Features
A Love Letter to Beirut
ast summer, we spent two weeks visiting Lebanon and Jordan. We found Beirut to be a rollicking series of intensely human encounters with scores of engaging, helpful, delightful strangers that we met in the streets and in the souks. Jordan's capital city, Amman, was a blistering hot ramble of crowded streets, storied ruins and high-rise office towers—towers that some locals resent. As our Jordanian friend, Ayman, put it: "This is not our culture. You can't know everyone in your building if it is more than four stories tall."
Our base in Beirut was the West House, a multi-storied hotel on a hill in the Hamra District. The West House was located about two miles west of the massive August 4 explosion that destroyed the city's major port and blocks of surrounding buildings. The hotel was within the blast zone of an explosion that has been estimated to have released 10 percent of the destructive power of the atomic bomb that destroyed the Japanese city of Hiroshima.
Staring at the horrific images of the blast's aftermath—the remains of shattered buildings and bloodied residents working to save neighbors buried in the rubble—triggers a strange form of angst.
Looking at these images of familiar streets and buildings shredded by the force of the detonation was like seeing a photograph of a dear friend who had been beaten and left to die at the side of the road.
But it also brought back memories of a beautiful city and the many marvelous people we had the pleasure to meet.
At Home in Hamra
It was a short walk downhill from the West House to a sprawling commercial district filled with clothing shops, electronic stores, and restaurants. Snappily dressed mannequins dressed in elegant dinner jackets and ties stood watch on the sidewalks outside clothing stores. But only the mannequins were wearing these over-the-top duds: no one in the hot streets showed any interest in wearing burgundy-colored evening jackets, let alone bow-ties. Every now and then, we came across mannequins that were designed to resemble comically overweight men. The sight was good for a laugh.
In one storefront, we found some young men earnestly making sugary drinks on-the-spot. Cars and small trucks would pull up and unload long clumps of sugar cane. The stalks would be hoisted and thrust into a massive metal press at the front of the shop. The crushed cane released a steady supply of cane syrup and the sweet elixir was then poured into cups filled with ice and handed out to appreciative customers.
Multilingualism: A Tool for a More Peaceful World
The folks we met on the streets of Lebanon were wonderfully engaging people—from students and clerks to cabbies and cooks and lots of adorable children.
For us, a good part of the magic of Beirut was the discovery that nearly everyone we met was fluent in English and French in addition to Arabic. In Lebanon, we were told, school children learn to speak at least three languages—Arabic, English, and French (a colonial legacy). And they have the option of choosing a fourth language (most often Spanish or Italian).
As a result, Beirut is a cosmopolitan, multilingual, international city whose residents are exceptionally engaging and helpful. The people we encountered in the parks and on the street all stopped to chat and offer help when needed. Unlike the US, Beirut's residents weren't stumbling around in a daze, gazing at their "smart" devices. Instead, hey were looking about with smiles and eager eyes, paying attention to one another and the world around them.
Even the young folk at the checkout counters spoke "ear-perfect English." They sounded just like US kids—but really smart kids who understood international money exchanges, knew where San Francisco was located, and were ready to talk about local and world politics.
Everyone went out of their way to chat and help us navigate our way through their city. Business-owners, passersby, and even armed soldiers, all found the time to stop and chat with us, to share opinions, and swap jokes.
When we had asked a question of that one local shopkeeper could not answer, he called across the street to a neighboring storeowner who came to our assistance. When he learned we were from the US, his face brightened and he told us how, as a young man, he had served as a sailor on a commercial ship that visited US ports from Virginia to the Gulf. He still had a special love for New Orleans where he learned how to "dance like an American." And then, right there in the store, he began to high-step and move his hips to a long-remembered tune.
The experience left me thinking that, as lovely as the Bay Area may be, it would be even greater if we were all as congenial and multilingual as Beirut.
Beirut's Drivers
In Beirut, no one seems to be rushing off to some "important" meeting or scurrying off in a mad rush to catch a bus. For one thing, there aren't any buses—only taxis, lots of cars and almost as many motorbikes.
As we prepare for a road trip, Wisam, our local driver, shows us a photo of the youngest of his two daughters and explains how he and his wife share the child-raising duties. His wife has her own business, selling clothing online.
He jokes about "Beirut drivers" and it's true: the traffic is chaotic, with cars continually competing for space and missing collisions and scraps by mere inches—while people on motorbikes zip in and out, adding to the chaos and unpredictability.
