He loves her but he hits her

He blames himself when he sees the bruises on her arm. But he has no other way to take out his anger. 48-year-old Walid, or Abu Omar, as most of the people in the Palestinian refugee camp call him, sits on the couch with his legs spread wide apart, smoking a water pipe. He has dark circles under his eyes. The pipes sweet apple scent mixes with the heavy odor from Walid's chain-smoking friend and a faint diesel smell from the heater that is placed in the middle of the twenty-square-meter living room. His wife, Huda, is sitting on a mattress on the floor surrounded by her neighbour and their children. I try to see if I can find any visible trace of the violence in her unvarnished pale face. Her hair is covered in a brown and white patterned veil, and she is wearing large black worn-out fleece jacket, one size too big for her. I never hit her in her face. I do not want to mark her. I beat her on her shoulders, on her back or arms, sometimes with a stick. One or two strikes, that is it. Sometimes I pull her hair and other times I do like this, Walid says, pinches my upper arm and looks straight into my eyes. The violence does not occur on a regular basis. Sometimes once every three months, sometimes every week. He emphasizes he does not hit her because he hates her. He just needs to take the pressure out somewhere. Most abusive men are not abusive because they are sadistic. They do not enjoy seeing people in pain. It is not like they think, 'I am going home now and punch her in her face to see her cry'. It is because they are sensitive and they do not know how to deal with what they feel, so they act out in anger, psychotherapist Anthony Keedi says. Together with supervisor Rabih Chammay and psychotherapist Ola Ataya, Keedi runs a new men's clinic within the women's organisation KAFA. It opened last August and is the first project in the Middle East that provides psychotherapeutic services for men with aggressive and violent behaviour. I think the reason Lebanon was first has to do with the very active and strong civil society we have here. There are so many organizations working for women's rights. On the other hand, domestic violence is really a big issue here, especially if we talk about refugees and people who are displaced, Ataya says. There is no comprehensive study on how common this type of violence is in Lebanon. What gives a hint is a UNFPA-supported study conducted in different primary health care centres in 2002. Out of the 1415 Lebanese women interviewed, 35 percent reported that they were victims of domestic violence, but more than two-fifths of them kept silence about the abuse. Huda does not like to tell anyone that her husband abuses her. She remains quiet, even while Walid is beating her. To hit him back has never been an option. I am a woman and in our culture and religion it is not OK for a woman to hit a man. He is the man, he is responsible for the household, so how could I beat him? If the woman hits the man, she quits being a woman and instead becomes a man. Huda represents what almost all oppressed women feel: helplessness. They sometimes react by talking or shouting back at the men, but they very rarely hit, according to Ataya. Ataya also works at the American University of Beirut and with several human rights organisations in Syria, Lebanon and Jordan. Through her work, she says, she has met many men who exhibit

