It started innocently enough.
One moment, I was telling Rohan about how much it sucked that I would not be spending Eid- the 3 day celebration of the end of the holy month of Ramadan- with my family, the next about 15 people were in my apartment, loaded with snacks, smiles and wonderful happy spirits, laughing and eating till they could no more.
And also, Mostafa brought over his guitar- and hilarity ensured when he and Sam started making up songs about cookies and the like.
For many, it was the first Eid they had ever spent. For me, it was probably the best.
Back home, the typical celebration consists of wearing new clothes and going to visit some relatives, getting some money and eating an infinite amout of ma’amoul and chocolate.
There was no ma’amoul here- and I don’t have an oven or quite know how to make them- but Caroline did bring over some delicious brownies, which we are till this day certain she spiked with some ingredient, like pure happiness- because that’s what they wear: pure happy brownies.
And there was an endless amount of chips, cakes, deserts, and juices that everyone brought over. I am still flattered by their generosity.
But the main component of the whole celebration?
The dancing of course.
Because no party-or celebration like I was calling it-that has people from the Arab world involved can go by without some of that action.
Once again, it started off innocently. Somewhere between making sure people were eating and de-cluttering, some Arabic music was put on and Lina was belly dancing- only to be joined by Mostafa, as the picture below demonstrates.
Then, I just had to join in.
Also introduced: the dabkeh- which I’m ashamed to say, am really bad at, let alone teaching it to people.
Needless to say, the guys brought South Park into the equation, and it became Kick the Baby- and I’m sure they are never going to let me forget that.
Then we moved onto the Indian culture, watching a video that is too funny to describe, I just have to post here. Once again, it is important to note that I am such a bad dancer, I was at least two steps behind everyone.
But by the end of the evening, it didn’t matter that a lot of the food remained untouched or that photos of me being less than good at something that is supposed to be integrated within my cultural habits exist, all that mattered was that all these unique individuals had come together to form this strange, but good strange, and universal family and celebrate a holiday that may have not been important to all of them, as though it were there own.
Beyond Beirut 