Lebanese Hospitality

He took a knife and carefully skinned the orange, so that the peel was left in one long spiral. Then he halved the orange, then quartered it, then cut it into eighths. But we couldn't eat it yet, of course. He had to find forks.

The two brothers tottered around the ruined house. They poured Arabic coffee into the tiny cups, slowly placed them in front of my companion and I. None for them. The forks were rested neatly on the side of the bowl of oranges. I was offered a cookie, I politely refused; the cookie was re-offered more vehemently, I accepted.

The bomb, which inaugurated this current string of terrorism, exploded next to a residential apartment adjacent to ABC Mall. A wall in the first floor apartment collapsed, killing an old woman. All the other residents left the destroyed building -- some escaped abroad, most are staying with relatives. Except the two brothers living on the fourth floor.

The government came by once -- not to provide any aid, of course. The man just said the building was unsafe -- structurally unsound, you see -- and if they didn't leave they would be thrown in jail. The brothers refused. They had lived in their house since 1956. Through the violence in 1958, through the civil war, through the bombings in 2005. They said they wanted to die in their home.

And now they were rushing around their house without windows, without walls, while it crumbled slowly around them. Making sure that everything was perfect for my snack.

Just maybe, no matter how many political battles are fought and lost, everything will be all right.