One of the things we’re accustomed to, in our nomadic life, is the presence of second-world elevators. The kind where you actually watch the rectangle floors go by, like some kind of early 90’s thriller where the journalist resorts to microfiche in the downtown library.

Some elevators are also void of short-term memory. So, for example, if you get in with a fellow stranger and you push Floor 8 and then they push Floor 2, the elevator will go to Floor 8 and then settle into sleep as if it’s job is finished.

We know about the quirks.

A few weeks ago, in the beginning of Beirut, we were in an elevator destined for the fourth floor Inma Center office. As we rode, I thought out loud, (as my inner monologue is so completely worn out from keeping quiet in front of all these strangers!)

“I wonder what happens when the electricity goes off while you’re in the elevator?”

And at that very moment (and I mean that VERY moment) like a good drama student should, the elevator slowly came to a stop between floors.

So we pushed another button. And it began moving (whew), landing between another couple floors (ack). And we did that again. And then we did that again. Ffffuuuuu. . . .and, eyes squeezed shut, we rode to the bottom, where I banged open the door and embraced the stairs.

Michael rode back up. Show off.

See Michael here, on the front terrace of our Beirut apartment, reading Sophie’s World? He is quite content, sitting in the sun.

But just seven hours later, we’re settled into bed, ready for sleep, when the sounds begin. We hear the first one, glance at each other and say: Could have been a truck backfire.

And all is quiet for awhile. Then another one sounds, something a bit different. But we ignore it. Finally, I am teetering toward sleep when a long hollow ga-goooooon reverberates across the city. My eyes open.

I say: Oh my God.

And I suddenly understand that my whole life, until now, I have been hearing car backfires that SORT OF sounded like guns. But that what I just heard was clearly something quite a bit closer to a gun. I notice that my heart is beating fast, but I am calm. Michael is up, slipping on some pants.

He says: I’m going to the front terrace to check it out.

I say: What should I do?

He says: I guess just be ready to get dressed if we have to.

But Michael returns within a minute or two, reporting a peaceful neighborhood scene. There’s nothing unusual at our intersection–Corniche Mazra and Saeeb Salem– despite the fact that we live smack on the border between Sunni and Shiite neighborhoods, a cradle of potential conflict.

The next morning we talk to our friend Adel and he explains that celebratory firecrackers and shots were fired last night following a political speech. We learn later that February 14th (four days from now) will be the three year anniversary of Hariri’s assassination. We learn from our friend Maureen that a few days ago, following a Hezbollah panel, Hariri’s son made a speech essentially telling the “opposition” that he was ready for a fight.

Okay.

So, the next night, around the same time, just as we are attempting sleep, we hear a constant deafening noise. At first, I think it must be a strong wind. Then it sounds more like a tornado. I briefly consider a garbage truck, but then immediately dismiss that idea. Finally, I wonder if it is a very fast succession of gunshots. But when Michael opens the bedroom’s sliding glass door which faces the residential street below, the sound getting ever-louder, he does not panic.

He says: So THAT is what a tank sounds like.

And we try to sleep.

(Iman & Suher, two employees at the center.)

You wanna know what’s really going on in Lebanon? So do I. It’s complicated. And as Michael and I discuss Hezbollah over hot and sour soup at Chopstix, or he goes over whos Sunni and who’s Shiite for me ONE more time as we eat turkey sandwiches, I start to think that “complicated” is not the right word and that the phrase “#@$*ing mess” is a a little more appropo. So I’ll just cover the refugees, Inma Foundation’s beneficiaries, for now. The Palestinians were run out their homeland by Israel after World War II. Some fled to Syria, others to Jordan or Saudi Arabia and several thousand landed here. Around 400,000 Palestinians live in 12 “camps” throughout Lebanon. Palestinian refugees in Lebanon are not recognized as citizens, cannot acquire legal employment, cannot vote and are sometimes restricted from beautifying their homes (i.e. settling). Lebanese speculation suggests the following reasons: 1) Official acceptance—admitting that they’re here to stay–would remove one of Lebanon’s important bartering chips with Israel. 2) Since Palestinians are mostly Sunni, their proportional participation in parliament would lopside the current division of power between Shiites, Sunnis and Christians.But let’s be clear. I DON’T REALLY KNOW. Did you hear me? I don’t know. Because it’s impossible to get an opinion without bias here.So now, after sixty years, the Borj el Barajne refugee “camp” is not a collection of tents, but a rough, third-world neighborhood. Unprotected cables swing in every direction, children sell lottery tickets, birkas carry babies, garbage piles on the curb, smarmy service taxis carry six, a camel paces impatiently in front of an auto service station, a family of three with an area rug ride on a motorbike. In this square mile area, people sway, a little like rival gang members, in opposing political directions. Some favor Hamas, others Fatah and then there are Jihadists. That’s why the occasional fatal squabble occurs. Yet lucky for us, since we got lost here yesterday, it’s not dangerous. Taxis will still cheat you out of a buck or two when you’re new, but due to Muslim-inspired fear and the consequence of public shame, crime is low. In a disheveled, cracked nutshell, this is where I’m going a few times a week. To get to know these Palestinians. To search for website photos. To play with the kids. To learn my rudimentary Arabic. To understand.P.S. Head to Inma Foundation’s new website to learn, donate, browse photos and see how Michael’s style and technical talent and my content have created online presence for this NGO.

Beirut, upon first glance, is a Disneyland of dreaminess. There’s Chili’s, Hard Rock Cafe Starbucks, Subway, and this bizarre obsession with retro-style American diners, such as the one you see behind my unhappy husband.Because we want it so badly to be true, we are instant victims–convinced of this burger-oasis between the chicken, hummus and fatoush all around it. At first, as soda-pop-jerk-dressed waiters walk the floor, Cadillac headlights glow across our red-leather booth, and we spot bacon-cheeseburgers and coke-floats on the menu, we are forced to close our mouth and dab a napkin at our drool. But it’s only one bite in, and one exchange with the server when we know we’d been duped.There’s something special about American cattle and exaggerated customer service. And it just doesn’t travel very well.