21 May 2008
May 8, 2008
The shooting outside intensifies, shaking the glass like thunder. One has to remind oneself this is not fireworks but real shooting. We are stranded indoors, zapping through racing breaking news, as politicians deliver their statements one after the other.
Armed militants and snipers now patrol the streets of what has once again become known as "West Beirut." "Snipers" and "militias" again pervade our daily vocabulary - at a time we had thought the country had turned a new page with the end of the 1975-1990 Civil War.
I watch the news, while keeping track of the status updates of friends on Facebook, as they are renewed by the second. Souad is "speechless," Hassan is "welcome to the jungle," Jad is "no to civil war," Nadia is "in denial," Nadim is "going slightly mad so is the whole goddamn country," Kamal is "back to civil war," Jamil is "furious," Dyala is "listening to the gunshots," Ziad is "welcome to civil war," etc.
Just yesterday workers were set to go out on the streets demanding an increase in wages. Today the country is on the brink of civil war and Beirut is "occupied." In what is once again is referred to as "West Beirut," neighborhood after neighborhood and house by house call in their remaining members and close their doors.
May 9, 2008
Today there are no more cafes to frequent. We went to sleep with a lullaby of bombs that was overtaken by natural thunder, then woke up again to the sound of gunshots.
At home, the electricity is cut around noon. We drive down to the gas station by the Corniche to buy fuel for the generator. The sea road is deserted. The army stands on one side of the road; while across the street from them masked militiamen keep watch, approaching no one in particular. The army watches from a distance.
We drive past the militiamen and head back to Ras Beirut in search of a supermarket. Most of the stores are closed, except for Score Market. There are about a dozen people devouring the remaining items. Already the supply is noticeably dwindling on the shelves.
We head back home, where I find the rest of my family still glued to the news broadcast, with one storming headline following the other. I soon get tired of being confined indoors, and decide to take a drive around the neighborhood instead.
One street is empty except for a barrel in the middle of the street with the flag of the Syrian Social Nationalist Party (SSNP) fluttering on a pole in its center. Young men stand just off the street corner fiddling with their guns, as they keep an eye on the rare passersby who ventures out in silence.
Driving through, and remembering very little of the Lebanese Civil War, this is the first time I witness the streets between Ras Beirut and Hamra, one by one be overtaken by militia forces. In Beirut and the Greater Beirut area, I can think of no other neighborhoods but these, which can truly boast all 18 sects of the country living side by side, not in "tolerance" and "coexistence," but in core identity.
I pick up a friend in Hamra. Army vehicles block the road to his house, and so I wait for him at the end of the street as he walks down. Soldiers warn him that if he leaves the area he cannot come back in. In his broken Arabic, he manages to negotiate re-entry and hops into the car.
The road alongside the Corniche and past the Phoenicia Hotel is clear. One or two civilian cars speed along the sea road on either side of us. Two men continue their daily walking routine along the Corniche uninterrupted. A short distance further two women do the same.
Shortly after the Saint George Hotel, the road is blocked with burning tires, so we take a detour into Achrafieh. There, a sidewalk caf? is buzzing with people seated indoors and out. In contrast with Hamra, just a few minutes away, it seems like a world apart.
Phone calls from family follow one another urgently, demanding that we cross back, so that we are not stranded "outside" if the shooting resumes. We grab our coffees and head back.
We cross the tents in Downtown Beirut, where the opposition has been demonstrating for over 500 days, and attempt to take a left from there and back into Hamra. The roads again are blocked by barbed wire. We turn back and re-attempt entry through a parallel road further down Downtown.
Upon re-crossing, the stillness on the streets again becomes absolute. We encounter other armed youths standing along Hamra Street, each flaunting an assault rifle. I slow down the car, roll down my window, and strike up a conversation with one of them.
"The calm seems to have returned to the streets," I say.
"Yes, we purified the streets of the uncleanliness," one of them confirms triumphantly. "We have got rid of the Future Movement forces," he says referring to the party headed by MP Saad Hariri. "Now we have a few members of the Progressive Socialist Party [Druze leader Walid Jumblatt's group] left. Once we are done with those, we will have complete calm."
