Day 8 of the Siege - chemical weapons?
[from an acquaintance in Beirut]
I have to confess that writing is becoming increasingly difficult.
Writing, putting words together to make sentences to convey meaning,
like the small gestures and rituals that make-up the commonplace acts
of everyday life, has begun to lose its meaning and its cathartic
power. I am consumed with grief, there is another me trapped inside
me that cries all the time. And crying over the death of someone is a
very particular cry. It has a different sound, a different music and
feels different. I dare not cry out in the open, tears have flowed,
time and time again, but I have repressed the release of pain and
grief. My body feels like a container of tears and grief. I am sure
it shows in the way I walk.
Writing is not pointless per se, but it is not longer an activity
that gives me relief. The world outside this siege seems increasingly
far, as if it had evacuated with the bi-national passport holders and
foreigners.
The past few days have been MURDEROUS in the south and the Beqaa
Valley. The death toll has been increasing in a horrific exponential
envigorated with the White House giving a green light for the
military assault to persist. Beirut has been spared so far, but not
the southern suburbs. Today is Day 12 of the war, the Israeli
military has conducted 3,000 air raids on Lebanon in 12 days. Out of
the total deaths so far, which range close to 400 (numbers are not
definitive), almost 170 are children. The numbers of the displaced
are increasing by the hour. Have you seen the pictures of the deaths?
The mourners in Tyre? Have you seen the coffins lined up? And the
grieving mothers.
It is impossible not to grieve with them, it is impossible to shut
one’s ears to their wailing. It haunts me, it echoes the walls of the
city, it bounces off the concrete of destroyed bridges and buildings.
In trying to explain what drove Mohammad Atta to fly an airplane into
one of the towers of the World Trade Center, someone (I forget whom-
sorry facts-checkers) once said to me that Atta must have felt that
“his scream was bigger than his chest”. That description stayed with
me, I don’t know if I agree with it, or if that’s how Atta felt in
reality, but it comes back to me now because I feel that my grief is
bigger than my chest and I have no idea how to dissipate it.
The Southern Suburbs
I accompanied journalists to Haret Hreyk two days ago. I suspect I am
still shell-shocked from the sight of the destruction. I have never,
ever seen destruction in that fashion. Western journalists kept
talking about a “post-apocalyptic” landscape. The American
journalists were reminded of Ground Zero. There are no gaping holes
in the ground, just an entire neighborhood flattened into rubble.
Mounds, and mounds of smoldering rubble. Blocks of concrete, metal
rods, mixed with furnishings, and the stuff that made up the lives of
residents: photographs, clothes, dishes, CD-roms, computer monitors,
knives and forks, books, notebooks, tapes, alarm clocks. The contents
of hundreds of families stacked amidst smoking rubble. A couple of
buildings had been hit earlier that morning and were still smoking,
buildings were still collapsing slowly.
I was frightened to death and I could hear my own wailing deep, deep
within me.
I stopped in front of one of the buildings that housed clinics and
offices that provide social services, there seemed to be a sea of CD-
Roms and DVDs all over. I picked up one, expecting to find something
that had to do with the Hezbollah propaganda machine (and it is
pretty awesome). The first one read “Sahh el-Nom 1″, the second “Sahh
el-Nom 17″. “Sahh el-Nom” was a very popular sit-com (way, way before
the concept was even identified) produced by Syrian TV in the 1960s.
It was centered on the character of “Ghawwar el-Tosheh”, who has
become a salient figure in popular Arab culture. I smiled mournfully,
at the irony. Around the corner passport photos and film negatives
covered the rubble.
Haret Hreyk was a residential area. The residents, I was told by our
driver who lived a few blocks away, were evacuated by Hezbollah to
other places before the shelling began. Those who refused to leave
then, left after the first round of shelling. Haret Hreyk is eerily
ghostly, there are practically no people left in that neighborhood.
In the two hundred meters radius removed however, life is on-going.
Residents testified that Hezbollah was securing food, electricity and
medicines to all those who stayed.
Haret Hreyk is also where Hezbollah had a number of their offices. Al-
Manar TV station is located in the block that has come to be known as
the “security compound” (or “security square”), the office of their
research and policy studies center, and other institutions attached
the party. It is said that in that heavily inhabited square of
blocks, more than 35 buildings were destroyed entirely.
Hezbollah had organized a visit for journalists that day, as they had
the day before. They provided security cover for the area for the
international media cameras to document the destruction. There was a
spokesperson greeting journalists. A small rotund man, dressed in a
track suit, fancy sunglasses, a two-day old stubble carrying two
state of the art cell phones. He spoke in concise soundbites and was
affable. There was nothing menacing about his demeanor, in fact were
it not for the destruction around him he looked more like he would be
an assistant to Scolari (similar dress code and portend) than part of
the media team of a “terrorist organization”.
The security apparatus of Hezbollah was also impressive, underscoring
the identity of Hezbollah. They were all affable, welcoming, dressed
casually and unarmed. They all held walkie-talkies, and when looming
danger of another Israeli air strike seemed tangible, they all
ushered the group of some 30 (and more) journalists to clear the
area. They issued their warnings calmly and confidently.
