Jordan and Iraq. The only way I found out this was possible (without flying), was through a niche cargo ship service that also happened to take cyclists. It had no schedule but boats generally ran 2-3 times a month. The Whatsapp communication to the operating company was sporadic. After a few days of cycling through the Turkish Taurus mountains I received a message: āship tomorrowā. Okay! But I was still 140km away and I had around 2000m to ascend. Without any desire to wait in a Turkish port town for a week or two, I put the gas to my pedals.
ā“ļø $250: no food, no water, no bed.
video recap: week 36
Crossing from TĆ¼rkiye to Lebanon was done on a massive, pretty old, ship. Many Kurdish, Lebanese and Syrian truckers were eager to share their tea with me (I gratefully accepted). But really, to get a feeling for this 18-hour journey, youād do best to watch the video above. To be completely honest, for $250 it was a horrible deal. I got to sleep on the floor in a dark corner, got no food or water from the ship crew, and still had to pay $250. A plane ticket to Beirut wouldāve cost me (including bike) around $80. At least I got a sense of adventure, and I loved every second of it. The intense fumes of diesel brought joy to my heart, and I sat watching the trucks for hours. .
š¶ the awe of a newborn baby
book review filmed in busy Tripoli
Never had I seen something like the organised chaos of Tripoli. Smells, sights and sounds were easily increased threefold from that of TĆ¼rkiye. Took the cheapest hotel I could find and, with the awe of a newborn baby, walked around. It was like witnessing a wonder of nature, like stumbling across a Swiss meadow during your hike thatās just so outrageously perfect you canāt help but start to laugh out loud because how can something be this gorgeous? Cycling into the center of Tripoli was like that.
Buzzing with life, you could feel the tightness of the social fabric. Upon arrival I didn't own a SIM card nor Lebanese Pounds to pay with. Mobile stores were closed (weekend) so I went to a cafe to ask for help. Sure. The cafe owner went outside and called on someone just walking by the cafe using their name. This person, without a second of hesitation, took me and brought me to a guy in a store around the corner who, again, without flinching, instantly called his brother who could exchange money at perfect market rates. This is how Tripoli, in spite of itsā size, felt like a village. See the video above for a recap. The video on the left for how a Tripoli square looks like.
āTripoli, Lebanonās Paradiseā and āEnter with peace and safetyā. A mural in Tripoli, Lebanon.
š® āyour trip only really started when you set foot in Tripoliā
After some nights in Tripoli I started making my way down the coast (see the map). Lebanon, turns out, is quite the dense country. Thereās stuff almost everywhere. Buildings, people, trash. It made it tricky to find a camping spot. I slept on a beach.
I got incredibly lucky, as Pia reached out to me and invited me along with her and her husband Anthony throughout Beirut. Theyāre a Lebanese couple living in the Netherlands, doing cool stuff with New Neighbours in Utrecht. I fell in love with them. One of their parents commented about the adventure: āyour trip only really started when you set foot in Tripoliā. I felt that he was correct.
Lebanon was actually quite challenging
A tag that I saw more often. The Lebanese who lived in diaspora seemed to have a love-hate relationship with the country. I think the tag captures this sentiment.
Beirut had unimaginably wonderful places. Pia and Anthony showed this place to me. I really like the artwork
anarchist state without anarchist values
an ambiguous anarchist utopia (an anchor in my political thinking)
Let me outline why, upon reflection, I experienced Lebanon as tense and challenging. The first is the lack of government. The country has been in an economic recession since 2019 that, essentially, has never been properly addressed. Since so many Lebanese live in the US, Western Europe and Australia, a lot of money comes in from the diaspora. Itās this money that keeps a lot of the country going, since without it, I genuinely think the country would stop working. I mean, itās quite the striking experiment. There are strands here of a potential anarchist society, but without the entrenched anarchist values of mutual aid and cooperation. Lebanon essentially has no government:
there are no traffic rules (so most cars have expired or no license plates and itās a total free-for-all ballet dance on the road)
there is no drinkable tap water (so the drinkable water economy is huge)
thereās little centralised trash collection (so thereās many improvised dumps)
Yet the country somehow keeps running. People self-organise, but often rather along the lines of money, wealth and power. This leads me to my second realisation:
the wealthy are wealthy (and they like to show this too)
I expect a Nobel price in my mailbox soon for this new important discovery: the wealthy are wealthy. What makes this asinine statement remarkable is how visible the wealth disparity in Beirut is. When there is essentially no government, no social norms of equality and mutual aid, and part of the country lives in poverty, and part of the country lives in wealth, you get painfully visible disparities in wealth. Cars so large and shiny your mouth drops, a cappuccino for $6, and over a million Syrian refugees, many living on streets and in tents.
