Beirut Diaries - Preamble
I was in Beirut to witness the dying seconds of two thousand
and eleven. Beirut could not have been more alive that night. The irony of
celebrating an end, so palpable in retrospect, yet on New Year’s Eve we focused
on new beginnings instead.
Beirut bustled. It swelled up across tiny rooftops and
narrow streets. The people were ecstatic, eager to kiss another year goodbye,
eager to start a fresh, eager to party.
My friend and I tried to assimilate the song and dance and
drinks and fireworks, but struggled. We had not slept in two days.
Al-Maza Beer, an abundance of gorgeous people, and the
Mediterranean Sea breeze set the mood apart from what usually goes on in
Lahore. We were quick to embrace the ‘disconnect’ from Pakistan and the thought
of home evoked only a pale memory.
Beside me in the madness should have been a Lebanese blonde
of trim body and exceptional features. But we seldom get what we want; life
generally meanders ahead as we pursue to appease our dissatisfied selves. So
dissatisfied me had Murad – a hairy young man of same age; same education; same
country; similar acumen; and similar predispositions.
Murad and I can also occupy the ‘same space’ and not talk
for hours. Conversely, we can utter unending gibberish. Happens when you’ve
know someone for over a decade and are far too familiar to find even a hint of
new in the relationship to create excitement, especially when you’re not
constantly reinventing yourself. It’s a strange kind of symbiosis, ours. One
you’re likely to understand best if you ever witness it.
On the trip, Murad reminded me of how I’ll have to return to
Lahore someday so I kept my back to him and he did the same. This rule did not
apply during unforeseeable disasters, like the time we missed our flight to
Beirut and were stranded at the Doha airport.
Murad and I joined heads on a handful of rules and followed
none apart from a no camera policy. We also joined heads on where to stay, what
to eat, where to party and what to see. Other than that we were like two
parallel lines on a blank page – cognizant of each another, maintaining equal
distance and converging only on the idea of running side-by-side.
As much as I would hate to flatter Murad, I will admit to one
thing – I could not have wished for a better travel companion. Murad can
exercise immense patience, until he’s dragged to explore a cave. In Beirut,
after a great deal of persuasion, Murad agreed to explore a cave with me called
Jeita Grotto. Murad faked physical trauma and fatigue but ultimately
accompanied me with a frown. That was the only time I felt like he was going to
strangle me with his bare hands. Otherwise, Murad was pleasant – up for
anything, anytime, anywhere.
When we returned from Beirut we were bombarded with the,
‘how was it, tell me all’ sentiment. While Murad continues to torture his
friends with anti-climatic incidents, half-baked stories and incomplete
anecdotes, I thought I should share some relief with a word or two about our
time in Beirut.
Unfortunately, you’ll never know the complete picture because
Murad remains mute about his many mentionable and some unmentionable endeavors.
But the spiciest of slices often leave an indelible imprint, which I will
elaborate on in these diaries.
Before you begin though, a few disclaimers. I hope these
will protect me as I manage bloated expectation on the quality and content of
this diary.
I’ll explain.
These notes have been in the making for several months and
some people suffer from the illusion that they are, or at least should be,
exceptionally well-written. That, however, is not the case – far from it.
Other disclaimers: Beirut was not a life changing
experience; Murad and I did not fall in love; there were no accidents; not a
trace of the civil war; no heroics; no natural disasters; no crime; no
miracles; no fist fights; no injuries; no hot pursuits; no adventure sport; no
deaths; no births; nothing outlandish in any sense of the word.
So if you’re searching for sensation or suspense, this may
not be the best story. In fact, it’s not a story to begin with; more like
sketches of an experience; word pictures of a city steeped in an eclectic mix
of antiquated and sometimes diametrically opposing cultures. I’m referring to
seventeen distinct religions, in pockets, divided across a tiny patch of land
hardly six kilometers in width and a tad bit longer in length.
For a country so tiny, Lebanon has seen more than its share
of bloodshed and war. Lebanon has suffered fifteen long years of death,
destruction and socio-political unrest. When I talked to a few people about it,
I soon realized how a cursory glance at their past or a chapter in Lonely
Planet was not enough to understand the dynamics of Lebanese politics or the
manner in which the Lebanese people conduct themselves internally, amidst
diverse ethnicities, or externally with its surreptitious neighbors – each
wielding a certain power on the tiny state for its own vested interest.
Some things are best understood in quiet retrospection.
Lebanese politics is one such thing and by ‘quiet’ I am referring to long
flights, morning commode time, long walks with your dog and so on.
Anyway, after some solitary thought I realized how Beirut
really was the ‘Middle’ in the Middle East. On the world map, tiny Lebanon is
surrounded by Israel, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Turkey, Jordan and the
Mediterranean; that means there’s enormous potential for foreign influence.
Within the country itself, since tourism has picked up again, we interacted
with almost every imaginable nationality. The day twenty American
undergraduates joined us at the hostel, Beirut began to feel like a huge
melting pot of varying colors, languages and cultures.
We were at the center of all mankind – the point that gave
birth to man before similar looking and like minded people formed nationalities
and poured out of an ancient well and sprawled in unequal measure across vast
stretches of barren, untouched, pristine terrain.
Only to further substantiate my uneducated claim, some of
the oldest inhabited cities of the world are in this region – Jerusalem,
Damascus, Byblos and Aleppo – all in very close proximity. I had the privilege
of seeing one; plenty more about that later.
Anyway, contrary to what I said earlier, in this very short
span of time, Murad has revised his stance on storytelling. He says he’s found
the memory he had allegedly lost so his voice will surface in this narrative
and hopefully propose an essential counter narrative to my limited
understanding on what really happened in Beirut.
I must forewarn you though: Murad is a master tantalizer; a
virtuoso in the art of the ‘titillating tease’. He will whet your appetite,
lure you into wanting more, and bring you to the edge of your seat. But he will
not finish the deal. Murad will most likely share the arms and legs of his
story and not reveal the full body of his emotion through his words. For that
you will have to broker a monetary deal with him. Perhaps a cent for every word
spoken and cent back for every word unspoken. Between my verbosity and Murad’s
stinginess though, I hope we’re able to craft an accurate reflection of what
our trip was like.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home