Date: 07/08/2021
Location: Beirut, Lebanon
Time: 6 pm
It is weeks after we have left. Someone else’s belongings lie strewn on the floor: used underwear, a towel outside the flimsy sliding door to the en-suite left where it had been casually dropped. On the bedside cabinet there is a small plastic bracelet, an empty contact lens blister packet that has spilled some of its solution onto the wood, and a half-drunk glass of water. The bed is made, but sloppily so; the bedsheet is creased and at an angle. Its making had been gestural, haphazard, rather than a definitive act of housekeeping. The people who were occupying the small bedroom had left in the morning and would be back after dark. This was a place to sleep, briefly; it was a cheap apartment, simple. Its only luxury was access to a rooftop terrace that looked over other terraces just like it, strung with lights and furnished with simple plastic chairs where people would sit to smoke their cigarettes, mingling with neighbors briefly among the corrugated roofs before shuffling back into their own doorways. Inside, the apartment is still. Its causal mess anticipates the giggling, bleary-eyed return of the lovers, drunk from cheap beer on Mar Michael, their breath garlicky and lips greasy from the kebabs eaten from paper wrappers on their way home.
Time: 6:07 pm
Shattered glass rains down, throwing the setting sun like fragments of fire onto the sloppily made bed. Dust enters the room through the destroyed window, from everywhere. Cars outside the building over-turn and burst, screaming, into alarms that slowly combine to create a wail that permeates the whole city. Air is sucked from the room and returns, noxious with the smell of burning plastic. Plaster rains down, wooden joists from the ceiling split and fall, one of them, along with a chunk of concrete, onto the bed. A statue of the Virgin Mary under which the owner of the building leaves the key for guests falls and breaks on the concrete stairs, pieces of it sliding across the shaking floor. The key remains on the table, which shakes. Everything shakes. Then the shaking stops.
Moments before, everything was movement, force. Now there is stillness, but different to that which came before. This is a stillness not like the anticipation of the return of lovers, but a stillness like death. Everything is covered in a layer of dust, in shards of broken glass.
* * *
Date: 16/08/2019
Location: Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates
Beirut, of course, had connotations of war for those who had grown up seeing its various conflicts documented relentlessly on the BBC evening news. The Israeli bombing of Beirut happened when I was in my late teens, and the images of smoke rising from the destroyed city were enough to taint the word ‘Beirut’, make it a by-word for wreckage, destruction. My mum, often berating me for the mess in my bedroom and imploring me to tidy it, once told me disgustedly that it looked like Beirut.
Many years later, I am living a short flight away from Lebanon. Many people I know have visited the country and have loved the vibrant capital city of Beirut, now at peace. They say the food is outstanding, the best that they have had. They return with stories of the beauty of the Beqaa Valley and the ruins of Byblos and Baalbek, places that had been continuously inhabited since at least 8800 BC. I have booked a flight, planned a visit.
I anticipate the dispelling of my previously held prejudices of Beirut as a grey city on the brink of collapse, as a city of ruins and bullet holes. Indeed, these bullet holes were now destinations for tourists, historical relics that can now be looked upon with a sense of perspective and distance, just another layer on the palimpsest of the vertiginous history of the place with no more bearing on the present than the Roman ruins, the Ottoman temples, Neolithic pottery displayed in museums.
Date: 17/08/2019
Location: The air above Beirut
A subtle change in the hum of conversation on the flight, a shift in tone. Locals are turning in their seats, exclaiming in rapid Arabic to each other. The first hints that something was happening. I lean over the person next to me to look out of the airplane window, many of my fellow passengers are doing the same, some of them pointing. Where families or friends are sharing a row they crowd towards the window, each craning to look. Smoke rises in thin, black columns from the city below.
Date: 17/08/2019
Location: Beirut Airport
The airport is packed and confused. Some people know what is happening, some do not. I half know from fragments of overheard conversations, from asking the Lebanese students in the seats in front of me on the plane what was going on. They weren’t sure, but they had heard of protests.