violent behaviour. One word is often repetitive when they explain why they beat their wives or children. Anger. They are angry and it is very hard for them to realize that there are other way to express themselves than through violence. Sometimes when Walid comes home angry because of the problems he faces outside the home, he just wants to sit down, have a cup of coffee and calm down. Then my wife just comes to me and complains. So one word from her, one from me and then we start clashing. She is facing the same problems and stress like I do. The anger and violence are often reactions stemming from emotions like fear, stress, fatigue or depression, which in turn have many different explanations. Some, for example, point to the improved role of the women. Lebanese women have achieved a lot: generally speaking, they are educated, they are participating in the community, and they are engaged in paid employment. But men have not necessarily changed their attitude toward the role of women accordingly. They have concerns about losing power and authority, and they harbor doubts about what their role might be in the future. They see what is vanishing from them and many times they need to establish themselves. Unfortunately, the only way they know how to do that is through violence. Men in our society are brought up to deal with anger and frustration by shouting or being violent, not by crying, communicating or discussing, medical doctor and researcher Jinan Usta says. She has been working on the issue for over ten years, so she helped the clinic to create the manual for how to engage men against domestic violence. Walid blames his stress and anger on the difficult circumstances in which his family lives. He remembers how comfortable and stable his family's life was ten years ago, when they lived in a Christian village outside Baalbek. He had a fixed job and could take his family on excursions. There was no violence. But then the money disappeared. He left his job as a mechanic for a project that completely failed. Since he lost his invested money, the family was forced to move into a stone house of around fifty square meters in the refugee camp. Water is free of charge in the camp and the parents do not need to pay transportation for their children, as the school is in the same area. Still, despite the move the financial situation continues to be tough. As more children are born and grow older, the family's expenses increase. One of them wants to have pants, another one wants shoes and so on, Huda says, pointing at her daughter, 11, and two sons, 7 and 13, who are half lying down on mattresses placed on the floor, watching the entertainment channel MBC 4 with the sound turned down on a thirty-inch television. Her third son, Omar, is sixteen and out somewhere playing football. It is not only Walid, Huda and their four children who have to intermingle in the limited space of two rooms, one toilet and a tiny kitchen. Walid's grandmother, who is nearly ninety, has lived with them since she was forced to leave the Nahr el-Bared camp in 2007, when Fatah al-Islam clashed with the Lebanese army. Walid was the only one who could receive her, as his mother is sick and his four siblings are living in Europe. None of the brothers or sisters helps him with money. They do not even call. He is the one who has to pick up the phone, even though it is difficult for him to afford the calls. Neither Walid or Huda has a fixed job. Huda sometimes works as a secretary when the Fatah office needs help, but she spends most of the time taking care of the household chores and cares for the children. Walid accounts for the largest share of household income through his work as a driver for one man. The job is very irregular. His employer can call at any time during the day; Walid always has to be at hand.

The family's monthly income, around 500 000 Lebanese pounds, is not enough to pay their fixed expenses. Rent for the house is 125 000, diesel for heating is over 300 000, and electricity is over 100 000. They depend on assistance from UNRWA. The poor economy, overcrowding and the harsh situation in the camp--which Walid describes as a prison--affect him negatively. I even hit my kids. The clinic aims to help men realize that their abusive behaviour harms both themselves and their families. It also seeks to show them that there are alternative ways of dealing with their frustration. Especially if we talk about refugees, I am not saying that their living conditions will improve just because they come to the clinic, but they can learn how to deal with the situation in a more positive way. That is very important, because they are role models for their children. The child learns from his father, so the domestic violence moves from one generation to another, Ataya says. Huda objects to her husband hitting her and the children. She sees how it affects them. They see how their father behaves, so they are dealing with each other in the same way, by hitting, shouting and cursing. Even Walid has noticed the affects of his violence. He sees how the children have become afraid of him. They ask their mother for permission to do things and they tell her if something happens to them. The father is left outside. It makes him angry. They cannot hide stuff from me, because I am the household and responsible for everything and everyone in the house. If any problem occurs the law will follow me, not my kids or wife. He illustrates with an example from some days ago when Omar told his mother that he wanted go with friends to the center of Baalbek. When Walid came home, his wife told him that their son was out somewhere near the house. When he discovered the truth, he punished both of them with a beating. She knew where he was going, Walid says. No, I swear to God I did not know that, Huda replies. She has shifted place to the sofa, where a poster of Yasser Arafat rises behind her and covers one third of the wall. She lights a Gauloises Blondes cigarette and takes a sip of Turkish coffee. No, you knew about it! No! Their voices start rising. I tell them to calm down before it starts to get worse. We have been married 17 years and until now we cannot understand each other because we are so different, Huda says. She cites the ten-year age difference between them and her origin from a Palestinian camp in southern Lebanon. She would have left him long ago if she had not been sure that he really loved her. He loses his control when he gets upset and cannot see in front of himself. But his anger always disappears quickly, after which he always asks for her forgiveness by kissing her and telling her that everything will be fine. In the moment when I lose control over my feelings and beat my wife, I can not tell you if I am doing something wrong or not. But afterwards, of course, I feel that I did something bad, because I did something out of my control, Walid says. This is a typical feature, according to Keedi and he compares it with a vicious circle. When the men come back for forgiveness, maybe they cry, they feel that they will change and that is why the women stay. But this is the problem, because the next time they get angry they go down

