Oh Beirut...
A picture hanging in Dar Al Bistro, Clemenceau, Beirut. A militia member plays piano in an abandoned mansion during the civil war. 1983.
I remember boarding the plane in Beirut this past October for Denver. It was early morning, I was irritated because I had just spent nearly $30 on two coffees, a cup of fruit, and a water. Ahhh, Beirut airport is notorious for expensive snacks. Security for the British Airways flight was extra tight and, per the norm, I was randomly selected for an additional security check. For the first time in memory, I was happy to be leaving. This is unusual. Usually, my eyes are filled with tears and I am begrudgingly getting on the plane. Not this time; it was a long, hot, tense summer. I was happy to get out.
I always have a flash of panic every time I leave Beirut, like it will be the last time that I am able to be there. This time was no exception. Life in Beirut hangs by a thread that is slowly unraveling. I know this well after 16 years. The week after I left, mass protests started. You could feel something was about to happen in Beirut this summer. I don’t know how to explain it, but I always have the premonition or feeling, if you will, that shit is about to fly. I am usually right.
The economy is in free fall right now. The U.S. dollar was always at a fixed rate against the Lebanese pound, for the entire 16 years I have been there. Right now, the Lebanese currency has lost 60% of its value since October. Also, it was possible to withdraw USD from the banks and ATMs. This summer, the Lebanese government placed restrictions on how much you can pull out of the bank. Currently, the banks are limiting people to withdrawing $200 a month.
The Prime Minister stepped down in late October and there hasn’t been a new government formed, leaving a vacuum in a crisis. Demonstrations this past week have gotten violent during what protesters called, “the Week of Rage.”[1]
The future doesn’t look good. I fear the government and the corrupt ruling elite will continue to ignore the calls by the people for their resignation and reform – I fear more violence and more tumbling into the abyss. It’s not the first time this happened in Beirut. I’ve seen it on the brink more than once. I am worried, deeply worried for the well-being of my friends.
During this “Week of Rage” my board of advisors asked me not to go back to Beirut as planned in February. I didn’t put up much of a fight that meeting but I did just have my wisdom teeth out the day before and was heavily drugged. A few days later, I tried leaning on a few members to change their minds. No dice.
Maybe it’s because I am stubborn or maybe I have so much emotion flooding my mind, heart, and body around this that I am not thinking straight. I was only supposed to go for a week to touch base with partners, colleagues, and friends before I head to Jordan to meet a board member. Simple.
I also have been in worse situations in Beirut, not that I would like to repeat that kind of trauma. But I do know it is much safer when you are on the inside than when you are looking at it from the outside. I know Beirut can be completely (yanni, I mean) normal when things look totally chaotic. I also know that it can flip on a dime.
All of this knowledge doesn’t relieve the guilt I feel or the disappointment. I get to pick and choose when I go to Beirut, when it is safe enough for me. The problem is, I know my friends that live there do not have the same privilege. I realize I am a citizen of a different country, a country that affords such privileges and rights to travel as freely as I do. The guilt and anger I feel that I can’t use my privileges and rights to benefit them, in some way to help, overwhelms any rationality I have right now. I feel helpless.
I also know too much. I know that while you are watching the violence unfold in horror, know that the marginalized in Lebanon will have it much worse. I know that in times of crisis, it is those communities that feel it first. I know the Palestinian refugee camps will struggle with a lack of resources – food, water, electricity, basic necessities for life. Because they already are. The situation is dire. I’m sitting in Denver trying to wrap my head around how they could go with less. What happens to citizens of a country on the brink of collapse? What happens to stateless people in that same country?
And maybe that is what is driving my desire to go even though I know full well I might be stuck in a hotel room for a week. I know that my presence might be a hardship on my contacts because they would feel responsible for my safety. In the end, I know my board made the right call but don’t tell them I said that.
I’ll only be going to Jordan this February and continuing to watch events unfold from afar. Waiting, hoping, and praying for better days and a better future for the people of Lebanon.
This beautifully haunting song by iconic Lebanese singer, Fairuz, is the best possible lament and blessing for a place and people I love dearly.
From my heart, peace to Beirut…
To Beirut
لبيروت
From my heart, peace to Beirut من قلبي سلامٌ لبيروت
And accepted to the sea and homes و قُبلٌ للبحر و البيوت
For a rock like an old sailor's face لصخرةٍ كأنها وجه بحارٍ قديمِ
Wine is from the spirit of the people هي من روحِ الشعب خمرٌ
It is of race, bread and jasmine هي من عرقِهِ خبزٌ و ياسمين
How did it taste the taste of fire and smoke?فكيف صار طعمها طعم نارٍ و دخانِ
To Beirut لبيروت
Glory to the ashes of Beirut مجدٌ من رمادٍ لبيروت
From the blood of a boy held above her hand من دمٍ لولدٍ حُملَ فوق يدها
My city extinguished Qandilha أطفأت مدينتي قنديلها
She closed her door أغلقت بابها
I became in the evening alone أصبحت في المساء وحدها
Alone and nightوحدها و ليلُ
To Beirut لبيروت
From my heart, peace to Beirut من قلبي سلامٌ لبيروت
And accepted to the sea and homes و قُبلٌ للبحر و البيوت
For a rock like an old sailor's faceلصخرةٍ كأنها وجه بحارٍ قديمِ
You are mine, you are mine أنتِ لي أنتِ لي
Uh, hug me, you are mine أه عانقيني أنتِ لي
My flag, tomorrow's stone, and my travel wave رايتي و حجرُ الغدِ و موج سفري
A popular surgeon bloomed أزهرت جراح شعبي
Maternal tear bloom أزهرت دمعة الأمهات
You are Beirut for me أنتِ بيروت لي
you are mineأنتِ لي
[1] https://www.cnn.com/2020/01/20/middleeast/lebanon-unrest-intl-hnk/index.html