Letter From Beirut

For Lebanese, an exodus of foreigners and a familiar unease.

By Kristen Gillespie

BEIRUT—Hours after Israeli airstrikes woke Beirut’s citizens early on July 13, tens of thousands of Arabs from the Persian Gulf who summer in Lebanon began to pack their bags. Arab solidarity only goes so far, when each explosion pummeling the southern areas of the capital reverberates throughout the city. By the next day, the Lebanese border officially had a crisis on its hands.

It seemed that anyone with a non-Lebanese passport was clamoring to get out. Within 48 hours, 15,000 cars registered to owners in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, Dubai, and elsewhere in the Persian Gulf and beyond had cleared the border.

Some of the sport-utility vehicles packed with multiple wives, children, maids, and nannies—and what looked like everything but the kitchen sink strapped to the roof—flooded the opposite side of the border town’s narrow road in their haste, partially blocking the area for the very few looking to go in the other direction.

Formerly jammed for the high season with tourists, Beirut stood deserted. The few cars on the streets sped along furiously. Shops were shuttered. Central Beirut and the carnival-like Corniche boardwalk looked like a summer resort town in the dead of winter.

The new Lebanon, one that has struggled with car bombs and assassinations of yet uncertain origin, still managed to attract $50 billion of foreign investment in the years since the civil war ended in 1989. With the Israeli military promising its citizens to stay away from a quagmire in Lebanon, many Lebanese looked ahead and not back. Lebanon was rebuilt on a promise, an idea that stability had returned after Israel withdrew from the south in 2000 and Syria withdrew last year.

But the promise has been violated, and billions of dollars in foreign investment and real estate are at stake. A country that pinned its economy on tourism and the service sector watched it all disappear virtually overnight.

Accepting the futility of war should not be confused with approving of Hezbollah. A text message petition being passed around by mobile phone read, “We can no longer accept and allow Hassan Nasrallah to steer our destiny and cause our economy to collapse. Hezbollah should disarm now!” Privately, much disdain was heaped on Nasrallah and his unilateral decision to go around the Lebanese state and declare war; in public, many Lebanese tried to present a united front. If nothing else, the Lebanese are now united against Israel.

A reporter’s visit to the vacant Hariri International Airport on the southern outskirts of Beirut required a foray into Hezbollah territory. This meant, among other things, an increased frequency of scooters zipping around, carrying the Party of God’s junior footsoldiers, who are often no more than local hooligans on the party payroll. Two of them stopped in front of a small cluster of reporters, demanding to know who they were. Eventually the two sped away, only after examining the paltry contents of the car and trunk with no invitation. The airport’s fuel tanks still burned in the background, having been bombed more than a day before. The flames jumped from the gigantic, rusty barrel, and the black smoke rose uninterrupted for hours on end. Some people hopped out of their vehicles to snap pictures of the fire with mobile phone cameras.

As the Israeli bombardments dragged on day after day, you could almost see people shifting into a resigned but resolute stoicism inculcated after years of war. Beirutis often told the foreigners who hadn’t evacuated to “stay safe.” When told the same, shopkeepers and bartenders would offer a tight, grim smile and say, “We’re used to it.” On the average block, one shop might be open for business. Not only were few customers out and about, but the power plant had also taken a hit, and electricity remained sporadic. It was not uncommon to find people sitting silently in their dark shops, watching Arabic satellite channels report the latest Israeli hits in real time with the power cut and the dense humidity hanging in stagnant air.

At an Italian restaurant in West Beirut on a recent evening, a particularly loud explosion ground all activity to a halt. In the brief moment of silence that ensued, a lone diner shouted: “Yella, shabab”&emdash;”Go on, guys.” We can take it, he seemed to say. And after some applause, the evening continued, with the outside world temporarily left behind.

 
Kristen Gillespie, a graduate of the Graduate School of Journalism at Columbia University, is a journalist based in Amman, Jordan.

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