Thanks to Guillermo Quinteros for sending me the following letter from Lebanon written by his friend Lara Jirmanus [
ljirmanus(at)riseup.net]. I am publishing the letter here because it gives a powerful glimpse of lives disrupted and threatened by the military action now unfolding in the Middle East. It takes us from the level of official statements by parties to the conflict to the human level where people live and die in the shadows of power politics.
If you agree that others should have a chance to read this remarkable letter please forward the link to this page to friends and colleagues. We must redouble all our efforts to bring peace to our world.
C. D. Knight
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Hi all
A note at the beginning. I might not write after this since it may be harder to get online. My father has just changed our tickets to fly out of Amman, Jordan on Sunday, if we can get their in time. We hope to leave Lebanon today via the northern road, through Syria. The Israelis have destroyed the Aley-Damascus road and the only way out of the country now remains through the north. They have destroyed 18 bridges at this point, and Israel's chief of staff, Dan Haltuz, says no targets are immune. Israel maintains that it will continue shelling targets in Beirut and there's no guarantee the northern road will be open tomorrow. Although Hizballah threatened to bombed Haifa, they have yet to do so.
My friends in Beirut say there are few cars on the streets today. People are conserving gas; yesterday afternoon lines of cars went around the block at every gas station. Shelves are empty at supermarkets. My cousin Naila watched people fight over loaves of bread. One woman, she says, took every case of soda off the shelf and put it in her shopping cart. Meena is in Dhour el-Shoeir and may leave also through the north. Andrew is at the bus station trying to catch a taxi through Syria. George and Jarrod are planning to go up to George's village in Khoura.
I spoke with my friend Fadi in Bourj el-Barajneh this morning. His film screening this evening is cancelled. I figured, I say, and ask about things in the camp. "We're used to hearing things like this," he says. "It's normal here. People are going about their lives." He advises me to hang tight for a couple days and the whole thing should blow over. Meena says the people at the evangelical center where she is staying in Dhour el-Shoueir are similarly optimistic. People cling to these fragile rules. Israel will not bomb Christians. Israel cannot get away with bombing areas where lots of foreigners are living. Israel will only bomb infrastructure and Hizballah strongholds. Sentiments in the country range widely. Some are defiant, saying, "We're accustomed to bombing. We're not scared of Israel. The Lebanese resistance will protect us." Hizballah is also known as the Lebanese resistance. Shi'ah will typically ally themselves with Hizballah. There are those who ally themselves with the Christian, Sunni and Druze March 14 coalition, who called for Syria to leave Lebanon and pro-Syrian President Emil Lahoud to step down. The coalition has been calling for the disarmament of Hizballah. Yesterday, Prime Minister Fouad Sinioura decried the attacks and called for restraint. Most wait with baited breath, assuring each other that in two days the whole thing will blow over. I encourage you to read more online on the Lebanese English newspaper,
The Daily Star. www.dailystar.com.lb or the
Israeli Ha'aretz. www.haaretz.com. I wrote the following last night before bed.
It's midnight in Rabieh, a northern suburb of Beirut and all is quiet. The lights of merchant ships glow in the Mediterranean, barely a mile away from my cousin's apartment, as the crow flies. The ships are anchored at equal distances from one another along the coast; Israel has imposed an air, land and sea blockade. Occasionally a car drives by. After Israeli forces announced they would shell Dahieh, a southern suburb of Beirut, I decided I would prefer to spend the evening outside of the city. After work, my cousin Naila drove us to her house.