and act violently again. With his team at the clinic, he wants to start a movement in which men create a new male role for themselves. It is not a mens empowerment movement similar to the women's movement. It is more like a men's sensitisation movement, so that in the same way women started to add the masculine qualities, men will start to add the feminine qualities, like emotional expression, harmony and communication. We need to move to a natural human gender role that everyone holds on to. To reach their aims they focus their therapy on teaching men how to handle their stress and anger and to be able to communicate with their family in a non-violent way. A lot of attention is also paid to helping the men discover positive things about themselves, like their strength and things at which they excel. If you work on investing and exploring the positive things in you, you start giving less attention to the negative parts and you start understanding how to use these positive skills in order to deal with the negative feelings. In other words, we make the men help themselves, Ataya says. The blinds are down, but the ceiling lamp and the orange walls light up the room where Anthony Keedi receives his clients. He rolls up the blinds; we cannot see anyone at Badaro Street. The General Security office on the other side of the street is darkened and also empty of people. Four hours earlier, when he received a client around 5 p.m., there was much more movement outside. I always keep the blinds down when I have patients here. It gives them a feeling of security. To admit that they have problem and seek help for it is a huge step for the men. They do not want anyone to know about it. It is such a taboo in Lebanon to seek help from a psychiatrist, especially for men. It is against the masculine gender role. That is why we try our hardest to make it as private and individual a process as possible for the clients. Our brochures and business cards are very discrete, and the men's numbers and names are confidential. Walid wishes that he could talk to a psychiatrist or a specialist in conflict-resolution, but he worries about where would he get the money. He has heard that he has to pay around 50 000 Lebanese pounds for one session. KAFA's clinic is funded by the International Medical Corps and is free of charge, but it is not an option for him. Beirut is too far away. We have heard that a lot. We have had a lot of people interested from Baalbek, so we will try to figure that out, Keedi says. Two chairs, one for the client and one for the therapist, are placed in front of each other in his room. Only a square table separates them from each other. A package of handkerchief lays on the table. Some of them cry, others express anger and many of them are anxious. But there is also laughter. To lighten the mood during the therapy, Anthony Keedi sometimes uses humour. Abuse is a very heavy topic that men feel guilty about, and they feel a little weird about being in therapy. The use of humour, when done correctly, can bring about the message you try to get out. At the same time, you can make the process more enjoyable and a little lighter. At the moment he has five clients, both married and unmarried, that come once a week. Some others come more irregularly because of their work schedule. So far, no one is really stagnating. Everyone is progressing, some faster than others. The clinic also has a hotline number that stays with Keedi all the time, day and night. Sometimes men call just to talk. They need a listening ear. Huda thinks that if she treated Walid in a more gentle way he would be less angry, such as to say nice things to him and to hug him.

I do not show my feelings, I keep them inside. I am so shy. And our kids are getting older and I do not feel comfortable to hug him in front of them. Walid has no friends to whom he can confide his problems. He is afraid that if he tells someone the person will misuse the information and talk with Huda behind his back and advise her to leave him. Suddenly someone knocks on the door. A neighbour wants to drop by for a cup of tea. With a whispering voice Walid tells me to not mention anything what we just talked about. Ahlan, ahlan, (Welcome) he tells the guest and replaces his previous serious face with a big smile. At least two teeth are missing. I call Walid the morning after the interview to check if he is OK. I was so relieved after we talked. Usually I have problems sleeping. I sleep one hour and then I wake up. But last night I was able to sleep the whole night. The team of the men's clinic hopes that they will expand in the next two or three years. They are discussing plans with the Ministry of Social Affairs (MOSA) to start working together. If the clinic will be a part of the government it means that the project will be sustainable and achieve a national reach. They are also looking to start similar projects in Jordan, Palestine and Egypt. But Keedi emphasizes that they will not rush their future plans. The thing I love with my team is that they are as passionate as I am in the sense that we do not want to run before we are able to walk. Right now we are building up experience and trying to do things with one individual at the time. And hopefully in the end we will have a group of experiences that we can get out with and tell others about. Footnote: All the names in Abu Omar's family are fictitious because they do not want to be recognized.