On visas

Almost six months in – still nothing, still something. People keep saying that I am getting the most out of it, but it doesn't feel that way. Still so much to do, still so much left undone. If being constantly exhausted were a sign of living Lebanon to the full, then I would be satisfied. But what exhausts and corrodes is the six-day week of mediocrity and boredom, and the sense of powerlessness. I want to be here, I have no desire to come home. But however much I try to discipline myself, I cannot help but want it to be on different terms, and recently an awareness of the degree to which I am hamstrung by practicalities has crystallised alarmingly. I have a photocopy of my work permit, but have not seen my passport for over two months. Sargon and Sécurité Générale are supposedly locked in a battle of the Titans, but there is still no concrete progress. There will be no more English recruits under these circumstances, and I find myself the unlucky guinea pig of LDL's attempts to convince Hezbollah that my job would not be better suited to a Lebanese. Even if my passport complete with residence permit were to materialise, my living and working here would remain at the discretion of LDL. If I went to work for another company, my legal status would be a grey area until I had gone through the whole process again under the protection of my new employer. As it is, I cannot travel regionally or internationally, I cannot apply for my motorcycle licence, and I look for other jobs without much conviction. Unlike almost every other western woman I have met here, I am not married to a Lebanese, nor have any intention of being so. I start to wonder if a marriage of convenience is such a bad idea after all.

The faintest echo only, of course, of what such systems can do lives, and to entire peoples. I was arrogant enough to move countries and get a job according to some happy accidents of birth; I ask too much, perhaps, to wish for my work to be stimulating, to feel a sense of freedom and of choice. Do I ask too much to spend my days doing something that I find interesting, anywhere in the world? We cannot always simply remind ourselves of those who are worse off, or we would never strive to improve ourselves or our worlds, would never wonder if things could be better. If my papers never come through, what will I do? I do not think I can stay as things are. But how to start over, again, when I am not ready for England, and for now Lebanon is asking what I can hardly bear to give?