A Handful of Sunflower Seeds.

by Tim Henry (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Lebanon

After the noise, colour and chaos of the rest of Lebanon, Rafic Hariri International in Beirut seemed as dull and soulless as any other airport in the world. With four hours to kill, I walked out of the terminal, and perched myself on a concrete plinth. I watched people come and go as I enjoyed the relative warmth of the night air after the cold of the Chouf mountains I had left that morning. Several taxi drivers stopped to ask if I wanted a cab, but moved on when they heard I was flying home. Then a tall, well-dressed man walking slowly down the concourse caught my eyes and smiled. Coming over to me he extended his hand and, wordlessly, dropped a handful of sunflower seeds into my palm and walked on. As I stared down at them, I realised I had tears in my eyes. This simple gesture, unexpected and unprompted, perfectly captured the warmth and generosity of the Lebanese I had met in the last month. A little later, a short, cheerful-looking taxi driver approached me, again with arm outstretched. I saw this time he wanted to shake my hand. As I moved the remaining seeds to my pocket, I explained what had just happened. He shrugged his shoulders and said simply: “That’s Lebanon.” In almost perfect English, he asked me where I was from, where I was going and finally, had I liked Lebanon? “Yes!” I enthused. I had loved it. Everything: Its beauty, its culture, its food and, especially, its people. His constant, easy smile broadened into a huge grin and he clasped my hand in both his own. Suddenly solemn, he looked me straight in the face and said “Welcome, my friend.” His smile returned as he told me his name was Ahmed, before he excused himself and left. Yet barely five minutes later he was back, holding two cups of frothy coffee. He passed me one and sat down. It was a quiet night, he explained. So it seemed, for we were soon joined by a group of five or six other drivers. Each new arrival asked me the same questions, then shook my hand energetically as they repeated effusively: “Welcome!” Desperate to do something in return I offered round a pack of cigarettes. They were all simultaneously surprised, impressed - and quite possibly disappointed - that I was smoking Cedars, the cheapest brand of Lebanese cigarette. “Why?” they asked. Because they only cost $2 a packet I answered, bemoaning the fact that I hadn’t bought more in the village where I had been staying; the price at the airport was almost three times as much. Getting to his feet, Ahmed told me he could easily buy some from a local shop. After a moment’s hesitation I handed over a twenty-dollar bill, and he left. One by one, the rest of my new friends bade me farewell and drifted off in search of business. Sitting alone again, I started to worry about the wisdom of giving money to a taxi driver I barely knew. These doubts were replaced by a wave of guilt when, twenty minutes later, I saw Ahmed returning; another two cups of coffee in his hands and a carton of cigarettes under his arm. As we sipped our coffees we talked about our respective homes, families and dreams for the future, until it was time for me to check-in. I thanked him again and asked if I could take his photo. “Of course “ he said and hailed over another driver to take a picture of both of us together. Then, with a hug, Ahmed and I parted. As I walked back into the terminal, I searched in my pocket for my passport and found the last of the sunflower seeds. The sadness I had felt at leaving was suddenly supplanted by an overwhelming affection for a country and its people I had never known before.