All is a constant clamour in west beirut.
I wake abruptly to the blaring symphony of a traffic jam just outside my window. Large bosomed women in floral print lean against their balconies, smoking cigarettes at the sight of the city, while behind them an apartment sits empty yet suffocating within furnitured walls. old television sets rest on dusty kitchen chairs and i can hear the voice of om kalthoum or fairuz wailing about lost lovers and lost land.I am outside hanging clothes to dry, there is no electricity in the morning.
The electricity is rationed around these parts, but Beirut has learned to share.
Sitting in bars, cafes, houses, one learns to sit through the dark and humid air of a boxed-in blackout.
My beer just gets warm in the fridge, a friend complains. So we drink it in the morning, while its cool, so that by the time we have no power we are intoxicated just enough to keep our ease.
Outside it is a boisterous cocophony, the old man in the orange stool sits on the pavement like it is his living room sofa, he smokes from a long pipe and watches us all pass by, walk back and forth. He is reliable and punctual, his presence looms like an afternoon prayer call - not distracting, but hard to avoid. I nod to him and smile as I do every morning, and the man with the cart of fruit holds fresh peaches at me as I kindly refuse and inch between him and an awkwardly parked taxi cab, forever insisting since the crack of dawn to claim that damned spot. He puts out his cigarette excitedly and asks me where i'm off to, as if i had intended to ask him for a ride.
My day is full of smiles and friendly apologies, no thank you's and that's alright, im fine.
The young dark-haired syrian refugees hang around the corner store. they wait for customers and bag their groceries, they'll carry them to your apartment for nothing, but a tip will buy them some warm doughed sandwich just down the road from the laundromat.
the old deaf man at the laundromat shows up early every morning. he grows nervous when i try to communicate with him anyhow, he flusters and stammers and blushes at the cheekbones, waving his hands at me, lips pursed in place to keep hold of the pins between his teeth.
I tip my hat although i wear none, at the old men outside the bakery. They too have their pavement stools and sheesha set up so early in the day, their conversation a strung out chord
played day to day for years since the war. they howl and yell, disagree over everything and come to an abrupt silence as i walk along and greet them, they do the same.
Well fed street cats scurry along my feet, they find shade under cars and groom themselves on patches of dry concrete. They have many a story to tell about the wars of Beirut, many of them have been abandoned like houses by people who ran away and never looked back.
I went up north for a few days, to a mountain village by the name of Broumanna. Walking around I felt a presence-less air, empty winds passed through and around me, while I inspected the local flora and consulted my encyclopedia.
The air was cool but the sun beat heavy against my dark hair, and I sweat more than I was hydrated for, so I found patches of shade beneath clusters of unkempt trees and leaned against the stone walls of the village. There was a road behind me, few cars would pass and each one did with a sound like the swoosh of a lady's gown. I turned to make eye-contact with every other living being surrounding me that day, we were scarce but plenty on our mountain's edge. Funny how in the city I cant help but avoid recognition from strangers.
It felt nice to sit atop a hill on a mountain and dangle my legs against the steep slope of an endless downward sheet of thick straw-like grass and the tallest pine trees you'd ever seen.
A tree lizard sat right beside me, and when I wasn't looking he watched me and I felt he trusted me longer, as he sat by me and napped alongside my company. I picked some ripe figs from high places and split them open wide enough so that the insects scurrying around my feet could feast out of the open heart of a fruit they'd often wait on to drop from a picker's basket, if they were lucky enough.
Wandering round some more I found a series of abandoned homes. I knew visitors had frequented the premises because I'd seen some empty beer bottles and unwrapped unfinished hard candies and popcorn. I walked inside with a fearful caution that just behind that echo was a crouched boot waiting to pounce on my trespass and perhaps push me off that cliff.
I kicked a couple pebbles around to confuse my phantom threat, then walked in with ease and fiddled about the place.
