Special Report*: Beirut’s Flower Children

(Beirut) I heard her crying on a corner of the street as I walked back to my hotel after dinner. It was 11pm at night and the girl looked no more than 10 years-old. She wiped a dirty tear from her face with the sleeve of a dirty pink sweatshirt and was holding onto a bunch of roses - sitting in yellow water of a used water bottle.  As roughed up as she looked, I could tell she had been outside for a couple of days.

I didn’t know whether or not she would understand me, but I squatted down and asked anyway, “Are you ok? What’s wrong?”

She could tell I was trying to help. She spoke quickly - in Arabic - and pointed to another bar down the road. I didn’t quite understand, but almost immediately, a young man noticed the girl speaking to me and came over to help. He translated, “Apparently, she says, some guy smacked her in the face with one of her roses.”

He walked toward the bar where the girl was pointing. I held out my hand to help her up. The man asked a group of three standing outside what happened, explaining in Arabic what the girl told us. After a back and forth, he turned to me and said, “They’re blaming her.” According to the trio, the girl knocked over a cocktail glass and broke it. I was horrified; she is just a kid, that didn’t give him the right to hit her. The translator agreed, but said there was nothing to be done. By the time I turned around, the girl was running back down the street.

She wasn’t the only child I encountered in Beirut, selling flowers.
They’re out every night, around the bars and streets, asking for money, giving people roses. One boy, I saw almost every night, 6 or 7 years old, maybe, understood me a little better than the girl, enough to sell a rose and say thank you when I bought one. He was short, shaggy hair, always in a jeans and t-shirt and a light jacket, he had pudgy cheeks and a shy smile. He seemed to be well known on Gemmayze Street, several bartenders and store owners spoke to him and waved when he walked by. He would sell his roses, hail a cab and move on.

One night, on my way back to the hotel, a tall lanky kid, he looked about 12 or 13 years old, walked up to me with a little "gangsta-swag" in his step, a huge grin crossed his face and he handed me one of the roses, "you want one," it was statement, not a question. I raised my eyebrows, smiled back and asked, "Shouldn't you be in bed?" He scrunched his face and retorted back, "Aw, c'mon!" I only had 10,000 Lira in my purse, I pulled it out and gave it to him and told him to keep his flower, give it to his sister, whatever. He face gleamed as he said, 'Merci!' I walked away shaking my head and smirking. Cute kid. He was with an older boy, probably late teens, drinking a beer and watching the kid like a hawk.

It was my soft spot, the small moments I let my guard down, just a little. They were kids. The one place I had no strength to say, 'no.' And yet this was common place. You won't find, really any, reputable news articles on these kids, NGO statistics seem to be scarce and what little I could find were a few testimonies of others who have met them: some reacting to children who acted out violently, others describing how the kids would talk about their 'boss.' Some of the Beirut locals I spoke with said the kids were Syrian, others from poor families, and others kidnapped - raped and/or forced to work. 

I kept wondering, how many of them will end up criminals? Picked by gangs, extremists groups or enter sex slave trade?
The Ministry of Social Affairs in Beirut released a commercial video earlier in 2013 noting the money often given to the young kids on the street don't go to them or their families, rather adults who are abusing the children's vulnerability. What more they are doing to prevent the children from being in the streets is unclear. And for now, without the help or sufficiency of aid organizations, rescue efforts from the government seem to be far from in place.

In retrospect, I wonder if my attempt to help the girl I met did any good. I never saw her again. Although, I wish I had.

*This story happened during the fall 2012, it was later updated to reflect the video mentioned in 2013. 

Syrian Stories Part II

Getting him to tell me his story was a little like pulling teeth. But I was understanding, I don't know if he saw it that way. The only thing that mattered was the story, right? Well if he was the story, then he is what mattered. He believed me enough.

He fled from Syria, at his father's request. He was from Latakia. And for the most part, so it seemed, it was a city that had yet to be bombarded by the civil conflict. But he didn't realize that even the Human Rights Watch recently reported government forces torturing male victims in the city's detention centers. He thought his family had nothing to worry about, but he didn't know that victims from Latakia were reporting their families were threatened and beaten. 

Initially he wanted to connect me with 2-of his friends, who he later said in a text message would refuse to give talk about their story. He didn't think his own was significant, but after assuring him I wouldn't use his name, he agreed to tell me more. Then he was afraid his English wouldn't be good enough. He tries hard and often looses the words he wants to communicate. I told him to communicate in Arabic. He did. 

He told me that he had money to get through the border, that someone he knew was able to get him across without any trouble. But he is continuing to borrow money from his father and doesn't know what he'll do next. He's been here a month, he said, and was staying at a hotel that he only had to pay around 300 dollars a week, but it was getting tiresome because he wasn't always eating. He got up and often wonders the city, walks by the Sea and then off to bar where he can get a beer before going back to his room. He thought about going to a church where they were helping Syrians and feeding them everyday but he didn't think God would like for him to be in a church. He only liked Jesus when things were ok, and right now? They are not. Going to the UNHCR frightens him to, no amount of assuring would rescue his anxiety. What if they were to send him back, he asks me. He's not sure he can go and ask for their help. 

