Furen is the name of the place – situated right on Eleftheria Square, the most prominent location in all of Nicosia – offering “a real taste of Lebanon”. But which Lebanon? The war-torn country currently being invaded by Israeli forces? The failed state ensnared in what Fayez Hwalla calls a “cursed region”? Or the land of fine cuisine and cosmopolitan culture, trailing memories of a golden age when Beirut was known as the ‘Paris of the Middle East’?
“We only hear these stories,” admits 45-year-old Fayez, sitting outside the fast-food bakery which he owns (actually co-owns) and opened in May. “Growing up, we didn’t experience any of that – but we still lived on that heritage. And culturally, we have that in us. We always like to associate with that image of Lebanon.”
Lebanon is indeed an image – a distant wraith, a childhood memory. There are far more Lebanese living outside Lebanon than inside it, and indeed it’s no secret that the successful diaspora (and the money it remits) is what’s kept the country running for as long as it has. Fayez’ business partner in Furen lives in Lebanon, where he owns various restaurants – but he himself is part of the exodus, having left after university to build a career in finance.
Can he see himself ever going back to Lebanon?
He shakes his head sadly: “I don’t see any possibility, at least in the mid-term, to go back. Nothing is comfortable there anymore. I go back and I feel like a stranger. Because the scenery changed, the population – the demographics – changed. My friends and my family are mostly outside, they left.
“Infrastructure is bad, services are bad, corruption is everywhere. Personally, I distance myself. I don’t like to live in this environment.”
Fayez is shaven-headed, trim (despite being a foodie), measured in his speech, friendly but businesslike. He comes off as a serious person, with Furen – a sizeable investment, with its very visible location – being his calculated venture into entrepreneurship after many years as an employee.
His partner in Lebanon – an old friend from college – is in charge of the recipes, while Fayez is “the business side of things: finance, marketing, HR, you name it”. That’s his background, having worked in accounting and finance at various multinationals across the Gulf region: three years in the oil sector with Schlumberger in Dubai, six years at chocolate giant Mars, a year in Jeddah with security company GS4. He came to Cyprus with Grohe in 2014 – not because he especially wanted to, but because there was a vacancy as their Middle East and Africa financial controller. Fortunately, he ended up loving it here.
He gives the impression of a life spent doing the responsible thing, as opposed to indulging himself. Partly it’s because an expat has no choice, once they leave the shelter of their own country: you go where the jobs are, simple as that. Partly, too – though of course we’re speculating now – family circumstances may have played a role.
Fayez is the eldest of three, his two brothers being quite a bit younger (six and seven years, respectively) than himself. Most significantly, their father passed away when Fayez was 17 – a shock that must’ve made him grow up fast, forcing him to plunge into real life, the better to support his mum and little siblings, and dismiss any impractical teenage whims.
All this is relevant, in a roundabout way, to Lebanon – because national identity is also an impractical, sentimental thing, and attachment to a troubled place like Lebanon is even more brittle. You can’t be sentimental about a country that keeps letting you down – or perhaps it’s more accurate to say you can only be sentimental, taking refuge in the vision of a golden age and ignoring the disasters of the past 50 years.
“The majority of Lebanese, we’re ambitious,” he opines, trying to explain the diaspora. “We love life, we want to get better, we want to leave a mark… And the situation in Lebanon keeps getting worse. It’s a cursed region, I would say.” His own attachment is even more tenuous, since the family moved to Saudi Arabia when Fayez was a toddler – his dad was general manager of a company there – and he only returned when he was school-age, to live with his grandma in Tripoli.
The civil war had subsided a little by that time; nonetheless, “I still have some scenes”. Coming back to find windows and glass doors shattered in the family home. Tanks in the streets, armed men at checkpoints. The city full of Syrian checkpoints, and six-year-old Fayez innocently offering a banana to an army officer.
He’s not really traumatised, just sad at the whole debacle. Trauma isn’t really part of the Lebanese character (at least, not on the surface): “Unfortunately, because of the too many issues we’ve been through in Lebanon, the Lebanese learned to adapt. No matter what’s happening, we’ll still find a way to live, to build, to do business. We always find a way.” Fayez grins wryly: “It’s good and bad”.
The bitter lesson is that people get used to anything, even war. “You don’t have a choice. The good people, who don’t want to be part of an armed conflict – or who are not, let’s say, opportunists who make a living out of these situations, wars or corruption or what-have-you…” He shrugs, laying out the grim choice facing these good people: “Either you live, and you shut up – or you leave”.
