Her Side of the World

Chapter 11

I texted Mariam again today. I want to meet her. I cannot wait till after the class tomorrow. And I think we've been over this; we have now become closer. I can text her to ask her to meet me without it being awkward.

I want to first start by thanking her for her elaborate suggestions. My weekend with Danny was one of the best I have ever had. Her detailed schedule helped in many ways; especially that Danny has never visited these places himself as well. In fact, Danny told me that it did not occur to him before to go out of Beirut. He thought he can do everything he finds fun right here without having to drive long distances.

"So how do people move around?" I ask Mariam, after having told her about my Saturday with Danny. And that he drove us around the whole day and night.

"By car. Or taxis."

"Seriously? No buses, no metros, no tramways, nothing at all?"

"Some random buses, sure. No schedule, no strict path." She laughs.

"Must be tough."

"I mean, there is much traffic. But everyone is used to it. Everyone has a car or a motorcycle. Motorcycles are pretty famous."

"I noticed."

I notice that Mariam and I have been talking for around ten minutes while still standing next to the gate.

"Weren't we supposed to go out to have lunch?" I ask.

"Yeah. I told you, Nancy's coming. We're waiting for her."

"Who's Nancy?" I pretend I do not know because we were never introduced. But I know who Nancy is. I tried to stalk her Instagram page a couple of days ago and it was private. How can I forget?

"My cousin. You met her before, I think."

"I did?"

"We'll see."

A few moments later, I notice the veiled pretty lady with the green eyes walking up to us. Nancy.

"Hello. Caleb." I say, putting out my hand.

"Hi, Caleb. I'm Nancy. And I'm sorry not to shake your hand. I do not shake hands."

She puts her hand on her chest. As though hiding it. I find that a little weird. I am not offended. She said she does not shake hands, not that she will not shake mine only.

"It's again an Islamic rule." Mariam explains to me.

"Oh. Is it now? I have never heard of this one before."

"Less common than the veil and everything else."

"Obviously."

We talk a little and discuss a few things on our way to the restaurant. We sit down for lunch at a new place. Nancy is a lovely person. she keeps talking about everything in a very sweet and positive manner. She finds everything delicious. She thinks the waiters are all so nice and cute. She describes how happy she was with the new information she received during her last lecture, right before this lunch.

When Nancy leaves us for another class, she puts her hand on her heart; which I assume now is less for hiding and more like the equivalent to shaking my hand. Some kind of salutation.

"It was very nice meeting you, Caleb. Will see you around."

She leaves happily. Such an impressive woman.

"Impressive, right?" Mariam reads my thoughts.

"Yeah. Could you tell I was thinking so?"

"Everyone who meets her thinks so. Nancy is a person to look up to. She can find the joy in anything. And in the few times she can't, she still feels in peace with the world."

"Interesting."

"Nancy lost her father less than a year ago. He was healthy, my uncle. He was young and he was an exceptional person. Everyone loved Ammo Houssam."

Ammo, I came to learn, means uncle. But Lebanese people use it to call all elder men regardless of the familial relationship. Even a man you just met on the street. He would be a Ammo.

"Sorry for your loss."

"Her parents were going to her mother's village for a funeral on a Wednesday. When they left the car, a bullet hit him."

My eyes widen. Mariam speaks about this calmly. She is hurt, it shows. But she is not traumatized. Maybe not anymore. Her voice is sad, she continues.

"Someone in the crowd at the funeral was firing bullets in the air. A ritual that for some reason still exists in some places here. Even with the loads of people ending up murdered by mistake every now and then and being the centre of the local news. Some people still, during their funerals or weddings, decide to fire bullets in the air. And one of those bullets hit him. And he died right away. This death is so common here that it has a name: Resasa Tayshe. It means an astray bullet. How did he die? With an astray bullet. Everyone knows someone who did."

I am overwhelmed by Mariam's story. I do not share my emotions. I am thinking of how sick this is. Not only do they die all of a sudden, without any prediction. But also for no reason at all. None. I think about it, what could be the reason? But I do not find any.

I feel sick with these people after this story. Mariam being one of them. How is she one of them?

"Are you judging all Lebanese people now in your head?" she asks.

I am.

"No."

"The people who do this, they are a minority. Unfortunately, a minority is enough to cause disasters anywhere in the world. You should know that."

I nod. She is right.

"I tell you all of this because it seems to me that you are here to learn not only your courses, but also us. This place. And I want you to see every corner of this place. And this is one of them. And I want you to love it anyway."

I believe that will be a little hard.

Mariam's eyes meet mine. "I don't expect you to, though. But I want you to. I will do my best for that."