<html><head><style type="text/css"><!-- DIV {margin:0px} --></style></head><body><div style="font-family:garamond, new york, times, serif;font-size:12pt"><DT class=post-head>Paradise Lost: Robert Fisk's elegy for Beirut
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<P><FONT face=Verdana size=2>Published: 19 July 2006 </FONT></P>
<P><FONT face=Verdana size=2>Elegant buildings lie in ruins. The heady scent of gardenias gives way <BR>to the acrid stench of bombed-out oil installations. And everywhere <BR>terrified people are scrambling to get out of a city that seems <BR>tragically doomed to chaos and destruction. As Beirut - 'the Paris of <BR>the East' - is defiled yet again, Robert Fisk, a resident for 30 <BR>years, asks: how much more punishment can it take? <BR><BR>In the year 551, the magnificent, wealthy city of Berytus - <BR>headquarters of the imperial East Mediterranean Roman fleet - was <BR>struck by a massive earthquake. In its aftermath, the sea withdrew <BR>several miles and the survivors - ancestors of the present-day <BR>Lebanese - walked out on the sands to loot the long-sunken merchant <BR>ships revealed in front of them. <BR><BR>That was when a tidal wall higher than a tsunami returned to swamp the <BR>city and kill them all. So savagely was the old Beirut damaged that <BR>the
Emperor Justinian sent gold from Constantinople as compensation to <BR>every family left alive. <BR><BR>Some cities seem forever doomed. When the Crusaders arrived at Beirut <BR>on their way to Jerusalem in the 11th century, they slaughtered every <BR>man, woman and child in the city. In the First World War, Ottoman <BR>Beirut suffered a terrible famine; the Turkish army had commandeered <BR>all the grain and the Allied powers blockaded the coast. I still have <BR>some ancient postcards I bought here 30 years ago of stick-like <BR>children standing in an orphanage, naked and abandoned. <BR><BR>An American woman living in Beirut in 1916 described how she "passed <BR>women and children lying by the roadside with closed eyes and ghastly, <BR>pale faces. It was a common thing to find people searching the garbage <BR>heaps for orange peel, old bones or other refuse, and eating them <BR>greedily when found. Everywhere women could be seen seeking eatable <BR>weeds among the grass
along the roads..." <BR><BR>How does this happen to Beirut? For 30 years, I've watched this place <BR>die and then rise from the grave and then die again, its apartment <BR>blocks pitted with so many bullets they looked like Irish lace, its <BR>people massacring each other. <BR><BR>I lived here through 15 years of civil war that took 150,000 lives, <BR>and two Israeli invasions and years of Israeli bombardments that cost <BR>the lives of a further 20,000 of its people. I have seen them armless, <BR>legless, headless, knifed, bombed and splashed across the walls of <BR>houses. Yet they are a fine, educated, moral people whose generosity <BR>amazes every foreigner, whose gentleness puts any Westerner to shame, <BR>and whose suffering we almost always ignore. <BR><BR>They look like us, the people of Beirut. They have light-coloured skin <BR>and speak beautiful English and French. They travel the world. Their <BR>women are gorgeous and their food exquisite. But what are we
saying of <BR>their fate today as the Israelis - in some of their cruellest attacks <BR>on this city and the surrounding countryside - tear them from their <BR>homes, bomb them on river bridges, cut them off from food and water <BR>and electricity? We say that they started this latest war, and we <BR>compare their appalling casualties - 240 in all of Lebanon by last <BR>night - with Israel's 24 dead, as if the figures are the same. <BR><BR>And then, most disgraceful of all, we leave the Lebanese to their fate <BR>like a diseased people and spend our time evacuating our precious <BR>foreigners while tut-tutting about Israel's "disproportionate" <BR>response to the capture of its soldiers by Hizbollah. <BR><BR>I walked through the deserted city centre of Beirut yesterday and it <BR>reminded more than ever of a film lot, a place of dreams too beautiful <BR>to last, a phoenix from the ashes of civil war whose plumage was so <BR>brightly coloured that it blinded its own people.
