"It's like Beirut"

The expression "it's like Beirut" is a much-used comparison for everything from violent riots to a teenager's bedroom. Why do we still insist on associating Beirut with chaos?

When North East Lincolnshire Council announced this week it would be demolishing a notorious crime-ridden street in Grimsby, one resident said it would no longer be "worse than Beirut".

It's not the first time the comparison has been used and probably not the last. From Joe Public to world leaders, the phrase "like Beirut" is shorthand for chaos and decay.

Since 1991, the year after the Lebanese civil war ended, there have been more than 50 recorded usages of the phrase, according to Robert Groves, editor of Collins Dictionaries. It began with a reference to a Chicago slum on American National Public Radio.

Lebanese blogger Jad Aoun records usage of the phrase and mails the culprit a "looks like Beirut" certificate.

Last year he sent out about 30 certificates, mostly to the UK and US. But he says the phrase is also used in other countries, from Australia to India.

There is little doubt the association between Beirut and chaos springs from Lebanon's civil war. But it has been over for nearly 20 years and since then the world has seen countless other wars. So why don't people say "like Baghdad" or "like Sarajevo"?

The answer is partly down to timing. In the UK, the civil war was the first international conflict taking place in the age of 24-hour news. People were updated almost daily.

Ignorance

Since television news is a highly visual medium, the images coming out of Beirut had a lasting impact, says David Seddon, associate editor of the British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies. Add to that the length of the war - it lasted from 1975 to 1990 - and the cultural impact becomes clear.

"The news was saturated with stories about Beirut for a long time," says Dr Youssef Choueiri, reader of Islamic studies at Manchester University.

Those stories also became personal due to westerners being taken hostage during the crisis, notably John McCarthy and Terry Waite.

"This idea of having British hostages in Beirut and no one could rescue them... turned Beirut into a lawless city," says Dr Choueiri. "It became the symbol for urban chaos."

That sense of chaos was exacerbated by ignorance of the overarching situation in Lebanon, argue some. It seemed like everyone was fighting everyone else.

"For people who didn't know about the Middle East, it was fairly baffling," says Mr Seddon.

More recent wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have seen "episodic bombings" - not civil war, says Dr Choueiri.

In addition, the association many westerners had with Beirut as a glamorous holiday destination made its transformation into a warzone all the more striking, Mr Seddon says.

Pre-civil war, Beirut was a sophisticated waterfront locale, similar to current-day Dubai or Monaco. So the descent of glittering, cosmopolitan Beirut into "appalling mayhem" significantly impacted the people who previously may have visited the city.

So although Baghdad and Kabul have suffered similar physical devastation, they had never really been considered glamorous urban vistas in the first place.

'Irritating'

"The level of physical destruction was pretty high," says Mr Seddon. "It did look to people in Britain rather like London after the world war."

But that physical destruction is no longer an issue in Beirut. Since the end of the war, the city has undergone a revitalisation of sorts and is a holiday destination once again. The New York Times named it one of its "44 Places to Visit" in 2009. Nearly two million people followed the advice.

The attempt to return Beirut to its pre-civil war image has been hampered by violent outbreaks in the capital in 2006 and 2008, says Dr Choueiri. But in his experience, the Beirut of today is cleaner and better controlled than people might expect.

"The image itself is shifting," he says. "This Lebanon is different. It's entering a new phase."

Such an outdated expression need to be laid to rest, says Mr Aoun. He uses his certificates to raise awareness of the accuracy of people's perceptions. He also believes there might be a simpler explanation for why we insist on using the phrase - laziness.

"It is basically a cliche and doesn't provide an accurate description of what they're trying to say," he says. "I can understand its use in the 1980s and 1990s, but in this time we can move beyond it."

Of the 30 letters he sent out in the past year, he has received four responses which he calls "generally positive." One British journalist responded: "I realised [it] was offensive towards Beirut, and could indeed be seen to perpetuate a negative image of the city."

Indeed, all Beirut's champions ask is that people stop and think before resorting to the outdated metaphor.

"We know that there are cities that are worse than Beirut," says Dr Choueiri. "[The saying] doesn't do justice to the long peace Lebanon has enjoyed since after 1990."

Plus, he says, it's just downright irritating.

(credit: Elizabeth Diffin, BBC)

Lebanese Magazine Lifts Veil on Sex in the Arab World

From explicit articles about masturbation and homosexuality to columns about "My First Time", Joumana Haddad is out to lift the veil on Arab cultural taboos with a glossy magazine that is already the focus of controversy.

The first quarterly issue of "Jasad" -- "Body" in Arabic -- hit the stands in Lebanon last December. Tongues have wagged ever since about a daring venture into uncharted territory in the largely conservative and Muslim Middle East. "It's true that this is a first in the Arab world," Haddad, 38, a writer and poet, told AFP in an interview.

"I put open handcuffs near the word 'Jasad' on the cover of the magazine to illustrate that I wanted to unlock a taboo. "We need to stop treating our bodies, especially we women, as if they're something to be ashamed of," she added. "We have so many issues to deal with without having the extra weight of needing to cover our bodies."

The December issue of "Jasad", which sold for 10 dollars, includes articles on self-mutilation and cannibalism. The cover story of the March issue focuses on the penis. Other articles deal with battered men and women, transsexuals and the Kama Sutra.

