[LCM Articles] "Why I'm not Evacuating Beirut"

[Loai Naamani]

Staying On
Why I'm not evacuating Beirut
By Faerlie Wilson
Updated Friday, July 21, 2006, at 2:36 PM ET 
 
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-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-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
been 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. 
 
 <mailto:faerlie at aol.com> Faerlie Wilson is an editorial assistant at
<http://executive-magazine.com/> Executive magazine in Beirut, Lebanon.
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