6 Hours
Banners on damaged buildings facing the site of Beirut’s port blast. September 12, 2o21.
People have asked me, “How’s Beirut?” It’s hard for me to expand beyond, “It’s not good.” How do I explain concisely what the reality of an economic collapse is for an entire country? Actually, the last 6 hours I spent in Beirut sums up the entire situation.
I was walking through Hamra on my way back to the hotel at dusk to pack and head to the airport. Hamra is a shopping and banking district. It’s a central place for tourists. The American University of Beirut (AUB) is located there as well as AUBMC, a massive medical complex. This part of Beirut is always packed with traffic, crowded sidewalks, hotels, cafes, bars, and restaurants. It is always lit up, loads of energy, with much hustle and bustle.
This time, it was much different.
Many of my favorite places have closed, much of Hamra’s thriving stores emptied. It was subdued. As I approached the main street, I looked up and noticed the sun had set. I thought to myself, yeah, I’m ready to go. This is unusual for me. I usually dig my fingers into the ground and need to be dragged to the airport. I was thrilled to be there again, but I was ready to go. I also realized the power cut as the sun went down. I looked over and noticed shopkeepers sitting alone in the dark, in their respective stores all down the street.
This image probably best describes Beirut and is imprinted on my mind. Electricity cuts have always been a thing in Beirut. But right now, they average 22 hours a day. Generators cannot run that long and with the shortage of fuel in the country, many can’t even run them.
So, you sit in the dark.
When I got to my hotel, I felt a rumble in my intestines. Oh no, Beirut tummy! I ate one meal that day. What are the odds it gave me food poisoning? In Beirut, I would say high. I brushed it off until I couldn’t. My friend arrived, and we ran to get her something to eat. By this time, the streets in Hamra were pitch black. No electricity means no streetlights. I’ve never seen Hamra this dark or quiet at 9pm.
As we waited for her order, I watched a young shab (young male) come down from the attic of the restaurant carrying two full water bottles. Except those bottles did not contain water. It looked like gasoline. He filled up his motorbike parked right in front of us to be able to make deliveries. It occurred to me that plastic water bottles filled with gasoline were probably stashed in every corner of this city. Gas stations were closed for most of the time I was there. The government was setting a new price and stations remained closed during a fuel crisis. A few weeks before, the entire country ran out of fuel, and many spend hours in line trying to fill up their cars. Some people and businesses, just like this restaurant, resorted to buying gasoline off the black market.
By the time we got back to the hotel, Beirut tummy was in full swing. I spent the last hour before I was to leave for the airport expelling out whatever was creating the ruckus in my tuckus. Ha. I joke now, but it was no joking matter.
I wondered how I was going to get on a plane in a few hours. I took some meds and crossed my fingers. My dear friend asked me to cancel my flight and stay but I was determined to get on that flight. And as smooth as my trip to Beirut has been, this experience reminded me that no one gets out of Beirut unscathed. No one.
I got to the airport early. A line had formed even before the ticket counter opened. When the line got too long, the Lebanese formed another line next to it. Which upset those who had been waiting in the first line. I could tell that the flight would be packed. Everyone had 8-10 suitcases each. The flight to Beirut had about 30 people on it. This is a mass exodus out of the country. It is estimated that 60,000 people have left the country in 2021.
Soon after the ticket counter opened, a fight broke out because someone tried to cut the line, which is a normal thing in the Middle East. There aren’t really lines or doing anything single file. Security didn’t even try to intervene. I got up to the ticket counter after waiting for 2 hours in that mob. The agent looked at me and said, “bus wahid?” (Only one?) I nodded yes, “Only one suitcase.”
Then I ran through the gauntlet of security and passport control. I had enough time for a little 7up for my tummy, then boarded the 4-hour flight to Frankfurt. A Lebanese toddler screamed the entire flight which left at 4am. No one slept, and everyone felt edgy by the time we landed. True to form, the Lebanese didn’t follow directions of waiting in their seats until their rows were called when we landed. Which produced a screaming match between those that remained seated and those who tried to rush the process.
Thirty minutes later, I was alone in my hotel room at Frankfurt airport.
I exhaled. Like for the first time in 6 days.
That’s what Beirut is like right now. You hold your breath waiting for the next catastrophe
No one exhales.