| Lebanon:
Letting Go
Author: Sean Rorison
-1999
Posted: 7 August 2002
The art of letting the past become the past, the future become the
future, and engaging only in the present. The art of confronting
regions that have been tormented, mutilated, or lost to things beyond
one's control. The art of existing in the contemporary reality of
Beirut. The city itself has seen significant rebuilding - one could,
perhaps, never encounter war damage if they avoided most of the
city. But it exists, and when you encounter it, you cannot help
but feel uneasy. It is a recent past - even for a young fellow such
as myself. The fact that this city is still subject to occasional
air attacks from Israel adds a certain intensity to it; perhaps
only an intensity which the individual brings. But the other intensities
- that of the dichotomy between the two religions in the city, and
the legendary hot-blooded Middle Eastern methods of resolving differences,
makes Beirut memorable. The sights are minor and relatively unspectacular;
Beirut's true intrigue lies in its ambience as a tired postwar ghost
town desperately trying to regain footing. So far, the going is
slow.
Wandering in blocks like
this, on Friday, they are empty at noon; almost everyone is praying
in the mosques. The exceptions are the soldiers standing on guard,
the service taxi drivers ever vigilant for opportunity of profit,
and the Christians who seem to be content staying indoors at times
like this. The bullet dotted buildings, some without rooves, some
without life, become alive again at this call to prayer. The songs
and prayers fill the empty concrete shells with ghosts who rise
and live with the prayers. It's all rather creepy if you ask me.
With the Muslim prayers
blasting through crackling speakers, through the streets lined by
bullet riddled buildings, the recent war confronts you. It is not
the same as ogling at a war monument from even ten years ago; the
impact of the damage is significant because this conflict has not
yet been resolved.
It is a feeling of passion.
For all of the emotional repression due to Allah, the intensity
is thick in these streets at prayer time. The hairs stand up on
the back of my neck. To think that everyone over 8 years old here
was somehow affected by the war - which means everyone you see.
They remember the past, and the city also reminds them of it - in
Beirut, the disasters of war are not confined to museums but lived
beside.
The prayers sail to the
sky, and the heavens grasp them. Those voices shout from rooftops
and minarets, and ignite the dead. It is the shell of a city never
to be the same and the monuments of despair shout back at those
who live in the concrete shells.
Ancient ruins are simply
an excuse to see the countryside and test one's strength at being
outside the cities. I find my way to the cola taxi stand and transfer
into a service taxi headed to Baalbek.
The traffic is a whirlwind around us as we approach the interchange.
Then the driver puts in his Arabian music; the same music that floored
me in the downtown's destroyed blocks; the music that thrusts the
emotions of the Arabian spirit into the open, capturing your soul
and spinning your mind as you watch an impossible number of cars
rush into a tiny freeway on-ramp. The chaos of driving becomes alive
with the song and we tear around sheer cliffs scrunched into a Mercedes
older than me.
The taxi driver introduces
me to his brother in Chtaura, and he offers me the tour of Aanjar
and Baalbek for US$25. I consider it for sometime, trying to do
my math - to make sure that all of my effort to go below US$55 like
the bus tours makes it worthwhile. And I accept.
We talk for many parts
of the drive: he went to Liberia during the war to do business.
"Everyone prays for peace."
"The media abroad said that Muslims and Christians were fighting,
but this could not be the case. They are like brothers in Lebanon;
one cannot live without the other. They fought for whatever reason
people fight: money, power, you tell me."
Road checks are frequent, but the soldiers know the faces of the
taxi drivers. I was only asked once to see my passport. The road
checks change as well, from the Lebanese soldiers in the west to
the Syrian soldiers in the Bekaa valley.
"You can tell the difference between the Syrian soldier and
the Lebanese one; the Syrian must always have his boots shined,
his buttons and shirts cleaned. He is less casual with his weapon.
Yes, they are just as friendly."
"They occupy this area to ensure peace, just as the Israelis
occupy the south. If all of these armies would leave - the Syrians,
the Israelis, the Philistines, and leave only the Lebanese, only
then will there be peace."
The only good thing about
Aanjar was that I was the only person in the upper half of the site.
Not a great deal to look at. But Baalbek is impressive and will
surely become the central attraction for buses upon buses of tourists
coming into the Bekaa valley.
Farmlands make up the
Bekaa, but there are numerous gypsy camps - they leave behind an
incredible amount of garbage when they leave. Upon closer inspection,
while stopped at a checkpoint, I noticed that the gypsy tents I
was looking at were actually camouflage for dozens of tanks and
anti-aircraft guns. Later on I would see piles of dirt beside a
gas station - the gas station only occupied by soldiers, and the
mounds of dirt were hiding tanks from plain view.
Careful where you point that camera.
"Lebanon is perfectly
safe now, and entirely safe for tourists. We all hope the tourists
come back, and help us to improve our economy. Even this year the
number of tourists has risen."
He invites me to his house in Chtaura for coffee and fruit. His
house is lacklustre on the outside, but his living room has clean
tile and fine furniture with detailed ceramics decorating his table.
The television is playing english movies - so this is where they
all learn it. His daughter hands us small cups of coffee, and says
something to me in arabic. The father says something back.
"She is supposed to be speaking english; she is going to university
next year, and we want her to practice."
I think I hear another voice in another room quietly yelling at
her for not speaking english. I also wonder what all the fuss is
about. I try to explain to him that too much Americana in one's
country is not good, but he doesn't seem to understand what I'm
saying.
He takes me back to a
taxi in Chtaura where I pay 10,000LL back to Cola and then 1,000LL
back to the Hamra district where I am staying. The cliff-side highway
is buried in fog, but coming down from the hill I could see an endless
sprawl of nameless buildings. Beirut looks much larger than 1.5
million. Arabian pop music jostles my senses as we weave through
traffic - there are no road markings, just one road for both directions
of traffic. Pick a space and go. Beirut is a living, boiling entity
on the edge of Arabia.
Email: sarchives@lycos.com
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