Another house I'd found had a room with children's toys torn to shreds, dolls' heads everywhere. A t.v. set, radio and record player no newer than 1979 were bruised and banged up pretty good, and plenty of torn up footwear lay about, as if someone had messed up the place real bad before leaving it behind. Maybe this is just what was left of a loot. Lots of Syrians kicked people out of their homes to use them as military hideouts, I learned later.
I took a few pictures and my shutter-speed's clicking echoed against the trees surrounding me, so I scurried out of there deciding not to take a dusty souvenir with me.
I took a staircase alleyway shortcut cause I couldn't dig my shoes any deeper into the dry sand to make it up the hill I'd slid down earlier, they were encrusted in a muddy ring that had dried into a clay at this point, difficult to chisel off.
I walked in between cottage-like houses, so silent, so quaint. I peeked through vine-tangled fences and saw old men and women smoking and drinking, sitting.
An eerie croak of a voice calls out behind me, I turn with a guilty conscience and blush in response, I couldn't understand what she was asking me.
Her thick village accent asks me if I'm from the neighbourhood, I say no and run off in a hurry.
I felt like I'd seen a ghost.
Back in west beirut, the noise is just as i'd left it, untouched, undisturbed, uncaged.
An old woman lets loose her head scarf, and fans herself in disbelief, as if the summer were new to her, she sits inbetween the flowers she sells. i've never seen her off her seat, and she watches me suspiciously as i leaf through the plants and petals surrounding her, i smile at her reassuringly. I pick a bundle of various flowers as i do often, and the young man who tends to them hands me some free roses, asks me to give them to a lover - all he wants in return is a smile, he defends as i insisted on paying and then thanked him graciously.
I walk around the corner to a cozy retreat and sit by the window. i'm given a jameson, sour.
Shirbil, my bartender begs me to quit smoking.
he tells me that he stopped smoking during the war - how could i continue to smoke while everyone around me was dying, and i was spared that fate?
I put out my cigarette, so touched by his insightful sentiment, and find myself lighting another just moments after.
i dodge the traffic to an empty street where i hail several taxis - no one will take me to east beirut. finally someone agrees after heavily bargaining the price.
on the East side, I depart my taxi ride and find myself in a more tranquil, european setting. i look around and there is no friendly greeting, not even street corner dwelling. All i see are suits and sunglasses, beautiful women carrying large purses. no bullet holes, no street beggars with missing limbs and teeth.
I sat on a pavement in the shade and smoked cigarettes, watching the beautiful people walk by.
A well-dressed woman comes and sits by me, asks me if i mind. I said nothing in return but smiled,
as she hesitated thouroughly to come out and ask me what it was she really wanted.
some money? she wondered, embarassed and ashamed. I noticed her clothing and hair were so well done, well kept. I could not imagine what she needed such petty change for, but I gave it to her anyway. Delighted and grateful she cut across the street and from afar I spotted her devouring an ice cream cone and walking into a shopping mall.
I am lost in East beirut, walking up steep hill streets in Achrafiyeh. This area is named after what it offers, "views", per se. In the poorer areas there are flags and posters everywhere.
I walk into a corner-shop to buy some water, I am out of breath.
The storekeeper stares at me with adoration and before handing me my change, as if to leave me no choice, he asks me where I'm from, with the most eager and unknowing expression.
I think twice before calling myself Palestinian, as I am usually warned. But this time I don't hesitate, especially since my accent has already given it away. I tell him that I am part Palestinian, part Lebanese.
For a moment I expected the worst, but he was quick to respond graciously that Palestinians are the most kind and beautiful. His neckline boasted a shiny crucifix, the heavy sunlight behind me reflected off his necklace against my skin, I felt the patch of light dance just below my eye upon my cheek.
I smiled and wished him a pleasant day.
I found a bridge upon which I sat. To my left the west and a school of dirty pigeons, and just right of me, the east. instead i looked towards the sea. Several ants rest beside me, perhaps waiting for a crumb although I had none. I looked up for a fig tree, but found a flag whipping in the wind.
Side by side we watched the traffic below, a messy flock of headlights, like a pearl necklace come undone.