Thursday morning, in Ras-Beirut, the Muslim part of the city which is home to many foreigners, life went on semi-normally. Classes continued at the Lebanese American University and the American University in Beirut. Stores were open and cars passed through, though at about half normal traffic. We spent the day reading the paper and watching the infuriating coverage of the early morning Israeli attacks on CNN. Their bias is unbelievable. "In retaliation for the kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers, Israel bombs Lebanon's airport." Not a single quote from Lebanese Prime Minister Fouad Sinoura decrying the attacks of Hizballah and calling for restraint, as was mentioned in all the morning papers and on all the Arabic networks. No mention of the broad-based March 14 coalition of Christians, Sunni Muslims, and Druze, calling for the disarmament of Hizballah and emphasizing the difference between the actions of Hizballah and the Lebanese state. Until 11AM our time, no mention of Lebanese civilian casualties.
At around 10AM, Jarrod and George call us to come down to Hamra Street. We walk around the corner to Jolie and Athena's apartment. Jolie is African-American and studied at the American University of Beirut. She's been living in Lebanon for five years and vows to return to the US at the end of summer. Athena is Lebanese-Cypriot. Her parents call her once an hour from Cyprus. Tina, a German woman, sits on the couch. She is visibly agitated; her Lebanese friends convinced her (against the advice of her Damascus hotel) to travel to Beirut by taxi the previous night at 8PM. "What does a land, air, and sea blockade mean?" we ponder. "Are they going to bomb the Damascus road as well to block all exits of the country?" Israel claims they are trying to prevent weapons from getting to Hizballah, but they have created a near complete economic blockade of the country. Uri Avery, a well-known political commentator who often writes columns for Ha'aretz, the Israeli newspaper, submitted a column last week explaining that the recent Israeli incursion into Gaza had been planned for months and was merely executed on the pretext of the soldier kidnappings. Nasrullah, the Secretary-General of Hizballah, says the operations to kidnap the Israelis soldiers had been months in the planning. Similarly, the Israeli attacks on Lebanon appear designed with a broader goal in mind, arguably to strengthen support in Lebanon for the disarmament of Hizballah. However, the Israeli attacks on Lebanon can also radicalize moderates and build support for Hizballah.
Israeli Prime Minister Olmert's vows to set Lebanon back 20 years give us all chills. "The country's come such a long way," says George. "The war didn't end that long ago." "I just can't believe that they say they're going to attack the tourist industry," says Athena. "That's the major way that Lebanon makes money." We watch in disbelief at the threats of Israeli officials on CNN. George mentions Olmert's quote from earlier in the day: "If I were a foreign investor in Lebanon, I would pull out now." "They're trying to crush the economy," he says. We sit silently, waiting for the Bush-Merkel joint press conference from Germany to begin.
I pull my phone charger from my purse and search the room for a free outlet. Cell phones are plugged into chargers in every visible outlet. Israel will target electrical grids. Finally I find one in the corner of the dining room. My sister has walked up to LAU to find out the news on Arabic classes. I check my phone for occasional text messages. Jolie comes in from lunch. "Fairouz sang last night, but cancelled tonight. Oh no, I bet that means no Sean Paul," she says. "Oh my God. If he's here already, he's gonna be so pissed," she jokes. Sean Paul was supposed to play in the Baalbek Festival on June 17. Every summer, musicians from all over the world perform on a stage erected on the ruins of the Roman temple in Baalbek. The program this summer promises opera, ballet, the Broadway show, "Stomp!" among other things. Inshallah. God willing. This morning Israeli forces bombed a mosque, electrical grids and other targets in the Bekaa Valley where Baalbek is located.
Wednesday morning seems worlds away. I went as usual to the Bourj el-Barajneh refugee camp in the southern suburbs of Beirut. I greeted my class of 20 six- and seven-year olds: "Sabah el-kheir." Good morning. "Sabah el-nour," they replied in chorus. The rooms are so small and filled with furniture that I can only teach five or six children a movement at a time. Zayneb, who coordinates the summer program, keeps promising the roof should be ready for our classes soon. Arby, who teaches the capoeira actual class in Hamra might be willing to continue a class in Bourj after I leave. Ahmed and Adel, who assist with the summer programs, are interested in the prospect of a capoeira class for adults. Anthony, a Canadian volunteer, arrives. "Sorry, I'm late," he says. "It was difficult getting here with the street celebrations." "Celebrations? I heard about a demonstration." I say. Dima, a Palestianian-Canadian working on an independent media series for Canadian radio had given us a flyer for a sit-in in Martyr's Square on Wednesday in solidarity against the Israeli invasion of Gaza. "Haven't you been watching the news?" said Ahmed. "Hizballah kidnapped two Israeli soldiers and Israel is bombing the south."
