You can't understand the sense of triumph I felt as I crossed the
street unless you've been to Beirut. I had been taking advantage of a
hole in the stormy sky, wandering the streets of what feels like home,
when the sudden desire to see the sea pushed me to brave the ominous and
amble down to the corniche. A lonely patch of blue hovered over me;
the Med revealed itself as an apparition as it came into view from
behind the derelict walls of the Manara district.
Manara. "Lighthouse." For me, yes, a beacon. That a city of such chaos can bring clarity to a mind as cluttered with the politics of breathing as mine is something of an apparition as well. The physical lighthouse stands as an ugly pillar at the tip of West Beirut, its stoic concrete a Medusa to approaching ships. This morning the only ships pushing across the sea were two UN patrols sulking across the horizon. I was one of the few who walked past the lighthouse.
On sunny Saturdays the corniche is packed with every flavor of human being manufactured by the universe. Old men who've seemingly experienced the entire history of the world stroll nimbly with their hands clacking prayer beads behind their backs. Bored youth hang lazily over the railing, their own hands consuming a more modern devotional object - the mobile phone. Hijab-clad women walk next to uncovered heads pushing strollers and running after small children. Westerners marvel at the fact they are in Beirut, often donning shorts and backpacks and a sense of wondrous curiosity at the impossible place in which they find themselves - mountains, sea, bullet-riddled buildings and shiny skyscrapers and beaten up taxis and glistening Mercedes. Sri Lankans in green Sukleen uniforms stab up garbage, joggers in Adidas suits weave through crowds, and coffee sellers shout "ahwi" to alert the entirety of the promenade to their liquid wares.
I've walked that route far more times than I can count, but each step is a sense of renewal and revelation. I don't know if I will ever be able to describe what it is that draws me to this place, where there is not 24 hours of electricity, where UN warships patrol the coast, where airplanes land with the sea on one side and Sabra and Chatilla Palestinian refugee camps on the other, and where buildings crumble from war or neglect, but there is a soul to it unmatched by any place I've been, a will to survive, a desire for something divinely greater and infinitely more beautiful than the present.
And so, I crossed the street from the corniche to the path that would lead me back to Hamra with a smile born of amazement, for once I had had to dart across this very street during small gaps in speeding traffic. Today, cars idled as they waited impatiently for something I had always taken for granted: a red traffic light. A lighthouse, indeed.
Manara. "Lighthouse." For me, yes, a beacon. That a city of such chaos can bring clarity to a mind as cluttered with the politics of breathing as mine is something of an apparition as well. The physical lighthouse stands as an ugly pillar at the tip of West Beirut, its stoic concrete a Medusa to approaching ships. This morning the only ships pushing across the sea were two UN patrols sulking across the horizon. I was one of the few who walked past the lighthouse.
On sunny Saturdays the corniche is packed with every flavor of human being manufactured by the universe. Old men who've seemingly experienced the entire history of the world stroll nimbly with their hands clacking prayer beads behind their backs. Bored youth hang lazily over the railing, their own hands consuming a more modern devotional object - the mobile phone. Hijab-clad women walk next to uncovered heads pushing strollers and running after small children. Westerners marvel at the fact they are in Beirut, often donning shorts and backpacks and a sense of wondrous curiosity at the impossible place in which they find themselves - mountains, sea, bullet-riddled buildings and shiny skyscrapers and beaten up taxis and glistening Mercedes. Sri Lankans in green Sukleen uniforms stab up garbage, joggers in Adidas suits weave through crowds, and coffee sellers shout "ahwi" to alert the entirety of the promenade to their liquid wares.
I've walked that route far more times than I can count, but each step is a sense of renewal and revelation. I don't know if I will ever be able to describe what it is that draws me to this place, where there is not 24 hours of electricity, where UN warships patrol the coast, where airplanes land with the sea on one side and Sabra and Chatilla Palestinian refugee camps on the other, and where buildings crumble from war or neglect, but there is a soul to it unmatched by any place I've been, a will to survive, a desire for something divinely greater and infinitely more beautiful than the present.
And so, I crossed the street from the corniche to the path that would lead me back to Hamra with a smile born of amazement, for once I had had to dart across this very street during small gaps in speeding traffic. Today, cars idled as they waited impatiently for something I had always taken for granted: a red traffic light. A lighthouse, indeed.