If you had wealth, you had servants, too. The Kafala system (whereby the rich family keeps the passport of their worker, often from South Asia or West Africa, and thus essentially binds them completely to the family and stripping them of freedom) was omnipresent.
My new friend Jaap pointed out this funny phenomenon: wealthy families would take a dog, but wouldnāt have time or desire to walk the animal. So, the domestic workers would walk them. But they didnāt want to, and some of them also clearly didn't like dogs. The outcome was that youād have these distinct West-African or South-Asian women standing on street corners, on their phone, dog leash in hand, with both the dog and the domestic worker looking bored.
Accordingly, Lebanon, more than anywhere Iāve been in my life so far (which isnāt that many places), I could see a two-track economy. If you earned a āwesternā income (from an NGO, business, embassy, etc) you could afford the $6 cappuccinos and $9 banana breads and live a comfortable āwesternā life-style. If you were a Syrian, Palestinian or poor Lebanese person, the country was a totally different experience. For people whoāve travelled more, this isnāt new. But for me, it is.
the country is under occupation (!)
video recap: week 37 (arrested by Hezbollah)
If you surround yourself in certain circles youād almost forget it, but Lebanon is in an active war and occupation. The Instagram account Eye on Lebanon shows the acts of aggression in the South, where Israel is gradually destroying villages and taking land. I spoke to Sara whose village in the south was destroyed, causing her to live in Beirut. While I was getting my watermelon tattoo we heard a bomb fall in the southern suburb of Beirut (āDahiehā). While taking a short video in this āDahiehā suburb that Israel is bombing, I got taken by Hezbollah and interrogated for 18 hours. Things are tense. I believe that this fact makes itself felt in the country: widespread societal anxiety.
sectarian divides are fierce and they make themselves felt
Hereās a remarkable thing: in Lebanese high school, Lebanese history lessons stop after 1946. What? Itās true. The Lebanese do not get taught what happened in the period after the French left (1946). Apparently, it would be too inflammatory to try and consent to a common history, because intra-sectional dislike is very explosive. Lebanon is divided into some notable religious and cultural groups: the Christians (culturally close to the French), the Sunnis and the Shias, and many more. Since thereās no uniform history curriculum, people get taught history from the knowledge that circulates in their own group.
This means that people, on most things, profoundly do not agree. There was 15 years of civil war (1975-1990) but no collective reckoning with it. In fact, no trials were held to hold the worst perpetrators accountable; theyāre roaming Lebanon freely. History is contested. Different sects (though mostly the Christians) would bring out their deep disdain for other groups after a few minutes of meeting them.
conclusion: intensity
video recap: weeks 38, 39 & 40
But this intensity is also something that I appreciated so deeply about the Lebanese. The moment I set foot in the port of Tripoli I was hooked. The Lebanese are an intense people: charming and witty and cheeky and a little daring. Theyāve got mouth-watering food and absurdly beautiful cities (Byblos, Baptouma). I cannot tell you how many people reached out to me through Instagram and offered me a place in their house to sleep, or invited me for dinner. I kid you not, it must be easily over 50 people. This level of hospitality and kindness was insane! And while history is contested, history and politics was brought up almost instantly in any conversation and was passionately discussed. I really appreciated this, no other place Iāve traveled to in my life has been like that.
So, to all the Lebanese: thank you. I donāt understand your country yet, even though I tried by reading āThe Arsonistsā Cityā by Hala Alyan and āA World I Loved: The Story of an Arab Womanā by Wadad Makdisi Cortas. There are so many layers that I havenāt explored; Iād need years to unpeel them all.
seeing Israeli violence & learning about Palestine
book review: Perfect Victims by Mohamed el-Kurd
I went to Lebanon, Syria and Jordan to learn about Israel and Palestine. Learn, I did. I discovered Saint Levant, a singer born in Jerusalem in 2000 (during the Second Intifada). His music has become a soundtrack for this learning period. You can play āOn This Landā to get into the right mood.
Being in Lebanon, youāre confronted with the Palestinian struggle and the violence inflicted by Israel daily. Thereās destroyed buildings, exhibitions on Palestinian culture and resistance, but most evidently of all: Israel is actively seizing land in South-Lebanon and bombing South-Beirut. Pia gave me the book Perfect Victims, and Mohamed el-Kurd, the writer, blew me away. He writes about resisting the violence inflicted upon them, and how youāre allowed, as a Palestinian himself, to speak about it. At which words do people draw the line?
