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.