After landing, it becomes clear that this confusion will impact me directly, is impacting everyone trying to leave the airport. I ring the hire car company that I had arranged to meet me upon arrival; they say that it is impossible to get anywhere near the airport, that the roads of closed, that they have heard that people are walking into the city. I band together with some people I half know from the airplane that I bump into in the arrival’s hall. We must walk out of the airport and get as close to our hotels as possible, where it may be possible to get a taxi before it is dark.
We walk past burning tire fires, past people shouting. We walk past trolley bins overturned and set alight to barricade roads. We walk past men with their heads wrapped in kaftans spray-painting slogans on walls and road bridges: they shout and cheer excitedly, vying for the best positions to wave their flags on top of stalled cars. The tyre and bin fires plume thick, black smoke into the air.
We are entranced by what we see around us, and its strange contradictions. We never feel remotely threatened. Our large bags, one of us is even wheeling a suitcase, give us away obviously as tourists. We are safe. The protestors’ argument is with the government and its corruptions, not us. They are glad to see us: we represent what they want for their city. They want people to come to their city to see its vitality, its cuisine, its history, its culture, the hospitality of its occupants, as we have done. They are sorry that they are preventing us from experiencing these things, but they are engaged in a necessary struggle against a corrupt government, and hope that we will understand.
Finally, we find ourselves inside a car. An enterprising young local has seized the opportunity to set up a spontaneous taxi service for the airport refugees trickling into the city; he fancies his chances of navigating his way through the fires and the chaos. His car is tiny, a small hatchback, but we cram inside. When we reach an impassible barricade he leans out of the window, negotiating with the men who have slung broken concrete slabs or bollards across the road to block it, asking them to open it momentarily for us. His trump card is us: he gestures at the back seats, telling them he is transporting tourists, a cargo of innocents. I stare out of the windows, enthralled by everything that is happening. It is dark now and the only lights are the lights of the fires that occasionally are so close they lick against the car. Everything is bathed in a surreal, flickering orange glow. I wonder if we are in danger – certainly with the fires and occasionally pops of explosions the potential for an accident seems high – but the mood of the city is of excitement, like a party or festival. We have not yet seen any opposition to the protests, no police or military. When the unofficial taxi driver gets us as close to our Airbnb as he can, he wishes us luck. He smiles and shakes our hands. He does not ask for money.
The Airbnb that I have booked for the duration of our stay in Lebanon is small and pokey, but cheap and in a central location from where it was possible to walk to everywhere that we would want to go. The key has been left for us beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary on the table outside the door. At the back of the apartment is access to a cluttered terrace shared by the other apartments on the same level. From here I can see the smoke rising from the central square, feel the electricity of the city, hear the pops of fireworks and the beating of drums, the singing of songs that become louder as they days go on.
Date: 19/08/2019
Location: A road outside Beirut
I had managed to acquire the hire car that I was meant to meet at the airport. It was delivered to the street outside my apartment. We hoped to drive out of the city, escape its chaos, find refuge in the storied tranquility and beauty of the hills and fields beyond Beirut. It is well known that driving in central Beirut is a hair-raising experience even when the city is at peace. Red lights are alarmingly optional, and stopping at them may indeed even invite the consternation of local drivers, who would blare their horns angrily behind you, frustrated with the delay. Lanes are entirely fluid, almost non-existent; you are more akin to a kayaker navigating treacherous rapids, every man for himself, engaged in knife-edge survival. You must find your place in the flow – to fight it invites peril.
Despite the treacherous driving in the centre, we eventually achieved escape velocity and found ourselves on quiet roads, winding up through steep sided valleys. It felt refreshing to be out of the smoke and drama of Beirut, the constant bombardment of the senses, the constant niggling sense of imminent danger. It was beautiful. There were cyprus trees and gardens, rows of vines and olive trees, and the dry earth is subtly pink. The steep hills interlock into each other, enfolding you before exposing you again to a steep descent and distant views. The reason for the quiet roads, however, quickly became clear. We were on a two-lane highway, and ahead of us we could see plumes of ashy smoke. The traffic begins to slow, and people appear on the sides of the road. There is a fire ahead. The road is blocked.