Ahmed walks me out of the camp and I catch the number 5 bus to Shatila. The staff is watching the news on Al-Manar, the Hizballah-run network. The television alternates among images of Shi'ites celebrating in the streets of the Beirut's southern suburbs, Israeli troops crossing Lebanon's southern border, and victims of the attacks in Gaza. As the day drew on, a feeling of anxiety grew over the likely retribution Lebanon would face. By the afternoon on Wednesday, Israeli jets had bombed north of Sidon, no more than 20 miles south of Beirut. Typically skirmishes between Hizballah and Israeli forces are confined to the Sheba'a Farms, at Lebanon's southern border with Israel. The Farms are contested territory which has been occupied by Israel since 1967. Israel occupied much of Southern Lebanon until April 2002 when Hizballah forced them out.
"They were firing guns today. Were you scared?" says Hala, with her perpetually smug expression. She is speaking of the gun fire in celebration of the Hizballah kidnappings. "Why should I be scared?" I reply. "They were firing guns all last week for the World Cup." Around 3:30PM, my cellphone rings. I'm surprised; I don't get reception in the clinic. I run to the front door where the signal is strongest. It's my cousin Naila. "Where have you been? Why don't you answer? Your mother's been trying to reach you for hours. Haven't you been watching the news?" I call my mother; she is in Souk el-Gharb, the village on the Beirut-Damascus road where my parents grew up. She insists that I leave Shatila immediately and that she and my father will come to Beirut to take my sister and me up to the mountains. "Last summer, when Hizballah hit Israel, they bombed the camps. I want you out of Shatila now and tell them you're not coming tomorrow." I sigh and assure her I'll leave soon.
I return to the office to talk to Dr. Rami, the dentist. "Were you glad when Italy won?" he asks. "No," I sigh. "But I also wasn't glad when Zidane head butted that Italian player." "He had every right," says Rami. "Do you know what Materratzi called him? An Arab terrorist." I shrug. Rumors have been flying about what exactly Materratzi said to the French star footballer Zinedine Zidane in the final moments of the World Cup Final that prompted Zidane to head butt him. Teams of expert lip readers have been hard at work to unravel the mystery; Zidane claims Materratzi insulted his mother and sister with obscenities.
There's a dull thud in an apartment nearby; is sounds like a large piece of furniture fell on the floor. Hala goes to the bathroom to rinse the coffeepot. I tell Rami my mother is concerned that I shouldn't come to the camps on Thursday, that last time Israel shelled the camps. "No," he says. "They never shell the camps." I'm getting a little antsy. My sister wants me back at the apartment since it's her birthday and we're supposed to get pedicures together. The chatter from the street becomes louder and people are walking back and forth more quickly. "What's going on out there?" says Rami. Hala's been gone for a while. "Oh, there's a patient," says Rami.
I walk to the examination room at the front of the clinic where four men stand; a couple of them carry automatic rifles. In the sick room stands a man, visibly shaken. His left shoulder and right leg are wounded. "I need you to take off your shirt and pants," says Hala. "I'd rather have him look at it," he says, pointing to a man wearing a button-down shirt and dress pants, whom I recognize from Haifa hospital. "I'm the doctor," says Hala.
