Salti’s latest siege note
(This siege note I wish to dedicate to Maher)
The history of earlier drives into Lebanon shows that even as the
Israeli war machine gains momentum, so do the chances of terrible
accidents and atrocities. In 1982, under the protection of Israeli
forces, Christian Lebanese militias carried out the now infamous
massacre of hundreds of Palestinians in Beirut’s Sabra and Shatila
refugee camps. Ten years ago, during a campaign against Hizbullah
similar to the one now underway, Israeli gunners blasted a United
Nations monitoring post at the South Lebanese town of Qana, where
terrified locals had taken refuge. More than 100 civilians were
killed in a barrage that lasted only a few ghastly seconds.
International outrage quickly forced Israel to end its offensive.
The Israelis say they are being more careful this time around, not
least because they don’t want to be forced to stop. “The presidential
approval by Bush, the surprising level of support he’s giving Israel,
the patience he’s giving Israel—it looks as if there’s a great amount
of slack being cut to us,” says a senior Israeli security source, who
did not want to be identified by name because he is not authorized to
speak on the record. “Absent a Qana, it might go on.”
–from the article "Torn to Shreds" in last week's
Newsweek.
Bearing witness to a massacre only a few kilometers removed from
one’s being (or home).
Coming into consciousness of, or bearing witness to, a massacre only
a few kilometers removed from one’s being (or home), feels very much
like the experience of being in the proximity of a very powerful
explosion only at an extremely, extremely slowed motion. Taking stock
of the information on time, place, and the toll of victims, watching
televised transmission of rescue workers piling a kindergarden in
rigor mortis, is identical to the astounding sensation of the air
being sucked from all around, that typically precedes the explosion.
And at some point, it all sinks in, the information processes into
information, and the images breakdown into their compositional
elements (rescue worker carrying four year old with hand stretched to
the sky and fingers wide spread), and you explode, or implode, with
some sort of a system shut down. For a split second your heart does
not beat the way it is used to, and your lungs don’t quite inhale or
exhale according to the book.
9:00 am, or somewhere around there. I am zapping between al-Jazeera,
LBC, BBC, Future TV, and my new discovery of this war, Sky News. I
have to finish some proposal text to send to funders to collect
desperately needed funds to support the army of volunteers and the
programs for displaced kids. I cannot disappoint “Nouna”, I have to
be at the library at 10:00 am with the text in English.
9:05 am, or somewhere around there. Yasser Abou Halileh, who just
landed in Lebanon from Jordan is catching his breath on al-Jazeera.
He arrived to Qana and just reached the shattered shelter site. Qana
was carpet-bombed throughout the night. The air-bombing was not a
“surprise” to anyone, because the Israeli army dropped flyers
advising residents to leave. The bodies piled in the shelter ravaged
to rubble were of people too poor to afford the ride from Qana to
Sidon or Beirut, or people with disabilities.
Qana besides being an extremely poor village in the anemic economic
orbit of Tyre, was also the site of one of Christ’s miracles, then a
little short of two thousand years later it housed a UNIFIL base (UN
peacekeeping force), and a notorious Israeli massacre of fleeing
hapless southern Lebanese villagers at said UNIFIL base. Yasser and
his team headed for Qana because rescue workers alerted the media to
the possibility of another massacre. The shelling did not stop as
rescue workers lifted bodies from under rubble.
You know the rest of the story. An Yasser’s story as well, it is no
different from any correspondent that suddenly becomes a human being,
a father, a brother, a son and Yasser was looking for words to put
together into sentences to report the first report of the massacre.
When he and his camera arrived, rescue workers were on site, slowly
pulling bodies from under the rubble. Yasser is catching his breath
and slowly, you can feel the air being sucked from all around him,
children of all sizes, mostly small and extra small (some are barely
a few months old), piled next to him, covered in ashen powdered
concrete.
As Yasser must have been experiencing “the explosion” of “implosion”,
that’s when I felt the air being sucked from all around me. I jumped
from my bed and ran hysterically in the house looking for someone in
my family to tell the news to. And when I did, I realized that a
vacuum cloaked me. I heard myself speak, I saw myself put my shoes
on, pack my bag, feel tightness in my chest, say goodbye to my
parents, walk out into the street. Walk out into the street. Flash of
the voice of Yasser hiccuping wiith emotion. Nothing unusual about
this Sunday morning. Forgot the laptop. Forgot what I owed Nouna.
Flash of the image of the rescue workers leaning in half to be able
to go into the ravaged building. Back up. Back upstairs. Flash of
baby lying on rubble, her cutie derriere dripping a pool of blood and
powdered concrete. Al-Jazeera’s screen. Zap, maybe it’s a mistake. An
exageration. Text message from Rula: “Are you watching al-Jazeera?” I
grab my purse again, leave. Come back: the laptop. On the street, as
I wait to hail a cab, I wonder why there is not a trace of powdered
concrete in the air. I could taste it in my mouth.