There is a mass of people on the highway in front of us. Some people, locals, have got out of their cars and are arguing with the protestors, imploring them to let them through so they can get to their homes. The protesters, it seems, are sorry, but their blockage is necessary – they are blocking the roads to prevent government officials from fleeing the city and this necessary action must unfortunately be indiscriminate. In any case, the oil barrels filled with debris that they have pulled into the center of the road are now on fire, and it would be impossible to move them. Again, there is no sense of violence, but this is not a good situation. There seems to be no way to get off this road: I am an idiot, irresponsible, unthinking. If the car was damaged, I would have to pay handsomely for it, and I had a growing anxiety that if I was unable to get back to the city, we would be trapped here in limbo indefinitely; I would miss my return flight, my passport and belongings would be looted or irretrievable.
Eventually, the only solution to this entrapment became clear: to make a u-turn on the highway and return, on the wrong side of the road, back towards Beirut. This is what some other cars were beginning to do, and I decided my only option was to follow. I caught eyes with other drivers, unspeakingly forming alliances. We were in this together. Tentatively, slowly, with hazard lights clicking blinking, our convoy made its way along the road. Every now and again, a speeding car coming round a corner would swerve to avoid us, blaring its horn, unaware that they too would soon have to turn around and go back from where they had come. The driver in front of me was more daring, driving faster, so I was often on my own, my heart beating fast as I drove round a corner, hoping for the best.
It was a relief when we found a slip road that seemed like would put us back on track to the city centre, on the correct side of the road. This relief, however, was short lived. I could see no other vehicles now, and upon rounding a corner were confronted with a balaclava clad man who had taken it upon himself to cut down a tree and drag it across the road. He was in the process of setting it alight. He seemed to be alone. We could see the city in the distance, tantalizingly close, and driving back to the highway seemed like a nightmarish option. I wound down my window, put on my biggest and most innocent smile and leant out of window, waving. “Hi! Tourist! Can I come through?” I called, hoping that my blatant optimism would overwhelm him. His balaclava mask was initially unresponsive. He stared briefly, then reached up and pulled it off. Beneath the balaclava he was grinning widely; he looked around, and then at me, as if we were sharing a secret, grabbed the tree by its end, pulled it to the side of the road and waved me through.
Date: 20/08/2019
Location: A family apartment in central Beirut
I am trying my best to chop the parsley in the way that the elderly lady had demonstrated, but am continually incurring her disappointment with my poor effort: the size of my chopped pieces is inconsistent, here they are too fine, here they are too thick, no, I should not chop the thick pieces again, as it will turn them black. She shows me again, and I watch, attentively. Her hands are wrinkled but strong, expertly running the knife with satisfying precision through the bunched herbs. With all my being I want her to look over my shoulder and tell me I have done a good job, that she is happy to use my parsley in the tabbouleh that will be served, shortly, for dinner.
Outside of the apartment, below the balcony, a burning tyre sends up its acrid smoke. The washing has been brought inside so that it is not permeated by the smell of rubber. The TV blares, with the display split into four live cameras that are broadcasting the uprising happening in the square in the middle of the city. At any point, several members of the family are looking at the screen, pointing, shaking their heads, glancing out of the window, cross referencing what they saw on the television with what could be seen outside.
We had walked through the square that was being broadcast on the television on our first morning in the city, and it had been filled with protestors haphazardly forming groups, climbing statues and walls, singing songs in big huddles. By our third day in the city, the haphazardness had transformed into something far more organized. Two full sized concert stages had been erected, as well as numerous trucks bedecked with speaker systems that were broadcasting protest songs to the parts of the city centre that did not have access to the stages. Professional musicians would appear on the stages, working the crowds up into states of frenzy. Impassioned speakers with megaphones shouted with raised fists. Flags were everywhere, thousands and thousands of green cedar trees set against red and white rectangles. Flags were handed to us, and we waved them. The mood was that of a festival. Rows and rows of hookah pipes and carpets for people to sit and rest appeared. Gazebos were set up and were serving coffee and hot food to protestors who were not going to go home until a change was made, until their objective was met. By now, everything that could be reached was covered in graffiti. The store fronts were boarded up; clearly, some of them had anticipated such an occurrence and had invested in metal barriers. They were lucky. Those without protection were defaced or smashed. Still, however, there was no violence against people. A young man sees that we are tourists and his face breaks out in a smile: “Welcome to Lebanon! In other places they kill each other, in Beirut, we party!” he shouts.
