An Expat’s Tour in Lebanon: Pages from my Journal
By: Nadine Ghaith
Tags: Travel, Lebanon, Diary, Beirut, Winter

First Impressions

The afternoon sun setting somewhere over the Mediterranean cast long orange shadows across the plane’s ceiling. I was heading to Beirut with all the chills that the name incited at the end of 2020. Beirut, which was newly refreshed in the collective world’s memory as that city that blew up over the summer, sat crumbling under the dense December clouds below. And then finally, the plane descended from orange limbo into darkness.

When you leave Beirut Airport a cloud of smoke slams into you from the crowd of taxi drivers and idlers that loiter at the entrance. In Lebanon, the streets and the sky are ash. The taste of cigarettes lingers in the air, in coffee cups and from every street corner. Smoking is a national sport championed by pessimists. But I was back. And the buildings that blurred into one another as we drove into the dusk were my buildings. The windows and the laundry lines were mine, the parked cars and the shameless billboards were mine and all the street lamps that were born and that remain extinguished all through the night were my street lamps.

As I bounced from hotel to hotel, over the next two weeks, I would notice that the once grand lobbies are lackluster. The carpets are worn, and the furniture is old fashioned. There’s the occasional event to bring together the forgetful and the affluent — especially around the holidays — but the hotels are mostly quiet. It’s strange to witness these cruel contrasts of wealth when there are so many that have surrendered their life’s fortunes to the corrupt machine that rules still, unabashed. We exchanged piles of monopoly money at the check-in. Millions of liras that would not fit into my purse. I make a stale joke about how only drug lords carried so much paper. I almost can’t believe how much the currency has depreciated.

The view from my first hotel room overlooks a grey Mediterranean and skies that are heavy with the promise of rain. The room is stuffy, smells faintly of cigarettes and there is no hot water. I call reception and minutes later a technician switches it on. This is a five-star hotel.

Brace for Impact

The next morning, I was nervous to make the drive to downtown Beirut. I was about to pass by the site of the August explosion for the first time in the full light of day. The highway was crowded with cars going on about their daily routines. It almost felt like nothing had changed. People still drive their cars, get stuck in traffic and smoke their cigarettes, but the faces are a little more worn and a little more quiet. Beyond the rain-stained windows, I studied them for clues. I’m asking myself how are you here and what is it like?

I never actually get out of the car but there it is. What’s left of Beirut’s port lays crumbling and mangled. As I drive by, it’s a few eternal seconds before the view disappears into the heart of downtown. Over the next two weeks, the destruction of the port will flash at me many times as I make my way in and out of the city, but I never once get out of the car. From my window, I can see the iconic white pillars of the wheat silos half blown away but still standing. Somehow, they appear as a white shield that absorbed most of the impact, protecting the city from further destruction. I remember walking up close to the silos once, years ago, standing at the foot of that imposing structure and looking up at the smooth white pillars. I had been granted special access to the port for a story I was covering at the time. There were pigeons picking at the scattered grain then, and I was wondering where all the rats were. I could never have imagined that in a few years almost all of it would disappear.

Back on the seaside highway and overlooking the destruction is the Emigrant’s Statue. It’s a man in traditional attire, carrying a load on his back and looking toward the distant sea. The Emigrant had stood defiant for years, forever bearing the burden of millions of Lebanese who had by will or by force left the country over more than a century of unrest. How many times had I given him a nod as I drove by? Solemn he still stood and alone in the face of the blast, his back to the city, projecting his will to continue and almost expecting that something better will emerge from beyond the sea. It is a display of hope though vague and frail.

It had been months since the explosion and the nearby buildings had been patched up. Some wore plastic sheets for windows, others were decked with signs declaring which nonprofit was supporting their renovation. Many iconic fronts are distorted, the doors and arches whose details I had memorized when I once lived in the city were gone. I wonder about the lives of the people that used to light up those windows at night. Did they make it, were they hurt?

In other pockets of the neighborhoods closest to the port, some had given up. The debris and the destruction rest in piles on street corners and in parking lots. Rusted metal, rubble and damaged cars lay abandoned indefinitely. But the bars were open and a midday whiskey is the drink of the unoccupied. It was Wednesday and as I sat in a quiet bar in Gemmayzeh watching the barman’s friends shuffle in and out with free drinks and hugs, it seemed that everyone was either an eternal student or pseudo-employed. I had been here many times in the past, and though I thought the walls still protected my many memories within them, I did not recognize myself in this place and it did not recognize me. It is bittersweet to absorb the void that exits today between me and those days. I had become a different person and I had moved on.

