April 2006
We arrived in Beirut on the Friday before orthodox Easter. Most of Lebanon's Christians celebrated Easter the week before (the same time as the States). But I didn't realize, that first day, that in the main downtown refurbished area where we started our visit stood one of Lebanon's orthodox churches. I wondered why we were stopped on the street by soldiers who asked to look in our bags. But once past the soldiers, we found the square full of life, with children holding balloons, couples eating ice cream and cafe's jammed with people. A large group spilled outside the church as they listened to the three hour mass droning on in Greek. Having spent several Easters in Greece, these sounds were very familiar to me. And then, as soon as the mass ended there was another familiar sound – the Muslim call to Prayer. It seemed all of Beirut was full of the intertwining of Christian church bells and Muslim prayer calls.
Outside the church we ended up speaking with a Lebanese man who now lives in America. He said he worked for the American Embassy during the war and for many years was not allowed back into Lebanon. Interesting enough, all the prices are listed in both dollars and Lebanese pounds. Even taxi drivers can make the conversion so one really doesn't have to change money.
Almost everyone we spoke to, mentioned the war often blaming a different party for the cause. I don't know enough about the history of the place, so I just listened to each account, trying to piece it altogether. Most people mentioned the 17, 18 or sometimes they said 19 different religious groups living in Lebanon today. I wondered why this number varied depending on who was speaking.
What sticks out in my mind from my trip to Lebanon is the bright red color of the poppies that dot the green landscape of the countryside and the color of the red hats of the emergency security force that dot the cityscape. I am used to living with soldiers. I have them permanently stationed across the street from my apartment in Egypt and they are on almost every street corner in the neighborhood where I live. But the Lebanese soldiers scared me. The Egyptian soldiers look more like decoration – kids from the countryside doing their obligatory military service - but the Lebanese look like highly trained soldiers ready any minute to go to combat. That with the combination of the ubiquitous portraits of Hariri, made me feel uneasy in Beirut.
When we returned to Place de L'Etoile on Monday, the crowds were gone and the empty streets with these new high rises and sparkling glass looked even stranger in their state of emptiness and isolation. Just down the street, on our walk to the square numerous remnants of bombed and shelled buildings stand next to new high rises as reminders of the war that tore this city apart not so long ago. I don't see how anyone can come to this city and not notice or feel the devastation of war.
Beirut has a reputation for "the high life" – for partying, and a more western approach to everyday life. It's true the women don't cover up as much as in Egypt, and couples display a bit more public affection. The cobblestone streets , the mountains in the distance, the creperies with Belgian chocolate and the rain which waters the flowering trees and plants reminded me more of Europe than Egypt. But the general sense of hospitality is definitely Middle Eastern.
Even the man in a suit who rushed down half a block to prevent me from taking a picture of a pretty apartment building was cordial. He was accompanied by two soldiers (these with grey hats). "I'm sorry but I need to see your pictures. You can't photograph this building because it is the headquarters of Solidar." From our conversation with him, we learned that Hariri who owned Solidar, had been killed by a bomb just a few blocks from where we stood. pointed in the direction of the towering wreck that was now the shelled remains of the Holiday Inn which was not hurt by the Harriri bomb of last year but destroyed during the civil war. Two major destructions from different time periods standing side by side.
I don't know why, but as soon as we crossed the mountains and descended into the Bekaa valley, I felt comfortable again. I watched the fields of agriculture move past the window and delighted in the poppies that were everywhere. I had joined an all day tour going to Baalbek and our group consisted of an Iraqi couple from Baghdad on their honeymoon, another man from Baghdad unrelated to the couple, two Algerians, a highschool teacher from France who lives in Egypt and his girlfriend who lives in Tunis, one Canadian journalist, one Texas dentist and myself. Our Lebanese guide split us into two groups – English speaking for the Iraqis and the Texan- and French speaking for the rest. I listened to whichever language was being spoken first!
Baalbek is impressive, with its large columns and many temples. And the visit to Anjar nearby was so peaceful as we were almost the only tourists walking through these Umayyad city ruins. We could hear the Armenian Easter service singing as we strolled through this only Umayyad town left in the Middle East. It was once a caravan stop for people traveling from Egypt to the Silk route and its 600 shops are still neatly aligned along the two intersecting main roads; their stone walls shimmering in the golden light of the late day.
On our last day we walked the length of the corniche along the Mediterranean sea. Not mentioned in the guide book (maybe because it has no name) we found an almost hidden cafe. Without a sign, one could only see the thatch roof top and as I peeked down the stairway, I realized that it was a cafe with tables and chairs on the same level as the ocean waves which rolled right up to cafe's wall. No tourists were there, only two veiled women at a table chatting and a couple of men smoking shisha (or nargileh as they call it in Lebanon). Sitting in the cafe, one is completely unaware of the city behind you, you can sit back and become entranced by the rythm of the waves as they rise in bursts of surf against the rocks. What a wonderful hideaway, I thought to myself.
That night watching the Lebanese movie, Posta seemed to sum up my experience of this country. It was about a dance troupe trying to reinvent the traditional dance of the dabka. The movie kept moving back and forth between scenes before the war at the dance school, to images of the hero returning to the bombed out shell of the school; his memories of the war intermixing with his present experiences and dictating his actions. There were two Lebanese movies playing and this was the one that was supposed to be entertaining and not about the war! It seems in Lebanon that traces of the war still permeate much of one's experience of the place.
Even returning to Cairo on the day after the bombing in Sinai, I still felt a sigh of relief to be back in the desert city where I have lived for the past seven years. The strange emptiness of Beirut's streets (there are only 4 million people in all of Lebanon as compared to Cairo's 18 million) contrasts strongly with the bustle of Cairo. Perhaps I missed the jokes of the Egyptians, or the warmth of the Cairo spring, or maybe I was simply shocked by being in a place that has seen so recently the devastation of war.