My phone rings. It's my parents again. I have to walk to the front door to answer it. Two different young men are standing by the door, one with an automatic rifle in hand the other packing a handgun. I'm reluctant to speak near them in my weak Arabic accent. "I can't hear you," my mother says. "I can't talk right now," I say in a loud whisper. "What?" The connection cuts out. I send her a text message and return to the examination room. The patient is lying on the examining table, a curtain drawn around him. There are five of us crowded around the patient: Hala and the doctor from Haifa, a nurse and physician's assistant, and myself. The patient's friends walk in and out of the examination room. They wander over to see what is happening to him. Hala tuts and shakes her head. "There's probably shrapnel inside these wounds. I can't see. You're going to have to go to the hospital to have an X-ray and possibly an operation." She turns to the three young men gathered outside the curtain. "I can't work like this. Please, leave. There are too many people in here." The young men walk out.
Rania, a neighbor's daughter wanders in. She approaches the curtain. The physician's assistant whispers to her to sit with our belongings in the office so nothing is stolen. "Lara," Rania says. "Come! Come with me." I shake my head and turn to watch Hala who is now holding a scalpel blade between her fingers. The patient grimaces and swears under his breath as she cuts away the burnt flesh. "Don't swear at me," says Hala. "I'm doing you a favor." Men walk in and out of the examination room, carrying AK-47s. Hala has given up on kicking them out, and focuses on the stitching. The physician's assistant cleans the wounds and I step aside to give them space. Three young men walk in and stand by the curtain at the back of the examination room. From the opposite corner of the room I look them up and down. They are all in their twenties and wear T-shirts, jeans, and plastic slippers with or without socks. One man has Chinese characters tattooed down his left arm. Arabic script encircles his right bicep. On the back pocket of his jeans is the print of a female silhouette leaning on a capital letter J. It could be a Bond girl, I think.
Hala emerges from behind the curtain. She instructs one of the men standing by the examining table to buy tetanus vaccine from the pharmacy across the street. She takes the patient's information from another and writes a note for the doctors at Haifa hospital. "The other man who was injured when the bombs went off lost his leg," she says. "He went straight to the hospital." We walk back to the office. Rami and Rania are sitting in chairs. "There were two explosions," said Hala. "It's funny, when we heard that thud I didn't think anything of it." I nod. "That was nice work I did," she explains to Rami. "First I cut off the burnt flesh and then sewed up the wound."
I look at the television. Sesame Street is on, in Arabic; the characters look a little different, though some are the same. I wait a minute and say, "My parents are concerned. They said the last time Hizballah attacked Israel that Israel bombed the camps." Both Rami and Hala shake their heads with certainty. "They never hit the camps." "They'll hit Hizballah or Hamas," said Hala. "They hit electricity and water." I stand up to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow, inshallah,." I say. Hala sends Rania to walk me out of Shatila, although I've walked out on my own every day for the past week.
On my way home I buy a watermelon and some petit fours, French cookies, for my sister's birthday. When I arrive home my parents are less nervous than I expect. They agree that it is not impossible to go out to dinner in downtown as we had planned, but also don't want us to stay out too late tonight. Lebanese military are stationed at every major intersection. They can be distinguished from the Lebanese police by the color of their camouflage uniforms. Police wear black and white with red berets and military where dark green camo with black berets. Downtown is fairly empty, with twenty people at some restaurants and none at others. We are joined by my uncle Raja and my cousin Naila and Youssef.
After dinner, Mary and I walk to Club Social in Gemmayze. There is an opening of a new tapas bar. Free food and drink from 8-11PM. Our whole crowd is there: George, Jarrod, Andrew, Nicolien, Jolie, Athena, as well as some students from capoeira class in Hamra. We sing happy birthday to Mary and drink lousy free cocktails.
George introduces us to Mr. Lebanon. He wears a collared shirt, unbuttoned nearly to his navel. His hair is styled in an attractive, just-crawled-out-of-bed style. Mary asks him how he became Mr. Lebanon. He replies, "They voted me. Then I went to the Mr. Universe contest. I didn't win that, but I did get Mr. Photogenic." Mary asks, "2006?." "No, 2005." "Ma'alesh," That's OK, Mary says. Neither of us can think of anything to say to Mr. Lebanon, though later we both agree that we should have asked him what it's like to be "really, really, really, ridiculously good looking."