This part of the <BR>city - once a Dresden of ruins - was rebuilt by Rafiq Hariri, the <BR>prime minister who was murdered scarcely a mile away on 14 February <BR>last year. <BR><BR>The wreckage of that bomb blast, an awful precursor to the present war <BR>in which his inheritance is being vandalised by the Israelis, still <BR>stands beside the Mediterranean, waiting for the last UN investigator <BR>to look for clues to the assassination - an investigator who has long <BR>ago abandoned this besieged city for the safety of Cyprus. <BR><BR>At the empty Etoile restaurant - best snails and cappuccino in Beirut, <BR>where Hariri once dined Jacques Chirac - I sat on the pavement and <BR>watched the parliamentary guard still patrolling the façade of the <BR>French-built emporium that houses what is left of Lebanon's democracy. <BR>So many of these streets were built by Parisians under the French <BR>mandate and they have been exquisitely restored, their mock Arabian <BR>doorways
bejewelled with marble Roman columns dug from the ancient Via <BR>Maxima a few metres away. <BR><BR>Hariri loved this place and, taking Chirac for a beer one day, he <BR>caught sight of me sitting at a table. "Ah Robert, come over here," he <BR>roared and then turned to Chirac like a cat that was about to eat a <BR>canary. "I want to introduce you, Jacques, to the reporter who said I <BR>couldn't rebuild Beirut!" <BR><BR>And now it is being un-built. The Martyr Rafiq Hariri International <BR>Airport has been attacked three times by the Israelis, its glistening <BR>halls and shopping malls vibrating to the missiles that thunder into <BR>the runways and fuel depots. Hariri's wonderful transnational highway <BR>viaduct has been broken by Israeli bombers. Most of his motorway <BR>bridges have been destroyed. The Roman-style lighthouse has been <BR>smashed by a missile from an Apache helicopter. Only this small jewel <BR>of a restaurant in the centre of Beirut has been spared.
So far. <BR><BR>It is the slums of Haret Hreik and Ghobeiri and Shiyah that have been <BR>levelled and "rubble-ised" and pounded to dust, sending a quarter of a <BR>million Shia Muslims to seek sanctuary in schools and abandoned parks <BR>across the city. Here, indeed, was the headquarters of Hizbollah, <BR>another of those "centres of world terror" which the West keeps <BR>discovering in Muslim lands. Here lived Sayed Hassan Nasrallah, the <BR>Party of God's leader, a ruthless, caustic, calculating man; and Sayad <BR>Mohamed Fadlallah, among the wisest and most eloquent of clerics; and <BR>many of Hizbollah's top military planners - including, no doubt, the <BR>men who planned over many months the capture of the two Israeli <BR>soldiers last Wednesday. <BR><BR>But did the tens of thousands of poor who live here deserve this act <BR>of mass punishment? For a country that boasts of its pin-point <BR>accuracy - a doubtful notion in any case, but that's not the issue -
<BR>what does this act of destruction tell us about Israel? Or about <BR>ourselves? <BR><BR>In a modern building in an undamaged part of Beirut, I come, quite by <BR>chance, across a well known and prominent Hizbollah figure, open-neck <BR>white shirt, dark suit, clean shoes. "We will go on if we have to for <BR>days or weeks or months or..." And he counts these awful statistics <BR>off on the fingers of his left hand. "Believe me, we have bigger <BR>surprises still to come for the Israelis - much bigger, you will see. <BR>Then we will get our prisoners and it will take just a few small <BR>concessions." <BR><BR>I walk outside, feeling as if I have been beaten over the head. Over <BR>the wall opposite there is purple bougainvillaea and white jasmine and <BR>a swamp of gardenias. The Lebanese love flowers, their colour and <BR>scent, and Beirut is draped in trees and bushes that smell like <BR>paradise. <BR><BR>As for the huddled masses from the powder of the bombed-out
southern <BR>slums of Haret Hreik, I found hundreds of them yesterday, sitting <BR>under trees and lying on the parched grass beside an ancient fountain <BR>donated to the city of Beirut by the Ottoman Sultan Abdul-Hamid. How <BR>empires fall. <BR><BR>Far away, across the Mediterranean, two American helicopters from the <BR>USS Iwo Jima could be seen, heading through the mist and smoke towards <BR>the US embassy bunker complex at Awkar to evacuate more citizens of <BR>the American Empire. There was not a word from that same empire to <BR>help the people lying in the park, to offer them food or medical aid. <BR><BR>And across them all has spread a dark grey smoke that works its way <BR>through the entire city, the fires of oil terminals and burning <BR>buildings turning into a cocktail of sulphurous air that moves below <BR>our doors and through our windows. I smell it when I wake in the <BR>morning. Half the people of Beirut are coughing in this filth, <BR>breathing their
own destruction as they contemplate their dead. <BR><BR>The anger that any human soul should feel at such suffering and loss <BR>was expressed so well by Lebanon's greatest poet, the mystic Khalil <BR>Gibran, when he wrote of the half million Lebanese who died in the <BR>1916 famine, most of them residents of Beirut: <BR><BR>My people died of hunger, and he who <BR><BR>Did not perish from starvation was <BR><BR>Butchered with the sword; <BR><BR>They perished from hunger <BR><BR>In a land rich with milk and honey. <BR><BR>They died because the vipers and <BR><BR>Sons of vipers spat out poison into <BR><BR>The space where the Holy Cedars and <BR><BR>The roses and the jasmine breathe <BR><BR>Their fragrance. <BR><BR>And the sword continues to cut its way through Beirut. When part of an <BR>aircraft - perhaps the wing-tip of an F-16 hit by a missile, although <BR>the Israelis deny this - came streaking out of the sky over the <BR>eastern suburbs at the weekend, I raced to the
