I am grateful for being Lebanese

I knew a man who flirted in the fringes of politics in the 1980s who every day religiously scanned the obituary columns to see who had died. If it was someone he knew, had worked with or had any family connection, he would get in the car and drive – across the country if necessary – to convey the requisite amount of sympathy to the bereaved family.

He was an extreme case, but we Lebanese grow up with death. I don’t mean that in a macabre or grisly way, suggesting that our lives are punctuated by wars and car bombs. It’s just that deaths, like births and marriages, as well as general familial obligations, are woven into our daily lives.

We don’t hush it up, get tongue-tied or feel awkward. A system kicks in. Death notices go up. The community understands; it gathers and it consoles. From an early age we know what to say. And then, as quickly as they have assembled, they leave. And It’s all part of wajib, or duty.

I was talking about this over lunch the other day. Someone, from Zahle, bemoaned the fact that condolences have been cut to one day instead of the traditional three. I said that, while that might signal a drop in the ‘standards’, it is still way ahead of parts of Europe where there is a distinct attitude of “we’re only inviting only close family” and no one really knows what to say.

In a wider sense wajib influences affected the way we interact. We are the masters of pleasantries. Our conversation is peppered with elaborate and florid quick-fire exchanges that take in health, news and family before getting down to the nitty gritty.

We take wajib for granted, but it is hugely important as it holds us together. In fact, hold that thought and bear with me for a second. I live for most of the year in the UK. As we all know, it is a wealthy country with a decent quality of life. There is free healthcare and education and all the rest of it. The roads are safe, the justice system is fair and corruption is low. It is a country, one in which most Lebanese would aspire to live.

But would they? Things are not so great at the moment. On a visible, day-to-day level, there is a shoplifting epidemic. Retail theft of easily resold items like meat, alcohol, cosmetics, baby formula, and medicine has risen 20% in the last year with over 5 million reported incidents (the real number is probably around 20 million). The loss to the retail sector is around £400 million. That’s over £1 million a day! Phone theft is also out of control with over 300 devices snatched in London every day!

Meanwhile for the third year in a row, there has been a steep rise in the number of homeless people. In Brighton, a coastal city 75km south of London, where I live, most shop doorways double up as shelters at night. Young people are particularly visible and I often ask myself if their families are wondering where they are and then say to myself “this would never happen in Lebanon”.

It simply would not be allowed. The family would pull together to find out what had happened and bring that person back home. Aunts and uncles would rally round and offer support. I’m not saying that the typical Lebanese household is perfect – it can be dysfunctional, unhappy and as abusive as any other – but whatever our ‘dirty laundry’ we don’t let our children sleep in the street.

Ditto theft. Of course people have been stealing since one man coveted another’s ox, and yes, car and motor scooter theft may be on the rise and let’s not forget that we are one of the most corrupt countries in the world. But petty theft – food or other goods – is at manageable levels and I am convinced it is because we are taught either by the family, or through being part of a religious structure, that it is wrong. By and large we don’t need to steal food because we know that we will be fed, that our inherent generosity will prevail.

I might have a rose-tinted view of our world and no doubt readers will tell me so in the comments section, but the older I get, the more grateful I am for being Lebanese.