July 24, 2007. I’m back in Beyrouth, and it is somehow more surreal than the first time. But, naturally, more familiar, and I feel at ease as if I’d never left the place the first time. I’ve been assigned here for roughly five weeks to contribute to the research and design of a municipal capacity building program to support local economic development.
It’s already after dark now. A stronger sense of calm permeates the mildly lit streets of Hamra since the July war of 2006, and I notice new developments and restaurants lining the streets to the hotel used by most IRD employees on assignment. The Johnnie Walker ads have long been removed, and the count on the Rafik Hariri billboard stands at 809 tonight.
After entering the lobby of the hotel, its familiarity welcomes a sense of comfort and security. Familiar faces and procedures, though some new, and news of missing faces provide a sense of connection- Samer, the bellboy, finally decided to join his sister in California, despite his very vocal, anti-American fits during our conversations last summer; Nay off to give life in Qatar a try; and Abed, the waiter in the hotel restaurant, has moved onto a new job. I get my room key and am surprised to see that I’ve ended up in the same room that I occupied during my five weeks in Beirut last year.
I immediately turn to the balcony and take in the familiar view, which I have reminisced about many times since last October. In a panic, I take it all in forcefully, in an effort to savor it all as a pre-emptive measure against the shock of a potentially harsh reality. Fortunately, this is real.
July 31, 2007. “It is a country of contradictions—that is what keeps it interesting.” This is how one Lebanese woman describes her motherland. And, so true and poignant this is, and a scene that I caught sight of on my way yesterday to a meeting at one of the ministries was very illustrative of this. Downtown’s beautiful Parisian streets, buildings, and squares are practically desolate, and walking through them reminded me of empty Hollywood lots at Universal Studios. As I crossed over the barricades and checkpoint leading to the Parliament (as no cars are permitted near the site for security reasons), the security guard approached me and said I needed to go to another block, turn right, and proceed another two blocks before I arrived at my destination. As I walk down, I can’t help wondering whether he’s playing the fool with a clearly lost foreigner trying to find her way around the city. As I make the first right, the Ameen mosque towers over me, and its magnificence, magnitude, and beauty take my breath away. As I stare at it in awe, something else catches my eye—from the corner, I realize the entire space before me is densely packed with tents—similar to what I witnessed in August and September 2006 when the displaced were sheltered under similar conditions right in the heart of Beirut. I begin to slightly panic as I walk briskly by the tents down the desolate side road. I can just barely make out faces peering from the shadows through the flaps of the tents. I turn around once to take in the sight before taking the second and final right turn into the ministry building.
I am amazed by the contrast. Newly constructed government buildings and the colossal mosque- the pride of Beyrouth- line the streets and in this random gap among it all are who? Displaced? Refugees? I’m completely baffled. I want to capture the moment on film, but my gut instinct is to keep walking and be satisfied with the mental photo that I’ve managed to capture. Later that day, I ask a woman at the ministry who those people are- “It’s the opposition, since the first of December. They continue to remain there in protest.” I’m shocked. I recall seeing this on the news. And, they’re still here?
As I leave the building and begin the dreaded walk back by the tents, a shiver runs down my spine. I can feel the eyes piercing into the lone, unaccompanied woman walking by. I am witnessing history in the making, and I feel humbled and blessed.
August 2, 2007. There has been no time to write here, which has been a real pity. It amazes me how differently I’m perceiving the country this time around. It is far more liberal than I remember. There again is the juxtaposition of women wearing next to nothing walking alongside their Muslim sisters, covered from head to toe in their abayas and even the occasional burqa.
The young seem to have grown apathetic, probably as a result of fatigue, frustration, and hopelessness from the political divides that torment and burden this country, stalling/stunting any progress politically, socially, or economically—advancements that this country has much potential for. Where does one draw the line between resilience and apathy? Yes, the people on the frontlines are resilient, but what concerns me here, as it does in Sri Lanka and other countries plagued by conflict, is the lack of engagement of youth—of the younger generation. Most in the capital that I spoke to are removed and really apathetic to all that occurs in the rural areas. If it does not concern them, then they are happy to just be able to focus on a life that revolves around the self and its interests.
When I asked a young woman at a ministry, in between business talk, of her opinion on the elections this Sunday, I was a little taken aback, yet not completely surprised by her response that resonated with most Lebanese youth living in the capital. These are precarious times in Lebanon. The recent stream of car bombs amidst political upheaval lends to paranoia and concern among people here. While some say to leave the country before the fifth, others claim that aside from a few skirmishes, things are likely to remain relatively calm. Two assassinated MPs are to be replaced- one from Beirut and the other from Al-Mattan in Mount Lebanon. Both were of the Hariri camp, but popular opinion is that the opposition will snatch these seats. Some expect that all hell will break loose, but I’m confident that will not be a concern until September.
The political landscape is as convoluted and ugly as it is in Sri Lanka in some ways. But, at least once can say that comparatively speaking, there is still some law and order left in this country.
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