scene to find a partly <BR>decapitated driver in his car and three Lebanese soldiers from the <BR>army's logistics unit. These are the tough, brave non-combat soldiers <BR>of Kfar Chim, who have been mending power and water lines these past <BR>six days to keep Beirut alive. <BR><BR>I knew one of them. "Hello Robert, be quick because I think the <BR>Israelis will bomb again but we'll show you everything we can." And <BR>they took me through the fires to show me what they could of the <BR>wreckage, standing around me to protect me. <BR><BR>And a few hours later, the Israelis did come back, as the men of the <BR>small logistics unit were going to bed, and they bombed the barracks <BR>and killed 10 soldiers, including those three kind men who looked <BR>after me amid the fires of Kfar Chim. <BR><BR>And why? Be sure - the Israelis know what they are hitting. That's why <BR>they killed nine soldiers near Tripoli when they bombed the military <BR>radio antennas. But a logistics
unit? Men whose sole job was to mend <BR>electricity lines? And then it dawns on me. Beirut is to die. It is to <BR>be starved of electricity now that the power station in Jiyeh is on <BR>fire. No one is to be allowed to keep Beirut alive. So those poor men <BR>had to be liquidated. <BR><BR>Beirutis are tough people and are not easily moved. But at the end of <BR>last week, many of them were overcome by a photograph in their daily <BR>papers of a small girl, discarded like a broken flower in a field near <BR>Ter Harfa, her feet curled up, her hand resting on her torn blue <BR>pyjamas, her eyes - beneath long, soft hair - closed, turned away from <BR>the camera. She had been another "terrorist" target of Israel and <BR>several people, myself among them, saw a frightening similarity <BR>between this picture and the photograph of a Polish girl lying dead in <BR>a field beside her weeping sister in 1939. <BR><BR>I go home and flick through my files, old pictures of the Israeli
<BR>invasion of 1982. There are more photographs of dead children, of <BR>broken bridges. "Israelis Threaten to Storm Beirut", says one <BR>headline. "Israelis Retaliate". "Lebanon At War". "Beirut Under <BR>Siege". "Massacre at Sabra and Chatila". <BR><BR>Yes, how easily we forget these earlier slaughters. Up to 1,700 <BR>Palestinians were butchered at Sabra and Chatila by Israel's proxy <BR>Christian militia allies in September of 1982 while Israeli troops - <BR>as they later testified to Israel's own court of inquiry - watched the <BR>killings. I was there. I stopped counting the corpses when I reached <BR>100. Many of the women had been raped before being knifed or shot. <BR><BR>Yet when I was fleeing the bombing of Ghobeiri with my driver Abed <BR>last week, we swept right past the entrance of the camp, the very spot <BR>where I saw the first murdered Palestinians. And we did not think of <BR>them. We did not remember them. They were dead in Beirut and we were
<BR>trying to stay alive in Beirut, as I have been trying to stay alive <BR>here for 30 years. <BR><BR>I am back on the sea coast when my mobile phone rings. It is an <BR>Israeli woman calling me from the United States, the author of a fine <BR>novel about the Palestinians. "Robert, please take care," she says. "I <BR>am so, so sorry about what is being done to the Lebanese. It is <BR>unforgivable. I pray for the Lebanese people, and the Palestinians, <BR>and the Israelis." I thank her for her thoughtfulness and the <BR>graceful, generous way she condemned this slaughter. <BR><BR>Then, on my balcony - a glance to check the location of the Israeli <BR>gunboat far out in the sea-smog - I find older clippings. This is from <BR>an English paper in 1840, when Beirut was a great Ottoman city. <BR>"Beyrouth" was the dateline. "Anarchy is now the order of the day, our <BR>properties and personal safety are endangered, no satisfaction can be <BR>obtained, and crimes are committed
with impunity. Several Europeans <BR>have quitted their houses and suspended their affairs, in order to <BR>find protection in more peaceable countries." <BR><BR>On my dining-room wall, I remember, there is a hand-painted lithograph <BR>of French troops arriving in Beirut in 1842 to protect the Christian <BR>Maronites from the Druze. They are camping in the Jardin des Pins, <BR>which will later become the site of the French embassy where, only a <BR>few hours ago, I saw French men and women registering for their <BR>evacuation. And outside the window, I hear again the whisper of <BR>Israeli jets, hidden behind the smoke that now drifts 20 miles out to <BR>sea. <BR><BR>Fairouz, the most popular of Lebanese singers, was to have performed <BR>at this year's Baalbek festival, cancelled now like all Lebanon's <BR>festivals of music, dance, theatre and painting. One of her most <BR>popular songs is dedicated to her native city: <BR><BR>To Beirut - peace to Beirut with all my
heart <BR><BR>And kisses - to the sea and clouds, <BR><BR>To the rock of a city that looks like an old sailor's face. <BR><BR>From the soul of her people she makes wine, <BR><BR>From their sweat, she makes bread and jasmine. <BR><BR></FONT></P></DIV></DD></div></body></html>