At large intersections, 15 or more cars will arrive at the same time from all directions, pushing ahead, jostling for position, jumping in front of one another. There are few stoplights. The beeping of horns is constant but there's no road-rage. The competition seems jocular, business-like, and almost collegial.
At one point, as we're racing down Highway 51, a main boulevard out of town (that runs past the doomed City Port), in a crowded flood of three-lane traffic, I notice that we are actually barreling down what was supposed to be a two-lane highway. The original lane lines were still vaguely visible but everyone ignored them, as they competed for space.
The Proud Residents of Hamra
A shopkeeper on Souraty Street, who was making a cup of Lebanese espresso when we walked by, invites us in to chat. He says his family has been in Hamra for generations. His grandfather opened the shop and his father ran it before passing it on. The family owns several other stores in the neighborhood. He's proud to be a resident of Hamra, which he refers to proudly, as if it is a separate country.
He brings up the recent past. The Civil Wars of 1958 and 1975; The Israeli attacks in 1982 and 2006. With personal experience that we can only image, he proclaims war to be a terrible thing. "People don't make war," he says, "it's countries that make war. People can get along. We don't need war. Why can't we live together as people? People are more important than war."
"Countries declare war and people are ordered to fight and die," he continued, "but why do countries declare war? Because of a small number of powerful people are competing to control resources and expand their power. The rest of the people only suffer. War does not make the common man rich or bring new liberties and freedom."
He lifts his hands and pretends he's holding a large book. "Who is good?" he asked rhetorically. "A King? No!" He turns an invisible page. "Trump? No!" He turns another invisible page. "The people? YES!" He looks up triumphantly and slams his invisible book shut. Case closed.
Rooted in Beirut
On one morning stroll, a family of shopkeepers invited us in for a half-hour of chatter about travel and trinkets. And they didn't ask us to purchase a single item. Conversation seemed more important than commercialism.
Further on, we spotted a silver-haired gentleman sitting in a chair next to a small but thriving garden in front of a seafront restaurant called Le Posiedon on the Minet al Hosn. When we asked about the garden, he asked us to join him and offered a 15-minute tour, inviting us in to touch, smell and sample his tomatoes, oleander, and peppers, even offering a sniff of some pinched leaves and a taste or two. It turned out that he was the owner of the establishment, one of the most popular seafood restaurants in Beirut.
Walking along Beirut's version of the Embarcadero, we leaned over the cement sea wall facing the Mediterranean Sea and shouted down to a fisherman, asking how many fish he'd caught. He held up a single finger. When we returned two hours later, we noticed he was still there. When we again asked how many fish he had caught. He grinned and held up ten fingers.
As we walked by the Saint George Yacht Club, a large bus pulled up and 50-plus men emerged. My travel companion (a sociologist) looked them over and announced that they were most likely from Nepal. We caught the eye of the driver, who turned out to be from Tyre and, when asked about his passengers, he replied that they were part of a United Nations delegation—from Nepal.
Score another win for the sociologist.
Falafels and the Warriors
After walking back to the Hamra District, it was time to search for a falafel joint. Several people recommended a place called Barbars but everyone's directions seemed to lead in different directions. More often than not, when a local resident advised walking two blocks and turning left, they made the gesture for a right turn. At the end of our third dead-end, we discovered a restaurant screening the Women's Soccer World Cup games. But, alas, no falafels.
A block further on, our luck changed. We found a sidewalk restaurant that offered a half-dozen cookie-sized falafels to-go. We sat down at a table waiting for our order and found ourselves in front of a large TV screen live-casting the final four minutes of a Raptors/Warriors game with the score nearly tied and the Raptors holding a 1-point lead.
(Note: One distinct feature of the Beirut dinning experience involved watching the servers not only bringing food and drinks to the tables but also offering hookahs for the customers to enjoy between bites. The first night we experienced this sight, there were more women than men sucking on their favorite flavored vapors.)
A Day in Prehistoric Grotto
One morning, we set off on a road trip that began with a long drive to the Nahr al-Kalb Valley in the western flanks of the Lebanon mountains to visit one of the New Seven Wonders of Nature.
After taking a gondola-ride from a staging area, we found ourselves descending down a long tunnel to explore the Jeito Grotto. The Grotto exists thanks to a "disappearing stream" found on the top the mountain. Over millions of years, the rain that filled the stream continued to vanish into the mountain, working its way deep through the volcanic and sedimentary rock to create a spectacle resembling an underground cathedral of stone.
