Staying On
Why I’m not evacuating Beirut.
By Faerlie Wilson
BEIRUT, Lebanon: From my balcony this afternoon, I
watched as French, British, and American evacuees
boarded chartered cruise ships in Beirut’s port about
a half-mile west of my apartment.
And over the last few days, while bombs and artillery
pummeled the southern part of the city, I made the
decision not to leave Lebanon. Explosions rock my
building even as I write this, but I’m staying put.
I’m not crazy, and I harbor no death wish. This is
simply the rational decision of someone who has built
a life in Lebanon, who believes in this place and its
ability to bounce back. I choose to bet on Beirut.
After five visits to Lebanon over as many years, I
moved to Beirut from California this February. I’m a
24-year-old American with friends but no family here.
But Lebanese hospitality makes it easy to feel at
home; it’s a warm society that exudes and embodies a
sense of interpersonal responsibility. Live here for
two weeks and then go out of town, and you’ll get a
dozen offers to pick you up at the airport upon your
return.
So although I’m not Lebanese by blood, I have become
Beiruti. There are plenty of us who fit that
description, foreigners who fell in love with the
place and its people. One friend, an American college
student interning for the summer with a member of the
Lebanese parliament, called in tears en route to the
northern border to tell me her parents had forced her
to leave.
“I’m going to stay in Syria as long as I can,” she
vowed. “In case things settle down and I can come
back.”Until the war broke out last week, this was to be
Lebanon’s golden summer as last year’s tourist season
having been dampened by the brutal car bomb that
killed former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri in February
2005.
This summer started off strong, with concerts by major
Western artists that allowed the Lebanese to hope
their country was returning to the prewar days when
everyone who was anyone’s icons like Ella Fitzgerald,
Marlon Brando, and Brigitte Bardot made regular stops
in the country. Ricky Martin and 50 Cent performed in
May and June, respectively, Sean Paul was on deck for
July, and negotiations were under way to bring Snoop
Dogg later in the summer. But the most anticipated
concert was set for late July: the three-night return
of legendary Lebanese diva Fairouz to the Baalbeck
festival, where she first earned her fame in the 1950s
and ’60s.
The after-party for 50 Cent was typical over-the-top
Beiruti, held at city’s most decadent nightclub,
Crystal. Lamborghinis and Ferraris crowded the parking
lot; plasticated Lebanese girls in short skirts and
spike heels danced on tables as waiters navigated the
dance floor balancing trays laden with sparklers and
magnums of champagne for high-rolling Saudi tourists,
while Fiddy free-styled and openly smoked a joint.
Tourists from the Arab world, Europe, and North
America flooded the streets of cities and villages
throughout the country. Gulf Arabs in particular have
een drawn to Lebanon, especially in a post-9/11 era
when they felt unwelcome in the West (and often had
trouble obtaining visas). Lebanon offered many of the
same attractions as Europe, but in an Arab setting:
temperate climate, good shopping, plenty of tourist
activities, and most important, heady nightlife and a
liberal social atmosphere. Tourists partied till dawn,
stormed the sales at Beirut’s designer boutiques, and
visited sites like Lebanon’s ancient cedar groves and
the Roman temples at Baalbeck.
Now those magnificent ruins are surrounded by newer
ones: The city of Baalbeck, long a Shiite stronghold,
has received a heavy share of the Israeli bombardment.
Falling bombs erase entire villages, fire and smoke
cover the horizon, and visions of that promised summer
have, in just over a week, evaporated. On the beaches
of Damour and Jiyeh, the foreign visitors aren’t
European sun junkies but Israeli missiles. And the
cruise ships docked in the port aren’t bringing
tourists to Lebanon, they’re taking them away.
The contrast between Beirut today and Beirut two weeks
ago is so stark, it would be unbearable if it weren’t
so surreal. This isn’t my Beirut. This isn’t anyone’s
Beirut. The frantic, vibrant city has shrunk into a
sleepy town, with empty streets and only a handful of
restaurants, bars, and shops open for business.It’s amazing how quickly you can get used to living
under siege. We’ve taped our windows, stocked up on
supplies, and settled into a perversion of normal
life. Electric generators succeed where embattled
power stations fail. I’ve learned what times the
electricity, water, and Internet connection usually
cut out, and I plan my days accordingly, an old
Lebanese ritual from the days of the civil wars.
Candles we bought as decoration are scattered
throughout the apartment, half-burned down from long
nights without electricity. An Israeli propaganda
flier dropped on a university soccer field sticks out
of my roommate’s copy of the now-obsolete July issue
of Time Out Beirut, marking a page listing exhibitions
at art galleries that have since boarded up their
doors. The magazine only launched this spring, and it
was easy to see it as yet another symbol that Beirut
was finally being recognized as one of the world’s
great cities. Travel and Leisure magazine listed
Beirut as the ninth-best city in the world for 2006.
In this part of the world, fortunes shift very
quickly.
Smaller explosions and the rushing of Israeli fighter
jets overhead don’t startle or frighten me anymore. We
are exhausted and have to save our emotional energy
for the moments where panic is needed. Still, when
larger blasts rattle my windowpanes and make the
apartment shudder, I rush to the balcony to figure out
which part of my city is being hit. Sometimes, it’s an
easy game: Three days ago, my roommate and I watched
as Israeli warships struck Beirut’s port.
I know I’m reasonably safe in my corner of Beirut, and
I have a place to go in the mountains if that ceases
to be true. Unlike people in many other industries, I
still have a job: The magazine where I work decided to
publish an August issue -although it will lose money-
as a sign of resistance and resilience.
There is painfully little we, the ordinary people of
Lebanon, can do to help the situation. So, instead, we
do what we can to help each other by donating food and
supplies, opening our doors to friends and strangers,
and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. We
aren’t giving up.
After the foreigners are gone, local wisdom predicts
that the fighting will only get worse. At the very
least, there will be less protective padding - a fear
of foreign casualties that may have restrained Israel
to some degree. Evacuating Beirut would feel a lot
like abandoning it. I know that my staying won’t keep
the Israelis from intensifying their attacks, but at
least I won’t be complicit, seeing events unfold on a
TV screen from the comfort of Cyprus.
So, I’ll watch those ships pull away without regret.
Lebanon has given me more than I ever could’ve asked:
a home, a sense of belonging, an almost indecent
number of happy memories. But aside from any debt to
Lebanon, I won’t leave because I know how miserable I
would be watching the war ravage my country from the
outside. As long as my feet are firmly planted on
Lebanese soil, I somehow know the country will
survive.
People ask me if I’m scared, and I am - but for
Lebanon more than for myself. This place and its
people deserve far better than what they’re getting.
There’s a sad, unstated “what will become of us?”
question floating around the Lebanese who are left
behind. I need to stay here, if only to learn the answer.