In the apartment, while the city raged around it, everything was domestic, calm. The family, along with us, their guests, worked together to create a feast. We had signed up to a cookery course we had found online: the course was meant to last an hour, and had been extremely cheap, but we had been there for hours already. We had surely already eaten our money’s worth, and we had not even made dinner yet. We had been taken to the grandfather’s allotment, where we picked the fruits and vegetables that we would use to make dinner. It was a tangled, overgrown garden but seemed to be unbelievably fertile. It was bursting with clots of fruit, peaches and tomatoes and pomegranates. He led us through the maze of bushes and trees, thickets of deep green herbs. He handed us rosemary and mint and parsley, gesturing for us to pinch them between our fingers to smell. He handed us walnuts that had fallen from an enormous tree, showed us how to crack them in one hand by squeezing two shells together.
Indeed, the cookery course was nothing of the sort. We had been made honorary members of the family. More and more brothers, nieces and uncles kept arriving through the front door, each bringing something to add to the dinner. A jar of preserved lemons, a plastic bag full of breads, a bottle of homemade liquor that we were encouraged to try, that would go cloudy with the addition of a drop of water, that the brother who had brought it with him would get slowly drunker on as the afternoon progressed, despite the reproachment of his mother. One of the brothers was a priest, another was an engineer, the daughter, smartly dressed, clearly very successful and with intimidatingly perfect English, worked for the government. They were all here to eat, to be with each other, and they included us completely and without hesitation into this spontaneous family gathering.
Dinner was served. Tomatoes and aubergines roasted into unctuousness with allspice and cinnamon and garlic. Smooth hummous decorated carefully with a fork and paprika; tabbouleh with amateurishly butchered parsley, fattoush and labneh sprinkled with herbs, piles of manakeesh topped with za’atar and crunchy with salt, so moreish I have craved it ever since. Debate raged around the table, sometimes someone would stand up, impassioned with their argument, pointing at another family member who they disagreed with until they were implored to sit down. Some of the family supported the protesters, were angry at the government for constantly increasing taxes while at the same time providing little or no public services: electricity, water and gas were controlled now by mafia-like cabals that profited from the state’s inability to keep these services running, one of the family tells us. You must pay these men, or you will not have access to the generators that kick in when the supplies inevitably fail. We are told that many were calling this the WhatsApp revolution – the government had proposed a tax on WhatsApp calls, and people saw this as both an underhand form of taxation and a possible way to prevent encrypted communication between those who were against the status quo. A brother, the priest, wanted the corrupt government overthrown. He wanted to see politicians who were big public personalities be a thing of the past, he hated these cults of personality, and for the government to be formed of independent specialists and experts who would make informed decisions selflessly. Some of the family, particularly the sister, thought that the brother was an idealist, that the protestors were misguided, that their anger was misdirected, that they would achieve nothing but further economic decline and public disruption and worse, violence. She said that this would not end peacefully, that the government would wait until the initial fervor was reduced, and then send in the military. She said nothing will change for the better, this is the way Lebanon is, and things will be worse afterwards.
In between the ebb and flow of debate, bread was passed around the table. More dishes were brought out. Pastries filled with spiced meat, then cookies filled with dates. Someone had made and brought a large kanafah, spun pastry layered with cheese and covered in syrup, which was greeted with excitement from the table in unison. We were encouraged to try it first, the whole table looking at us and waiting for an inevitable positive reaction. They knew it was delicious: it was. Any political argument was superseded by this, the flaky crunch of perfect pastry, of honey-like syrup filling the mouth, of soft and salty cheese.