He was waiting, he told me, for an invitational letter from his relative to France. Once he received this letter, he could apply for a visitor's Visa to the country. But it had not come yet, and he was starting to debate whether or not he wanted to go to France. What would he do there? What if he stayed longer than his Visa and got caught? He'd be deported, he would be forced to fight in the war. He doesn't want to, he's terrified. He's never been attacked, he's never been in trouble with authorities. Even so, he's afraid, more than he's ever been. 

He's a refugee without status, without a job, without hope, and time is running out. 

Seeping Cedars

"The land mourns and languishes; Lebanon is confounded and withers"

Being a beatnik in Beirut is a task not left for those who conform easily. It means managing your own while still being able to blend in, or at the very least, with the expatriate groups around you. It's a fantastic place to people watch and pick out the tourists, the locals and the wanna-be somethings. On occassion, there is serenity in the bustle and when the old man who sits on the street to smoke nods your way, you find yourself returning the courtesy not realizing it is the kindest thing you could do for him all day. 

The main drag is a torn specimen of remembrance for old things. Graffiti, bullet holes and cracks in the wall; even a trash pile at the edge of a construction site, it's all there along the street they say has the night life going for it, but the deprivation in the stone is evident. Remnants of war, conflict and high intensity are everywhere. The internal security forces, military minders all up and down the road ways, weapons in hand, watching, waiting and for the most part playing it cool because frankly they don't want to start a fight, they don't want to return one, they'd rather just watch. 

"Escapism" is only word that comes to mind while watching the Lebanese rummage through it's daily life. The women souped up in make-up, cheekbones and heels. The men light up one cigarette after another and since there is now a smoking ban inside, they're all outside, on display. The Sea is at their fingertips but as the days slip into winter, they hardly realize it's even there. The fresh air is just laced with smoke and chatter. 

I've heard some call it the 'Paris of the Middle East,' yet, I cannot agree. What I do notice is a desperation for Paris' return - or maybe they're hoping to keep the benefits while chiseling away its influence. Stores and boutiques are French. License plates are written in numerals and Arabic. 

Street signs still remain in both Arabic and French and most children start learning the language in grade school. Elders often start and finish their sentences in both tongues. While communication is efficient; it seems their tendency to slip from one to the other is an organized clutter of thoughts. There is pride in being an Arab, even a distaste for the French, yet they are marked with colonialism.

The distress of the city sticks. The struggle comes from within, but it is affliction from the outside invading their core refuge. The cedar tree is dried up and there are things masked among young locals who want to leave. Others revel more in their ethnicity and still they cling to a nationalistic spirit without any cognitive way out. The city stands as a hub and a place where people gather only forget the war next door and in some cases,3-blocks away. 

Standing in Beirut, what I see- is a downcast relic of extraordinary beauty desperate for a place to belong.

Syrian Stories

The stories below are from Syrians I have met in the last month, all of them different but all with similar perspectives on the conflict. They stay away and search of better. I have omitted their names and specific details for safety. Each paragraph is only a window to people who each want one thing in their country: peace. Please read on.

the U.S.

---He turned to me in the cafe and asked about my computer. I noticed his thick middle eastern accent and politely asked where he was from. He told me, Syria. He was from a small city near the Mediterranean that is majority Al-Awite, though he and his family were Shia. He said he didn't speak to his family about the conditions or their concerns in Syria for fear of their safety. He anticipates, though beyond the mountains in Syria, his region will eventually be affected by the conflict. We spent a significant amount of time discussing the conditions in the region and even why his cousin stepped down as a reporter. He told me he had come to the states nearly 15 years ago to pursue his Ph.D. in bio-medical research. His focus started on cancer, but now he is working stem-cell research from Lipo Suction for patients whose tissue and blood cells are deteriorating due to Diabetes. He hopes to be able to bring good to the world, still trying to be proud of the country he came from. 

In Turkey

---He sat in an office waiting to be paid for the work he did. He had acted as a translator and fixer into Syria and his work, regularly funded by foreign governments often included translation and training for other Syrians. We stood on the balcony and sipped over tea while he told me his story. He had grown up in Damascus - he loved it there, he never thought he could leave and then...he was forced out. Having been detained on several occasions for supporting protests in the city and questioned at various times in his life, it got to be too much, it got to be dangerous. So - he fled. A close friend of his, a commander and defector was chasing down Jihadis that would other interfere in what he called the revolution, often kept him informed on the latest inside Syria. I asked him when it is all over, if he thinks he would go back to live in Syria again. He told me, "When you've been forced out from something, it's hard to ever go back." There was definitely sadness in his voice when he said that, he lit another cigarette, looked over the main square. He was incredibly intelligent, knew Syrian history - knew his own and wants nothing more than the conflict to end in peace. He worries for his family and friends still there, but will do what he can to help push the revolution to completion. 

