Friday, June 08, 2012

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.

Also, if or rather when you wish to visit Beirut, I hope your trip is better, in every possible respect, compared to mine.   

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