We have a friend who passes by most Sunday nights. His visits have become something of a ritual in the Karam home. Recently, however, they have reduced to a trickle. Had we offended him? Was he going off us? It happens. Happily it was neither. He had simply been spending most weekends in Istanbul. Not because he was specifically enamoured by the city's Byzantine magnificence but because ever since Turkey and Lebanon agreed to lift visa requirements for their nationals in a bilateral tourism and trade initiative that is expected to see up to US$5 billion (Dh18.36bn) in commerce by 2012, he can just jump on a plane and go.
The agreement might have made it into the news-in-brief sections of the global papers, depending on what else had happened that day. But in Lebanon it was a big deal, not just because of the trading but because the Lebanese are sick and tired of having to beg or be scrutinised every time they want to travel. With their huge sense of self worth, they are appalled at being spoken to in the same way they talk to their housekeepers.
And so it was for my friend. He loved Istanbul because he could go there without being interviewed by a low-ranking embassy official who would poke into his professional and private life, not to mention his finances, before allowing him to go on holiday. That said, it is unlikely that the countries on most Lebanese people's wish lists - the US, Canada, most of western Europe and Australia - will be dropping their stringent vetting in the foreseeable future.
The Lebanese businessman may be famed for the air miles he racks up but in private he will tell you of the indignities he faces if he has to travel on a Lebanese passport, a document that costs $200 and lasts for five years. In a biometric world, it harks back to an era of Levantine romance when Air Liban ruled the Arab skies, the Lebanese pound was "hard" and David Niven played backgammon with Charles Aznavour and Brigitte Bardot in Byblos.
The passport comes in an elegant navy blue with a gold cedar tree on the cover. It is sandwiched between Al Jumhurieh Al Libanieh Jawaz Safar, and Republique Libanaise Passeport. Inside, the trilingual pages - in Arabic French and English - are overlaid with images of Lebanon's glorious tourist attractions. The trouble is, unlike my British passport (half the price and valid for twice as long), it doesn't transport the bearer all over the world "without let or hindrance". In fact, there is quite a bit of hindrance.
My wife and I have been married for 16 years. We have two children, both of whom are British, and yet she still needs an "invitation" or an address where she will be staying with her British husband whenever she travels to the UK with her British family. But if you think that is demeaning, imagine the trudge required for any Lebanese wishing to travel to one of the less grand European nations. To get an Irish visa involves a car journey to Syria, a country with which Lebanon has had mixed relations in recent years. At the Irish consul in Damascus (the one in Beirut was shut down some years ago), assuming the interview goes well, the application is sent to nearest Irish embassy, in this case Cairo, where a final decision is taken as to whether or not the applicant is suitable. The visa is then sent back to Damascus a few days later and must be collected in person. It's either that or fly to Cairo but that would also require a visa.
So you can see, having a foreign passport is generally quite an asset. Indeed a man's eligibility can soar once it is learned that he has such a passport, as can his employment opportunities. It is, if you like, an economic tool of sorts. This hunger for a travel document that actually lets you travel can be traced back to the 1975-1990 civil war, 15 years of mindless slaughter that, not surprisingly, witnessed mass emigration, especially to Canada, the US and Australia. Suddenly, there was a new generation with dual nationalities and the ability to travel with relative ease, while many of their compatriots were being inspected by border guards the world over.
Africa has been another source of blue-chip foreign nationalities, especially for those lucky Lebanese who lived in former British colonies who, by some bizarre decree, were awarded the status of British Overseas Territory Citizens and who wasted no time in calling themselves British (something that still irritates my wife). Then there is the quaint national pastime of giving birth abroad to give little Omar or Yasmina a head start in life. It is something my children will have to consider, for unless they marry a UK citizen or the law that does not allow two successive generations to be born outside Britain changes, they will have to do exactly that if they want their kids to be subjects of her Britannic Majesty.
But Lebanon would not be Lebanon if there wasn't a nationality hierarchy. I was recently having lunch with a friend whose family owns one of the largest car dealerships in the country. She bemoaned the fact that her foreign husband could only deliver her a Canadian passport. "I mean, why not a British or a French passport?" she sighed. "I could even live with a US passport, just. But Canadian! I might as well be Australian."
Michael Karam is a freelance PR and media consultant based in Beirut