A new exodus is now underway, fuelled by the mayhem of Israel’s war – and Cyprus is an obvious destination. “Those who can, they’re already coming. For a few years now, especially after the Beirut port explosion [in 2020]. If they have the means, they will come – they will buy property or set up business, or move their businesses to operate out of Cyprus.” The Lebanese community numbers in the tens of thousands, mostly in Limassol and Larnaca. Seems like a good time to open a Lebanese eatery, I observe – but he smiles noncommittally.
Fellow countrymen do come to Furen, of course – but it’s not really aimed at them, it’s aimed at acquainting outsiders with that ‘real taste of Lebanon’. Furen, whether consciously or not, works as a kind of tribute to a half-vanished hope, a paradise lost – a taste not just of Lebanon but the idea of Lebanon (not the dysfunctional reality), a bittersweet gesture from a disappointed son whose national identity has faded and blurred over the years.
Fayez orders Lebanese lahmajun for us to try, meatier and less tangy than the usual Armenian version. Their falafel is baked rather than fried – a Lebanese thing, I presume – and the bakery makes za’atar manoush, recognised by Unesco as part of Lebanon’s cultural heritage. Then again, the menu also offers wraps, and will soon start making pizzas. Furen may present a “Lebanese identity” – but its identity is also international, like its owner’s.
National identity is a recurring theme in our conversation. Fayez has three children – two sons, 14 and 11, and a nine-year-old daughter; he and his wife (whose support has been essential in launching Furen) have been married since 2008 – and I wonder if the kids are starting to explore their Lebanese-ness, but in fact they’re beyond all that nation-state stuff; not only have they grown up in Cyprus, but “this generation have more of a global mindset”. Nationality’s fluid these days: Fayez also has another business, which he also started after leaving Grohe, dealing with citizenship by investment – mostly Middle Eastern clients looking to “acquire another citizenship, from the Caribbean let’s say”. The world is shrinking.
He himself is Lebanese but cosmopolitan – which of course makes him all the more Lebanese. The real point, in any case, isn’t nationality. The real point is that Fayez Hwalla, in early middle age, has just taken the biggest step of his career – not to mention an unusually bold step, for one who was always so responsible.
“Yes!” he replies with a laugh, when I broach the subject. “At this age, making the decision to break free and – get out of the matrix, let’s say, and to start over, is a big challenge that I’m still going through. But I’m determined… I still have the energy, at this age – I still have a few years that I can put energy into any business idea. After that, it’s gone.”
What was the turning point? What made him do it?
“I worked in many multinationals,” he explains. “I started from junior positions where, you know, life is rosy and ‘Wow, I’m working for a big name and a big company, and well paid’ – until you reach the senior positions where you start realising it’s all politics, nothing is genuine, there’s a lot of backstabbing…
By the end, “I was, to some extent, depressed from the work environment. Even though I was very well paid. I had no financial issue whatsoever. But I couldn’t find myself anymore.” He was also, he recalls, “a finance guy – so, you know, back office. [But] I love people. I love to interact!” He smiles: “Ever since I got into this business, not a single moment is boring”.
Furen is a whole long-term plan, insists its co-owner – the prominent Nicosia location being part of the plan, to promote brand awareness. “We’re building a concept here.” Future Furens, whether as branches or franchisees – in Limassol, Larnaca, one or more malls – are “on the list”.
He also has no plans to leave Cyprus, he affirms, even though his mother and both brothers now live in Dubai – indeed, “I even have a spot in Protaras as a retirement dream house!”. Yet here, again, national identity appears as a fly in the ointment – not just because a certain lack of belonging is the expat’s curse, but also because citizenship is the one aspect where Cyprus can be frustrating.
“For someone like me, who’s been here for 10 years – employed, highly taxed, and now a businessman – it still looks far-fetched to get citizenship. Or even a permanent residency.” His status as a company director allows him to stay, renewable every three years – but the rules for citizenship keep changing, and even if you manage to apply, “God knows when your file will be reviewed”. Fayez shakes his head. “I understand the concern – demographics, it’s a small country, it’s an island. But there has to be a separate process for cases that are clear. You know?”
I know – but then again I’m privileged, being still affixed to my own country (not that Cypriot national identity is a bed of roses). The spirit of Lebanon lurks in the background as we sit outside Furen, an indistinct presence like a dim daylight shadow, not just its tastes and aromas – garlic mayo can replace garlic paste for conservative Cypriot palates, says Fayez – but its golden age, its natural beauty, its many misfortunes both external and self-inflicted.
“For now, we’ve been blessed,” he says, speaking of his own little world. “We have a good family, we have a good life.” He’s happy, he’s transformed his life, he’s brimming with the joy and excitement of a new project; the sky’s the limit. It’s a Saturday morning, bright and hot. Later, in the car, I hear the shocking news that Israel has assassinated Hassan Nasrallah in the suburbs of Beirut. Lebanon lurching, once again, to a new catastrophe.