One of the buildings was still burning. It had been shelled earlier
that day at dawn. Clouds of smoke were exhaling from amidst the
ravages. The rubble was very warm, as I stepped on concrete and
metal, my feet felt the heat.
Israeli Warfare Mystery
Doctors in hospitals in the south have testified on television that
they a number of bodies that have reached them have an unusual,
unfamiliar skin color. Some of surviving injured exhibit a pattern of
burns that doctors have also never seen before. The question is
beginning to get attention for the world community of physicians and
human rights organization. Israel is suspected of loading its
missiles with toxic chemicals. The fear, in addition to their
toxicity being immediately lethal on its victims, is that the waters
and earth may now be poisoned. The inhabitants of the south may have
to suffer from Israel’s wrath for a very, very long time, in chilling
cold blood.
The as-Safir newspaper, the second largest running daily in Lebanon,
has taken up the task to investigate the question.
Beyond the crime of toxic poisoning, the type of shells and bombs
used is also astounding. I met a woman who was displaced from the
borderig village of Yater. She is a native American, blue blood and
apple pie, but with a hijab. She, her husband, her three babies and
her husband’s family, a total of 14 people were trapped in one room
in their house in Yater. On the 6th or 7th day of shelling, she
cracked and her kids could not longer handle the violence. Risking
their lives, they jumped into their car, and decided to take their
chance. They drove straight without stopping, taking circuitous ways
when the main roads were impossible to tread. They expected to die on
the road. After 14 hours of driving they made their way to the US
embassy in the northeastern suburbs of Beirut. They were not aware of
evacuations. They were lost on the way, and someone stole her
husband’s wallet with the 400$ in cash they carried (the totality of
their fortune), his green card and her US passport. I came across her
at the US embassy compound. She was trembling. She could barely tell
her story coherently. She repeated over and over that she had seen
houses fly, that the shells made the houses fly in the air and then
collapse on the ground. She repeated that she ought not to have gone
to the window, but she could not help it, she was curious, and she
saw the houses fly.
As a holder of US passport (and real native) she had been allowed
into the embassy. Her husband, only a green card holder, was not. The
US embassy changed their policy, I was later told by people and
journalists, but at various stages in the evacuation, green-card
holders were not included in the evacuations plan. Pardon me, in the
plans for “assisted departures”.
I don’t know what happened to the American mother from Portland
Oregon and Yater south Lebanon. I know her babies are lactose
intolerant and their only food was the stock of soy milk she had with
her. She was very young, a face earnest, her skin transluscent white.
In her pale blue eyes there was despair and fright that she will not
recover from for a very long time.
The Displaced
The displaced have been dispersed in the country. They have been
placed in schools, universities, government owned buildings. Aid is
arriving, but still in chaotic manner. Volunteers are beginning to
get tired. However nothing compares to the distress of the displaced.
They are in a state of complete emotional upheaval. Their presence
has already changed the habits and rituals of the neighborhoods where
they have been placed.
As the sun begins to set and the harshness of its rays begins to dim,
you find families strolling on Hamra street (a main commercial
thoroughfare in West Beirut). Shops are closed, sandwich shops are
closed, cafes are intermittantly open, but the sidewalk provides an
opportunity to escape the confinement from the shelter where they
been relocated. You can see it in their walk, their body language.
Their pace searches for peace of mind, not for a destination, their
lungs expand drawing in oxygen to inspire quietude and calm, not for
cardiovascular pressure. They have a deep, mournful, sorrowful gaze.
They left behind their entire lives, maybe even their beloved.
In Ras Beirut, small backstreets have come to life. To escape the
heat of indoor confinement, displaced families relocated to old homes
or government-owned buildings, have grown in the habit of placing
plastic chairs and their narguiles on small front porches or entrance
hallways of buildings. I had to walk home after a long day of working
with journalists, two nights ago, and as I zigzagged through these
back streets, I was comforted by their gentle presence. They chatted,
softly, quietly, huddled in groups, watching the night unfold,
fearful of the sound of Israeli warplanes.
The ceaseless newscast from a radio kept everyone informed. It too
sounded softly. It was a gentle summer night, and the families
dispersed and uprooted surrendered to the gentleness of the night.
On the next block, three young woman stood in line, queuing for
access to a public payphone. That too has become a familiar sight in
Beirut. People lining at public payphones. They stood, clearly tired
but resilient. To my “good evening”, I was greeted back with smiles
and another “good evening”. I was relieved to see that they felt
safe, that they roamed the city at night without qualms. How long can
they afford to pay for these phone calls is another question. There
is a definite need for a long term plan. This emergency solution will
soon reach a crisis, and state structures need to be prepared to face
the anger and frustration of nearly 500,000 people.
On the next block, a Mercedes car packed with people was parked at a
corner, in front of the entrance of a building. The car’s doors were
flung open and the radio broadcast news. It was a visit. Two
displaced families on a nightly visit. Everyone was gentle, and a
soft breeze blew with clemency.