I contemplate his features and conclude that he must be no more than 18.
"Are you from Hizbullah or Syrian Social?" I ask, referring to the SSNP, part of the opposition coalition led by Hizbullah.
"The second," continues the youth, holding his rifle in both hands. His voice is excited, his smile friendly.
"Meaning long live greater Syria?"I say playfully, referring to SSNP's motto.
"You are either a comrade or you like us," he replies with a grin.
The night seems quiet.
We do not hear anymore shooting that evening.
May 10, 2008
It is a quiet morning in "West Beirut." The streets of Hamra are slowly waking, one shop at a time. Cars are shyly coming out.
Friends of mine text me, announcing that Ristretto, the neighborhood corner coffee shop, is open. Three of us meet there half an hour later.
"I feel like I've just been slapped four times in the face," a friend tells me over breakfast, the same one who was stranded in De Prague that first night until 5:30 a.m. The owners ended up serving them dinner, while they took turns sleeping on the couches. At dawn, security escorted them back to their homes. Again he reported militiamen standing face to face with the army on the streets. What was most surreal about the entire experience was an Ethiopian woman walking a poodle, oblivious to both the militia and the army, at 5:30 am. We all laugh at the absurdity of it.
The prime minister gives a speech at 2:30 p.m. We move from our sidewalk tables indoors to watch the TV. A few of us jokingly fight over which news outlet to watch it on, the pro-government channel LBC, or NBN from the opposition, or the Future Movement's Future TV, except we have to remind Peter, one of the owners, that Future TV was burned down yesterday. The prime minister confirms that the country will not fall under the dictates of Hizbullah, delegating decision-making to the army for it to arbitrate concerning the opposition's demands.
We leave the cafe shortly after the speech is over. Nearby, gunshots force us to stand our ground for a few minutes, before proceeding to make our way toward the car. When we reach the car, we find gunmen at a corner shouting and motioning for us to move in the other direction. We get into the car and make our way in reverse.
Later that afternoon, the army announces it will not do anything to the communications network that would harm the resistance, while confirming that the head of airport security would remain in his post pending investigations. The opposition in turn hands over its military positions to the Lebanese Army, while maintaining its civil disobedience campaign.
We return to the streets of Hamra, in search of a place to eat. Except for the Mini Bakery on Bliss, Malik al-Batata and Lamb House, everything is closed. We again come across the barrel in the middle of the street with the fluttering SSNP flag. This time there is no one around.
I take out my camera and snap a few shots. A few seconds later I find a bunch of gunmen surrounding our car. One of them gently approaches me, confirming he means no harm.
"Can I please know what you took pictures of?" he asks politely. "Just the barrel with the flag," I say.
"May I see?" he asks me. I show him the camera and the few shots.
"No faces?" he asks. "No faces, I confirm.
"Sorry to have asked you to show me the pictures. We just need to make sure you did not take any faces," he explains.
I nod. He apologizes again and we proceed.
On the way back home, I come across a 4X4 with its hatch up and a bunch of guys peering from inside with their rifles. They stop in the middle of the road. I speed onward.
Listening to the gunfire, learning about RPGs and B7s and stun grenades, being amid the boys who took to the streets with their guns and masks and respective flags, I realized I did not want to escape.
Instead of suffocating me, it has rooted me. I do not want to be in any other place but Hamra. For the first time I realize I am the resistance. The resistance is me.
There are militias in Lebanon. There are those who claim to defend the country against its enemies, and those who claim to defend the country against itself. They are distinct in discourse, but their means are the same.
Looking back into the history of my country, I realize that "offenders" and "defenders" have risen and fallen, but there has been only one "resistance" group throughout and that is the people of Lebanon.
Rising above the proposed discourse, those continue to live a Lebanon more whole than any of the fragmentary visions that competing forces seek to advocate.
Awed, I do not want to leave Hamra that night.
Copyright The Daily Star 2008.