We dance to the end of the live salsa band's set. "You're awesome," George tells Mary. "You're like, 'Fuck you, Israel. It's my birthday and I'm going out!'" We laugh. Around 1AM the club is almost empty. Usually Social Club is packed until at least 3AM. We share a cab back to Hamra with Mary's Arabic program classmates. My plan is to buy a paper and call Olfat, the director of the Women's Humanitarian Organization before deciding whether to head to Bourj el-Barajneh in the morning. I set my alarm for 8AM and go to sleep.
At 7:45AM I awake. "They bombed the airport. Don't go to work," says my mother's text message. I get up and turn on the news. At 8:15AM I call Olfat's office. "They just bombed Al-Manar in Haret Hrek," she says. "Definitely don't come. Surely no parents will let their children out today. Don't move around much today. Hopefully this will all blow over." Haret Hrek. I walk through Haret Hrek on my way to Bourj el-Barajneh.
It's 2AM on Friday. I'm typing at my computer on Naila's balcony in Rabieh. There is an occasional light breeze on my cousin's balcony. It's pleasant, typing to the chirping of crickets. I've always enjoyed sitting on my cousin's balcony or roof on summer evenings. I hear a bomb explode in the distance. Or was that really a bomb? I can't tell. A week ago, it would have been fireworks at the end of a soccer game. My parents said the night of the finals the mountainside all the way down to Beirut was lit up with fireworks, celebrating the Italian victory.
At 3AM my laptop battery is nearly spent. I resolve to stop when it dies. The sound of planes overhead is undeniable. The breeze feels colder. I shiver and move inside. There is an explosion in the distance; it's undeniable this time. I should sleep, I decide. I can't think clearly enough to write. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My cousin's son Bechara is sleeping peacefully; in his room where my sister and I are staying you can't hear the planes or the bombs. I've left my cell phone somewhere and go into the salon to look for it. There is a silhouette on the balcony. It is Nahia, in her nightdress. Nahia is the widow of my great uncle George. Like my grandparents, he insisted on staying in Souk el-Gharb during the war in Lebanon, even when Israeli forces occupied the hotel above their house. From the hotel they would shell the Druze village below and then advise the residents of Souk el-Gharb over loudspeakers to take cover from the imminent retaliation. One day shelling began while George was driving someone home. He had a heart attack on the road and died. It was only after that my grandparents agreed to leave Lebanon.
"Ya allah," Nahia says. "Haram. The people will all be sleeping in their beds. They're hitting Dahieh." The Israelis announced that they would hit Dahieh this evening and Hizballah said that in retaliation they would hit Haifa. I shake my head. The planes sound close. We walk up to the roof. Dahieh is visible - flames rise and fall. The Israeli planes strike again. We hear bombs explode and the flames glow higher. The lights on the street below go out. "We still remember the war," says Nahia. I shiver again. I wonder whether some of the people I work with in the camps might live in Dahieh. It's not far from the airport. I can't remember in what area Hala's house is located. Her sister Souad took me there last year, and I had no idea where I was, but we weren't far from Beirut. Ground artillery fire back, their missiles glimmer as they take a diagonal path into the haze which still hangs over Beirut. The explosions come three seconds later.
Planes sound still closer. Al-Jazeera says Israelis have hit a bridge near Bourj el-Barajneh. The glowing we see in the distance is a fuel dump which burns all night. Nahia makes coffee for herself and my uncle Raja who is now up. I shut down my laptop and begin to walk downstairs to bed. "I don't think you're going to work today." It's our family's running joke. "Of course not," I say. "On Fridays they go on field trips."
Much love,
Lara