Children in the Streets

There are few parks in the city and what little green patches appear will surprise you and feel out of place. Beirut finds the oddest nooks to color with pockets of green. In the early days of my return, I saw children tumble in the grass at a highway roundabout in Bourj Hammoud, the city’s Armenian suburb. Unconcerned with the cars whizzing by, the children were happy and their backflips were impressive. At the same roundabout the next day, a group of immigrant women were taking selfies. I was struck by the simple pleasures of these people who appeared to be laughing in the face of adversity. I was struck that amidst a noisy highway that outlined Beirut’s slum belt, there could be such unhindered pleasures. Beirut is truly a city of contradictions.

During my time in Lebanon, I would encounter many children in the streets. In the fish Market in the northern town of Abdeh a few days later, a small child carried dead fish in his palms while vendors and customers went about their business. The little boy carried the smallest dead fish into his father’s old sedan. One by one he carried them with so much care and piled them into the backseat of the car. The shop owner watched him in his feat and said nothing. The child was happy and carefree and dirty. Not far away, boys not much older were selling boxes of tissue paper. They were strategically stationed outside the busiest shops, especially the region’s famous pastry shops which attracted strangers uncuffed from the region’s poverty, crisp in their freedom and knowledge that they were just passing through and that they came from places far removed from the depression of these parts.

The day after Christmas, I would see children fleeing a burning camp. A Syrian family had just emerged from the ruins of their makeshift home in what looked like a parking lot, planted with tents where 70 families had slept. They were carrying mattresses and blankets on their backs. The site had been set on fire by locals following a dispute and the families were left destitute in the wake of the destruction.

The Beautiful Places

A traditional old house stands all alone by the sea bearing the wind for centuries and overlooking the ancient Phoenician city. There are many contrasts in Lebanon, but not many as striking as the clash of ancient and modern laying side by side. Entering the enclave of Jbeil’s ancient city is like stepping out of a time machine. The silence of the ruins prevails over even the noise of the nearby highway that stretches across all of Lebanon’s coast. For the thousands who lived and died in this place, the urbanization that has built up just beyond its walls is as unimaginable as this forgotten place is today to the occasional visitors who still come by. The world had changed a thousand times since this place was built over 9 millenniums ago and in 2020, it felt like it had changed a thousand more times.

On the morning of my birthday, I had breakfast under the stone arches of an old palace in Beitiddine. I shared a simple tray of staples with a cross-eyed cat that had waltzed into the room and waited patiently by my chair for cheese. The large dining room was beautifully simple and empty except for one more customer. An old man with a bent back and a spirit that effused honest generosity was minding the place. A man of his age should not have been waiting tables. Outside there is an old swimming pool, its blue tiles chipped, and stone paths that overlooked a forest of pines. Two women sold soap in a kiosk on the premises and I buy some because I desperately want to take something of this place with me.

Lebanon’s wineries are all beautiful and far removed from the denseness of the country’s chaos. There are barrels and bottles neatly tucked into basements and attics, sandwiching onsite restaurants where you could pair a meal with the house wine. In the abundance and ease of the place, it’s almost too easy to forget that these same wines are sought out all over the world.

In the final days of my visit, I was on the hunt for snow, but the thin patches of cream I found could do very little to cover the Faraya mountains. Scattered and melting, it was evident that all of December could not deliver enough snow and on the first day of the year, the burden rested with January.

Final Impressions

In my time in Lebanon, I saw people gather by a lake because a man had drowned himself. I saw a roof on fire and spectators slow down in traffic to watch from across the highway. In Lebanon I patiently waited for electricity cuts to resolve themselves and savored every bite of every home cooked meal while I was showered with so much love from family that I rarely see. In Lebanon I saw prices that vacillated like stock markets and beautiful young women who could not afford a fraction of the items in the mall shops where they worked. I wondered about their lives and their mothers and how things could have been different for them. In Lebanon I saw ordinary people come together for the holidays while the day’s grim news carelessly played in the background. I saw endless glasses of wine raised while others could not afford their bread.

In Lebanon I saw last year’s Christmas lights make a shy display and new years’ wishes that were laden with the hope for better days. I saw fortune tellers and magicians speculate over politics, healthcare and the economy and politicians who had nothing to say at all. In Lebanon there are billionaire politicians whose images rose on large billboards casting a shadow over the poorest neighborhoods and martyrs by the dozen that flailed on smaller banners in the distance.

I flew back to Dubai on the second day of the new year, not quite sure when I would ever return. My mind was buzzing with bittersweet memories, a lot of guilt but also a sigh of relief. I had survived the chaos of Lebanon one more time when for so many others leaving was not even an option.