10:15 am, or somewhere around there. Municipal building, 3rd floor,
Beirut’s Municipal Librairy. Elevator working. Flash of rescue worker
carrying a baby girl, barefoot, covered in powdered concrete. Her arm
sticking out, upright in rigor mortis, her palm wide and fingers
stretched as if she were trying to reach out. At the municipal
library that morning, there was a training workshop for the
volunteers from the NGOs that are in charge of overseeing the
settlement of the displaced in the schools around Beirut. A training
workshop for educational games and activities around the book and
storytelling. I walked in, greeted Nouna and another lady, I know I
was not very present, the vacuum still cloaked me. I just said to
them, as best as I could make coherent sentences “there was a
massacre in Qana”. Most of the volunteers had woken up and rushed to
the workshop without hearing news.
I put my laptop in the office, and sat, stood up and started calling
people. Everyone was choking in shock, rage and horror. Rula was out
of her mind, zapping frantically. Only al-Jazeera showed images, BBC
and CNN had a very down-played report. She beckoned me to make phone
calls. Who could I call? I am nobody. I called friends, and more
friends, people in the know and out of the know. Then a text message
came: Protest in front of the ESCWA building at noon. I was beginning
to breathe again. Condoleezza Rice was supposed to land in Beirut
sometime around noon.
11:00 am, or somewhere around there. I was still sucked into the
vacuum. Things moving around me were confusing, I could not quite
mediate with reality. My mind was racing. The flashes of dead bodies
were still coming. I needed to describe them, in gruesome detail to
someone. Whoever I called, described them to me, in their
gruesomeness: “Did you see that baby girl with her buttocks drenched
in blood?” She was there in front of my eyes, off course I had seen her.
I typed something in English on the laptop. I called Nouna. We
discussed it. I repeated the things she said to me so they would sink
in. One of the attending volunteers could not hold still, who smoked
outside, paced, and checked her cell phone about ten times, walked
over to us and said she was going to the protest.
12:00 pm, sharp. I was back on the street. I walked towards the ESCWA
(basically the offices of he UN and UN-related institutions)
building. The street was filled with people, men, women, children
carrying flags, Lebanese, Hezbollah, and Amal, walked decidedly,
almost angrily in the direction of the ESCWA building. By the time I
got there, there was a mob scene in front of the building. Young men
(and a few women) were banging on the gates, throwing rocks to the
windows that were bouncing against the glass and falling back on
them. The release of rage was collective.
The sheath of vacuum around me, inside me, dissipated. The explosion/
implosion was now happening to me. I felt myself transform into a
magma of anger and sorrow at once. I felt my own rage channel to the
crowd, I stood on the sidewalk, sucked into the magnetism of the mob,
my body totally merged with theirs. The flashes from the al-Jazeera
broadcast were no longer caged inside me. They were wafting away. The
flags were pulled down and instead the masts in front of the fancy
structure were now flagging Hezbollah, Amal flags and portraits of
Hassan Nasrallah.
(When people later criticized the mob scene for “attacking” the ESCWA
building –”Was it necessary?”– I was surprised they did not have that
rage, or that they could not comprehend it.)
The crowd that unloaded into downtown Beirut was at that point mostly
comprised of the displaced from the southern suburb. They shouted:
“Hezbollah, Nasrallah, wel Dahiyah killa” (Hezbollah, Nasrallah, and
the whole of the southern suburbs.)
On the other side of the street, at the foot of the Media Center
building where newsmedia post their cameras and microphones and their
anchors shoot their live shots, people were screaming at cameras.
The crowd was growing fatter and fatter, now people were coming more
prepared, they had signs and banners, in Arabic and English.
I came across Mohammad, a friend, and finally, finally I could cry. I
burried my head in his shoulders and wept helpless.
Mohammad led me to the Media Center building. I sat in one of the
offices with windows onto the street. More and more people were
coming. Army and internal security personel were also arriving. They
stood by and watched. At some point a truck carrying some sort of a
load of something parked in the lot across the street from the ESCWA
building. It became a stage atop which various spokespersons stood
and delivered speeches. I guess someone brought a voice magnifier,
and someone else brought a tape and a tape player because soon there
were also chants blaring. The flags flying on top of the crowd were
now of several political parties: the “Free Movement”, the
Communists, the Syrian Nationalist (the most overt supporters of
Hezbollah). The most touching scene was of sunni and shi’i sheikhs
huddled together, hand in hand almost talking and then delivering
speeches. From the window of the 6th floor, I could see their round
head coiffe and robes.
Randa sent a text message from Cairo. I asked her to call me. She was
weeping and I begged her to call her activist friends and organize a
mobilization in Cairo. I wanted to weep, and hated myself for
stiffening my upper lip. I borrowed Mohammad’s phone and started to
call friends across the world, hysterically, begging them to organize
protests. I was nonsensical. I woke my sister in New Jersey. My tears
were now flowing silently.
I felt I was going to collapse. I had to leave and be quiet for a while.
I walked home, a long, long meditative walk in the punishing heat of
a late July afternoon. It was 2:00 pm. Everyone urged me to write
something, a “siege note” for Qana. I could not.
Instead I slept. My eyelids felt heavy from crying.