On Instagram, I wrote this underneath the video about the book:
In a call with Neske (host of De Verbranders podcast about resisting borders) we talked about why I feel uncomfortable posting this video. An important part of this journey is learning, growing & reflecting (Iāve always asked for criticism and feedback and do the same now - give it please). My learning is done very publicly, here, on the internet, for all to see. Itās what Iām doing now, with you. Iām sure Iāll look back on this months from now and have grown.
I guess I wonder: āwho am I?ā to be talking about this book, recommending it to other people? For the past months I have only passively consumed the g***cide that is going on in Gaza and in the West Bank against the Palestinian people. But thatās exactly it: passively consumed. How have I truly and pro-actively engaged in the Palestinian effort to resist these past months? I havenāt. Iām aware of what is happening, but what more? I clearly havenāt been making noise about it. Besides, what does it matter if my politics has been aligned with liberation, when I exercise those politics merely in conversations with others and myself?
In Summer of 2021 a bunch of us in the radical climate movement read Andreas Malmās book/manifesto āHow To Blow Up A Pipelineā. It was a fiery, unequivocal and unambiguous appeal to escalate the tactics we were using to āsaveā our burning planet (lol). That book suddenly made everything crystal clear: the enormity of the fight, and the enormity of what is at stake. For me, Perfect Victims was like that.
Reading Perfect Victims, combined with being in close proximity to the Zionist colonial project, is apparently what I needed to get āactivatedā. What an awful realisation! Why do I need to be close to feel that full relevance? Why werenāt the many stories and figures enough?
I know that we, as people, can look injustice in the eye and let it seep into us, to feel, fully, its pain. In Extinction Rebellion there were āgrieving circlesā where this was the entire point: look our dying world in the eyes, mourn, and from there, find the āfireā to fight again.
Thatās not what I did in the past months with regard to the g***cide in Palestine. While passively consuming it, the true depth didnāt reach me - I didnāt let it. What a luxury position, to be able to decide if you want to fully engage with a genocide or not.
Letās finish with a wise quote from my friend Neske, who said: āMohammed El-Kurd dug deep inside himself to write this book; itās palpable in the pages. The only way to honour that, is to do the same yourself.ā
mini-documentary: Palestinian refugee camp Shatilah
With my renewed commitment to speaking about the fate of Palestinians, I set off to meet families who left Palestine in 1948, during the creation of Israel. An event known as the Nakba, the ācatastropheā. For this, I visited Shatilah and met with grandfather Hajj.
I made a 6:30 mini-documentary about it. Took me a bunch of work to make it, but Iām proud of the result.
a screenshot of my account!! itās weird, having more unknown eyes on you.
š°šconcluding thoughts on the virality (?) of my campaign
A significant reason I write these blog posts is to keep the information distribution fair. And because I like writing them. I can do whatever I want in these words. And through here, those without Instagram (thereās many of you) also know what Iām up to! A few people noticed that my Instagram account is doing sort of well. When I entered Lebanon, perhaps 4.000 people followed it. Now, sitting in Damascus, thatās 20.000 followers.
In and of itself, this number is completely useless. Fighting borders isnāt done by having a higher follower count. Itās done by providing material support to give people on the move (for example) shoes to reach the places they want to reach (getting from Morocco to The Netherlands, for example). So, I was interested if all of these new people would actually make the step from clicking a āfollowā button to sponsor or donate. Well, yes. The answer was yes.
As of May 30th, there are 175 sponsors and the sponsored amount per 100km is ā¬262,-. This is absolutely mind-boggling. Thatās such a serious amount of money that itās starting to become appealing to just cycle circles for the sake of earning MiGreat and No Name Kitchen money! It also affirmed me that putting effort into growing this Instagram page results in more material support. Because these videos take a lot of time and energy to make. Weāre talking between 5-20 hours per video. Now I know that strangers who have never met me want to materially support too. Unbelievable.
me now that i finished this blog post on a Damascus terrace.
That concludes my writings on Lebanon, a period spanning 5 weeks. I also want to mention some names who have helped me immensely in this period:
Natheer, Pia and Anthony, Eveline and Rumi the cat, Jaap and Nienke, Jasper, Holly, George and Anya, and Heidi for their help in Lebanon hosting and making me feel welcome;
My friends for the never-ending support even though Iām not a very available friend right now;
Harry and Extinction Rebellion for managing the sponsoring finance logistics (which is becoming increasingly demanding);
Milieudefensie for their financial contribution to fund some logistics of this campaign (website rent, microphone);
Anybody who has talked to people about this project;
You!! If you actually read this whole thing, could you say hi? Perhaps leave a comment below here? Or send me a mail? Because this is perhaps the greatest motivation to keep going; hearing peopleās thoughts.
Way too many others who I missed out on naming (this trip wouldnāt be possible without the dozens if not hundreds of people who support me in visible- and invisible ways).