After exploring the Upper Cave for an hour, we moved on to the Lower Cave where we found ourselves floating on a raft, paddling through a vast, hidden underground lake inside calcite chambers filled with gigantic limestone stalactites illuminated by beams of light.
Photographs were not permitted but I did find this video:
A Baker in Byblos
After emerging from the grotto, we moved on to visit one of the world's oldest human settlements—the coastal city of Byblos, a UNESCO World Heritage Site that is believed to have been continuously occupied since 8800 BC.
While in Byblos, we found ourselves walking down a stone pathway surrounded by a variety of shops when a woman at a storefront bakery called out: "Do you want to see my oven?" The invitation was irresistible.
The baker's name was Rim El Barj and, as she explained, she lived atop a nearby mountaintop with a household of cats. We wound up talking with Rim for an hour, sharing stories about friends, family, and adventures. She felt like family. Although she'd never visited the US, Rim knew all about California and confessed she had once considered buying property in Grass Valley.
Mutual Problem-solving, Beirut Style
On our third day in Beirut, my laptop died and I found I couldn't recharge it.
That evening, we dropped by Bits & Bytes, a local Internet Café-cum-videogaming room. While the other habitués were busy firing imaginary weapons at exploding avatars, we caught up with our email. But, without the means to recharge my laptop, it looked like I'd be offline for the next two weeks. When I asked the owner if he knew of any nearby stores that might offer a repair, he invited me to bring my computer in and he promised to personally check it out.
I was back in 20 minutes and, after some initial fiddling, the screen lit up. He announced that the problem wasn't with the battery or the charger but with the adaptor. "Made in China," he explained. "These things basically work twice and that's it."
The odds of getting a new converter seemed dim, but walking down Sidoni Street the next day, I spotted a shop with some electronic goods on display. The owner wasn't able to help but he recommended a fellow shopkeeper further up the street. Along the way, trying not to get lost, a student walking in the same direction offered to escort us to the shop.
It didn't look too promising (the shelves were filled with boxes of videogames) but the owner looked at my adaptor, asked about the voltage, and set about digging into two drawers of electronic goods. After trying and failing several times to find a working combination, he came back with, not one but two adaptors coupled together. We plugged the laptop charger in, popped the combo into a wall socket and, voila, the laptop started charging.
The "Purse Bread" Incident
Later in the day, we found ourselves chatting with a taxi driver as we bounced across town to a neighborhood museum. (Formerly the family home of a prosperous Lebanese businessman, the mansion—along with its trove of unique paintings—had been bequeathed to the city as a public art space.) Along the way, we asked the driver about a special kind of bread we had discovered the previous day during a stop at a bakery chain called Abu Arab's. Because the large pretzel-like loaf featured what looked like a large handle, we called it "purse bread."
The driver was perplexed by our attempts to describe this "purse bread." So what did he do? Something I would never expect to see in any other city on Earth. Spotting a couple of young pedestrians on the sidewalk, he pulled over to the side of the narrow street and called out to them: "Do you speak English?" They did. So I sketched a quick drawing of the bread on a scrap of paper and handed it over. They smiled and told us the bread was called Kahky.
The Anguish of Loss
Watching the footage of Beirut's burning port, the up-ended cars, and the rubble-strewn streets is painful to confront. The spiraling death count and reports of thousands of casualties falls especially hard on the heart.
When a blast leaves hundreds dead and missing—and more than 5,000 wounded and 300,000 homeless—such high numbers mean there's a good chance that we personally met and briefly got to know some of the people who are now among the blast's victims, both living and dead.
So far, the only residents of Beirut that we have been able to contact report they are safe but in shock. Wisam tells us that the situation is desperate, with people sleeping on the sidewalks.
Here are a few places that are accepting donations to provide aide for the people of Beirut.
The Lebanese Red Cross is an independent organization focused on disaster prevention and relief. It is the main provider of ambulances in Lebanon, and relies on volunteers. Its services are provided for free to those who need them.
Lebanese Food Bank. The blast destroyed grain silos that contained around 85% of the country’s grain supply. Up to 80% of the country’s food is imported, most of it via the port destroyed by the explosion.
Beit el Baraka runs a free supermarket, as well as providing medical costs and housing for people in need. Following the explosion, it is also working to repair damaged homes.
CARE International began working in Lebanon in 2006, to help meet the needs of refugees affected by the conflict in Syria.
International Rescue Committee