Unscathed
Maher called. I woke up. He said he was leaving with a team of
journalists to Tyre. Did I want to come. (I did not know.) I should
be ready in ten minutes if I wanted to come. I said no, I was not
thinking and I regretted it for the rest of the day. Until now when I
write, I regret it.
Maher is a filmmaker. When this war started he was in Paris. He went
nuts after a few days and decided to return. He wanted to be here for
the war. He came on one of the ships that the French sent to evacuate
French passport holders. His voyage was surreal, but that’s another
story.
He has a project to establish a website to collect and disseminate
the record of the lived experience of this war, lest it should lapse
from the collective record again. He has started to distribute
cameras to young filmmakers, artists, even volunteers to record,
film, transcribe the mundane and the non-sensational everyday of
surviving this war. The website is not ready yet, but as soon as it
s, I will publicize it.
Maher had been itching to go to Tyre, closest to one of the sites of
battle. He went with the convoy of journalists and humanitarian aid
workers. If my rage took me to the street and the mob scene, his
would drive him to the front, to the site where the hurt is most
poignant. He told me he was going to Qana, and I was not surprised.
I called him the next day in the afternoon. He had indeed been to
Qana, and visited the site, and smelled death. From his voice, I felt
that something had happened, something that still impressed him
greatly. His locution was more sullen than lazy, but I could barely
make out what he said, and I kept asking him to repeat himself. He
did not get exasperated, his voice was detached. He was speaking to
me from a different world.
My heart sank. He said Qana was exactly what I saw on TV. He kept
referring to going through Srifa as being very difficult. “Very
difficult” he kept saying. Nearly all of Srifa is destroyed. Limbs
covered in powdered concrete emerge from between the ravages of
collapsed buildings. No one has had the energy or courage to pull out
the dead. The Red Cross and Civil Defense ambulances have been
targetted relentlessly by Israel. When the guns will quiet, we will
discover that Qana is small-time compared to Srifa. There is a
pattern emerging now: Marwaheen, Srifa, Blida and Qana: terror to
induce forced displacement (or pardon my French, “deportation”).
Scorched earth and mass graves, this is how we achieve the New Middle
East.
Maher said nearly 60% of Bint Jbeil has now become flat rubble. Most
of its central area. There two limbs stick out of collapsed
buildings, and the smell of death is everywhere. While rescue workers
pulled out the dead from that shelter in Qana, the IDF was shelling
the only functioning hospital in Bint Jbeil, a day prior to Maher’s
visit. That’s how battered Bint Jbeil was, even its hospital the IDF
decided was a Hezbollah stronghold and posed a grave security threat
on the well-being of the children of Kiryat Shmona who prefer to go
to school and not dwell in shelters after they have kissed the shells
that their army will shower on Lebanon to implement UN Resolution
1559 and eradicate terror.
In the convoy to Bint Jbeil, journalists outnumbered the rescue
workers, and they found a group of elderly men and women who were
trapped in a shelter. They could not ambulate without assistance and
had not eaten for four or five days. They were carried out and given
some water and driven to places where they could receive the care
they needed.
The BBC produced a number of excellent reports from Bint Jbeil, in
heir backdrop, I saw Maher’s face. His demeanor confirmed the
impression I had after speaking to him on the phone. Maher had seen
the face of death. Not death as in the sorrowful but inevitable
expiring of everyday life, and not the death of a soldier on the
battlefield. He had seen the face of organized, carefully
orchestrated, mass-scale death, the planned death of hundreds and
thousands as a solution to restoring power hegemony in a region.
You never leave a mass grave unscathed. Maher had seen several that
day. Even if helping survivors seems like a life-affirming release,
it will not alleviate the burden, the imprint of the face of death. I
know he has been branded for ever now and there is not much anything
that can be done about it. My forever beloved Marwan worked on
collecting the bodies of victims in Sabra and Chatila after the
massacre. Seeing the face of death was so overwhelming he left the
country shortly thereafter. He moved to London and did not return to
Lebanon for decades. You can still feel the brand of that mass grave
in the lining of the timbre of his voice, in the lining to his gaze,
there is a mute inconsolable sorrow.
I don’t know if Maher will leave Lebanon, but I know he will return
to Beirut markedly changed. For the time being the pull of the mass
graves, of the people trapped in shelters, of bodies surging through
rubble is too powerful, he wants to be near them. While the
journalists he drove down with have left Tyre, he called last night
to say he is tempted to stay. His voice felt he called from a
netherworld, Israel is now engaged in a massive ground offensive in
the south.
This siege note took a couple of days to write. I could not find my
words or sense of self after news of the massacre on Sunday.
PS: Attached [sorry, it’s been detatched - ed.] is a new map that
locates the infrastructure, mainly transport and vital sites, that
have been bombed over the past days…
This map clearly reveals the siege that different cities/inhabitants
have undergone and still suffer from, it also shows how Israel’s
fierce assault on Lebanon completely violates the Geneva conventions
& international law relative to respect for human rights in armed
conflicts, through it’s massive destruction of vital civilian utility
sites and infrastructure. The other map of locations bombed is being
updated daily on http://www.lebanonupdates.blogspot.com.