A regular feature is "My First Time", in which a well-known figure talks about his or her first sexual encounter and subsequent sex life. Sexually graphic images -- including reproductions of works by famous artists such as Salvador Dali, Pablo Picasso or Francis Bacon -- accompany the articles by authors from Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Morocco, the Palestinian territories, Saudi Arabia and Syria.

Pseudonyms are not allowed.

Although such a magazine would barely raise an eyebrow in the West, it has drawn the wrath of religious authorities and women's organizations in Lebanon who are calling for its closure on the grounds that it amounts to pornography.

"We are all in favor of modernity... but this magazine, under cover of being cultural, appeals to sexual instincts," said Aman Kabbara Shaarani, head of the Lebanese Council of Women, an umbrella group of several organizations. "Subjects that teach our youngsters how to make love do not fit in with our moral values and civic education." Shaarani said she had written to the highest religious authorities in the country -- both Christian and Muslim -- as well as to cabinet members and the censorship bureau calling for "Jasad" to be banned.

"I will not give up because there needs to be a media watchdog for these sorts of publications," she said. "We are considering taking this before the courts."

For now Lebanese authorities appear content to let publication continue, however. Haddad, who is also culture editor of the well-known Lebanese liberal daily An-Nahar, argues that her publication does not target minors and is sold in a sealed plastic envelope clearly marked for adults only. She said she regularly receives hate mail and her website has been hacked into 15 times and had the words "There is no god but God" in Arabic left on the server. Haddad is not moved by such threats and stands ready to defend herself.

"I'm not afraid of controversy," she said. "I am passionate, I believe in this project and sales have demonstrated there was a need for it." The magazine's first issue -- all 3,000 copies -- sold out within 11 days. Sales of the second issue, printed at 4,000 copies, have so far been brisk, Haddad said.

Outside Lebanon the magazine is sold by subscription only as no bookstore in the Arab world would dare stock it, she said. "The highest number of subscribers, 282 out of some 400, are in Saudi Arabia where the magazine was met with much enthusiasm," said Haddad, who financed the project herself.

So far advertisers have shied away for the most part, fearing a backlash. While Haddad admits that some of the articles and pictures in "Jasad" may be shocking to some, she rejects any notion that the Middle East is not yet ready for such a publication. "Why should we treat the Arab world as a minor?" she said. "People against this project should go back to our own literary heritage which includes 'The Perfumed Garden' and 'Thousand and One Nights'.

(credit: Naharnet.com / AFP)

A case of East Imitates West...Imitating the East.

Keffiyeh Brings Colorful Clash to Beirut

The iconic black and white keffiyeh, or Arab headdress, famously donned by late Palestinian president Yasser Arafat has hit the streets of Beirut in a rainbow of colors -- much to the chagrin of older Palestinians.

Stylish youngsters, both men and women, can be seen in the city's chic cafes and restaurants sporting red, blue, pink, brown and purple versions of the keffiyeh.

Western and Arab tourists are also snapping up the hip item. The trend, however, is seen by many here as an insult to a symbol traditionally linked to the Palestinian cause.

"These colors aren't for us... it's nonsense, it's a fashion show," said Salim Ali Kayd, 74, who has been a Palestinian refugee in Lebanon since 1948, when Israel was created.

"The keffiyeh stands for a person's honor and manhood. It was a rite of passage to wear one upon reaching the age of 18," he added explaining the customs of his generation.

Others like him living in the narrow alleyways of the Shatila refugee camp on the outskirts of Beirut are also upset that their national symbol has become a fad.

"Yasser Arafat used to wear it for a reason. It means something," said Kalthoum Ghandour, a 45-year-old Palestinian doctor living in Lebanon.

"It was what the revolutionaries wore to conceal their identity," she added. "This is our revolution, our symbol.

"This trend distorts our heritage."

Shops in Beirut's diverse Christian and Muslim neighborhoods are selling the bright-colored items imported from Syria, Thailand and China.

A backlash against the trend has spread to college campuses in Lebanon, where Facebook groups have sprung up called "Palestinian scarf: Understand it or don't bother wearing it!" and "I refuse to let the keffiyeh become a high fashion statement."

This is not the first time the keffiyeh has been co-opted by others. The garment has come in and out of fashion, with youths in the 1960s and 1970s wearing it as a sign of revolt or sympathy with the Palestinian cause. The scarf has also become a signature item for anti-war activists.

While the latest trend may be more accessory and less ideology -- the keffiyeh's powerful symbolism continues to resonate, and not only among Palestinians.

The issue grabbed headlines in recent months when the Dunkin' Donuts chain came under fire for an online ad that featured an American celebrity chef wearing a paisley patterned scarf that some mistook for a keffiyeh.

The ad was pulled after a conservative U.S. commentator complained that it promoted jihad.

The U.S. clothing store Urban Outfitters this year also stopped selling colored versions of the keffiyeh because of controversy.

"They used to wear it around their necks and now they are wearing it around their waists. What's next?," said Haitham, 28, a Palestinian refugee who did not reveal his last name.

Dana, 25, said she recently purchased a blue version of the keffiyeh and maintains that the garment carries no political symbolism.

"I used to wear the white one when I would go to protests in college," she said. "These ones are a pure fashion statement.

Some young Palestinians, however, are proud to see the craze gather steam.

"I have about 10 of them... The keffiyeh belongs to us no matter its color. I am happy they have become popular," said Ahmed el-Hassan, 22.

(credit: AFP)