Beirut

---She is from Syria, a town that has yet to be affected and the same town as my contact in the US, in fact. Her fiance, from another country. He told he would meet her half way, and they would get married, they would get her a Visa. So, they waited, toured the country, made new friends and convinced her relatives this was all for the better. She worries for her family and her sisters. The fighting hasn't reached her home yet, but she fears it will soon. She is glad she is finally joining her fiance, she's glad to leave Syria for now. But she hopes it will subside, she hopes to return. She misses home...the good part. She great up in an Orthodox home, largely unaffected by sectarian disputes, open to everyone, embraced by everyone: Christian and Muslim alike - teaching English and working with her father at his store. She's a movie buff: likes comedy, horror and romance. She wants stability. Her mother came to visit her and her mother says, she hopes the fighting will cease soon. Her mother said to me, "the Syrian people don't deserve this."  

---Terrified of going back to Syria. He said he knows they'll force him to fight, whether it be FSA or the Government forces, he says, he knows they'll force him to pick up a gun and he says, he'll die. Mid-20s, he spent time in the army several years ago post secondary education. He's able bodied and young; they've threatened him, he's only wants to leave. But, he doesn't know where to go. He can't get in the United States, he doesn't know anyone and he feels hopeless. He doesn't want to die in Syria, but he jokes of suicide. He's scared, no motivation, no way way out. Right now, he says, he only smokes weed, but other drugs look appealing - trying them is a trip, an experience he says. 

---She's only half Syrian, and it's in her name, but it's also her passport - and she can't get anywhere. She didn't grow up in Syria. She grew up in Saudi Arabia, the United States, Lebanon and around the world. Her father's business took them places and they frequented the U.S. - particular during college, back and forth her studies were in New York and Los Angeles. Her history shows very few visits to Syria, yet getting a green card or a Visa long enough work is near impossible. At this point she says, it'll benefit her to get a passport of another country under her mother's name. But even that is a long process, because in the Arab world, things take time. She told me about being questioned at the university for nearly 6 hours because the administration was confused by her name or why she changed majors several times...though, this is not uncommon for the majority of college students. She's frustrated. She wants to return to the States, have a steady job, a more consistant life. She'd even like to work in hard-news again, misses her pursuit in it, but it would be too dangerous because of her name, she tells me, because it cause trouble for family members still in Syria. Canada she said, is helping Syrians. She doesn't want to go to Russia. Hong Kong looks promising, but I could tell, she loves New York. If only it were a little easier for her to be there, stay there and work there. 

Walking In Place

“I can’t believe I ate that whole thing,” I exasperated. I had just eaten a rather large personal pizza at a little Italian/Japanese Café in the Souks in Beirut.

“Eh, Enjoy it, you can eat whatever you want, here, because you walk everywhere.” Jamjoom smiled.

He was right, of course, only leaving out the running across streets and dodging cars that would otherwise run you over. The exercise was “all natural” in this city by the sea.

Having finally seen a familiar face, a dear friend; it made my day. I felt like I was really here, after nearly 5 days.  Somehow the possibilities got bigger and it just seemed to settle that I right where I wanted to be…in Beirut.

Only a day before I had walked down toward the Presidential Palace to see the remnants of demonstrations that didn’t seem to have any traction in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the work-week. Even so; Lebanese security forces were everywhere, though, they didn’t seem too concerned.

I ran into a team from local affiliate, Future TV, who had a tent set up, a satellite truck and were waiting for the call to do LIVE coverage if anything developed.  Ali, the cameraman, was a kind man; he offered coffee, juice, snacks and cigarettes. He told me stories about going to Ol’ Miss in the States during the 80s. He told me how Syria was affecting the land he owned and Ali even told me if I ever needed anything, to give him a call (Because, well..let's face it, I stick out like a sore thumb). 

The camp, itself, had several tents, Lebanese flags hanging everywhere and of course security had the area blocked off. If you didn’t follow the news, you may have never known there had been thousands in the square or tear gas released on the crowds just days before. The camp was quiet and there weren’t any more than about 8 or 10 people standing around. Mohammad Saad, one of the leaders of the protest told me they had been there for 11 days. He said he and the protesters were against the current administration, he thinks President Sleiman should resign and how it was all actually helping the Syrian regime stay in power – so to him, they were indirectly helping the Syrian people and of course, themselves.

Walking on, I thought, Beirut, so it seems, is a place hanging in the balance. They wait for peace, for the Government to hear them, they wait for war and they wait to see what will happen next. In truth? I am following suite. What will be tomorrow - I can only wait and see.