War Diary: Lebanon 2006

On July 12, 2006, I was standing on the balcony of my little house in Sinay, my village in South Lebanon, when the bombing started. It came from deep inland, and we could tell it was air raids and field artillery. Suddenly, Israeli fighter jets swarmed the morning skies. The neighbors brought the news: The Resistance had attacked an Israeli patrol near Ayta al Sha`eb, and it had taken two prisoners to swap for the Lebanese prisoners held in Israeli jails. Israel was in mad furor and was randomly bombing the South. Kids were distributing sweets at the crossroads to celebrate the success of the Resistance, but many people sounded worried, and the bombing was getting closer to my village. Around 2 p.m., we heard that the South had been the target of more than a hundred air strikes. I decided to go back to Beirut.

Very few people were on the road. I drove very fast, and it took me just over 15 minutes to get to the Zahrani overpass. A friend called to inquire about me. I answered that I was nearing Saida. At this moment, there was a huge explosion, and my car swerved from the force of the shock waves. Volutes of smoke billowed behind me.

Back home in Beirut, I watched the news on TV: Tens of villages had been hit, and thousands of people were leaving their homes to seek refuge in Saida or in Beirut. This is how I learned that I had narrowly escaped the air raids. Many people had died, people who, like me, were running away to the safety of the city.

The 33-day Israeli war on Lebanon had begun. I didn't know it was going to change my life.

The next day, I started this diary, which I kept on an almost daily basis. I sent parts of what I wrote to friends abroad and kept some entries for me. I did not write much about everyday news, as these events were covered by hundreds of reporters and beamed in real time all over the world. I wrote about my daily life and my personal reflections, my frustrations, my powerlessness, my anger, and my hopes. This journal evolved later into the Land and People blog.

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July 13, 2006

I got into a fight over the phone with a friend, a rich woman from the Beirut suburb of Ashrafieh. She called yesterday evening to ask about me, as she knows I spend a lot of time in the South. I told her I had gotten back in extremis. She was very nice and I appreciated that she called. I called back this morning and she launched into a violent attack against the Shi`a and accused them of planning to take over the whole country. She kept shouting and shouting until I flipped and started shouting back. It didn't make me feel better.

There are thousands of displaced people from the South, and I'm looking to be of help. I have called a friend who is active in social-political work and offered my services in case they want to organize a relief operation. I'm waiting for an answer, hoping it will come soon. I'm going to fix my bike (as in bicycle). Then I'll be able to move freely in Beirut and in the country should things deteriorate further, as I expect them to do. My in-laws from Jordan are staying with us and they want to leave as soon as possible, before Lebanon is locked up. I'm trying to send my family with them so that I can be alone and able to move as I wish, but Muna is resisting.

The kids have been at home all day today, as we neither had the heart nor the will to leave: we were mesmerized by the news roll on TV and the pictures that were coming to us: burned cars, destroyed houses, and people. Sad people, angry people, poor people, clutching meager belongings and trying to flee the grips of death.

We're expecting raids on the southern suburbs of Beirut, as the Israelis have threatened, and Bush gave them the green light to "defend themselves" by killing us. That makes me laugh. That makes us all laugh. They do not know that life has no sense unless it is lived with pride, head up. And that we are all dead anyway. Dead the moment we are born. So earlier or later, what difference does it make?

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July 14, 2006

My family is not going to Jordan. I tried to convince them but Muna is adamant on staying. This is rather unfortunate, but Muna is like that: fierce and determined when she knows that right is on her side. I hope she will change her mind. Her sister now lives with us as well as her parents who were visiting. I can't describe the atmosphere at home. Four kids, three nannies, two older people, two anxious women and one angry son-of-a-bitch. Ah yes, and two dogs, one of which keeps pissing in the house.

I went out for an early run with the dogs on the beach this morning. It was eerie. There was no one in the streets. Gigantic smoke columns rose from the southeast, from the airport area and the suburbs. Ramlet el Baida was empty, even from the bums who spend the night there during the summer. There was one lone guy towards the northern end of the beach. He sat by the shore, drinking beer and chain smoking. He mustn't have been more than eighteen. Bella went to get a dose of caressing, and he kindly offered me a beer. I briefly considered sitting by him, smoking and drinking instead of trying so hard to keep a healthy envelope to a rotten soul.

Many people here are anxious about Lebanon and they should be. They are concerned about the time it would take to bring business back after this war ends, when it ends. They are worried about schools that will not open, businesses that will go bust, tourists who will fly away never to come back, and about the collapse of the economy. And they are right to be worried.

These people are like me. They fear losing their comfort, which is associated with the vibrant souk Lebanon has become. They can see their dreams shattered, their happiness threatened, their country dilapidated. Many have only recently returned to Lebanon from a long self-imposed exile brought about by the unending wars. They've really started to like it here, after power cuts disappeared, after running water became available, after bridges and highways were built, after clubs and restaurants opened so they could feel as if they were still in Paris, Rome, London or New York; and after private universities opened so that they could pay their way into "achieving their intellectual potential" and be the first in the long line for the few jobs available.

But there are other people in Lebanon. People who are not comfortable. People who cannot afford private education and have to settle for the free local university, and accept the fact that they will never be able to speak, read, or write English, the language of opportunities. People who have electricity just six hours a day. People who have no running water. People who only enter restaurants through the service door. People who have to tolerate the roughness of clients to keep a job and who have to laugh at their stupid jokes for a two dollar tip. People who do not have cars to drive on the new highways and who go to work in a minivan driven by an abusive man wearing a dirty undershirt. People who have never been to nightspots like Monot, Gemmayzeh and Solidaire, Pierre and Friends, La Voile Bleue, Pangea. People whose sister or daughter leave home sometimes in the evening to return the next day, telling them that she is...