Beirut 2020

by Charif Majdalani

  There have been Israeli planes roaming the skies for a few days now. You never see them, but their rasping groan suddenly rises, then lasts a few long minutes before fading into the distance and falling silent. Yesterday Hezbollah claimed an attack against Israeli soldiers. Everyone tends to believe that the Shiite party might provoke a war and complete the devastation of what is left of the country in order to save its own stake and that of the Syrian-Iranian axis. Only the rich can get loans. But nothing happens. I actually think Hezbollah knows that a conflict would sink it straight down to the ocean floor along with the rest of the ship. It’s already taking on water on all sides, in Syria and Yemen, and its Iranian mentor is too, even more so. Its own local base is not in a position to cope with another war. And Israel for its part is happy to see it flounder. On that account at least, we have nothing to worry about for a while.

  There are always people who love to dance among the ruins. And in a country where conspicuous consumption is seen as the most exciting lifestyle, of course it became a must to show off how little one was affected by the economic crisis. So there they all are, the indifferent rich, gathered together up there in the luxury chalets and nightclubs of a tony ski resort turned high-altitude spa for the occasion. Swimming pools, bars, dance parties, banquets, laughter, and joie de vivre. “We’re supporting the economy, aren’t we?” Not that they even feel the need to salve their consciences. And quite a few Lebanese designers and restaurant owners are compelled to have a stand or a table in the midst of it all too, because that’s where the money is, lots of money, no doubt largely acquired from thirty years of corruption and siphoning public funds. People on social media are outraged, pictures of a kid playing with dollars as if they were a rattle go viral. And then suddenly the ghastly, invisible virus also makes an appearance at the party, and soon multiplies because no one there cares about social distancing, they are rich, they feel protected even from infection. In a single day, the clubs, the restaurants, and the pubs all empty out, the deafening music falls silent, the chalets are locked up in haste, the mountains are left in their primeval peace.

  This morning Mariam told me there is a leak under the sink. After the washing machine, the air-conditioning units, the drinking water dispenser, and the pump that brings water into the building, here at last is something that has nothing to do with the unreliable electricity supply. I was almost happy about it. I was starting to feel harassed by the sense that we are permanent victims of a malevolent force that derails and wrecks everything, and there is nothing we can do about it. The plumber arrived. He is a funny guy with a deep voice, grumpy and talkative, always telling stories as he works about his prowess in plumbing, but in an original way, like an epic saga or a Netflix series. He always starts with a terrible problem that almost brings him to his knees, then he creates suspense by listing all the failed attempts to remedy it, before at last describing the solution he came up with, which is always spectacular. And with good reason. Today’s tale is the one about the incredibly complex unblocking of a drain in a multistory building. He’d tried everything, it was still blocked, but he finally used kerosene, which he poured into the pipe and set alight. It exploded with the pressure, and then, he added, taking as his witness his apprentice who concurred with everything, the drain covers on every floor literally popped out, along with all the blockages, while the manhole cover in the street propelled a car parked above it into the air like a spring, and a guy ran out of the building with a mattress on his back, thinking it was an Israeli attack. I felt like he was telling me a gag from Gaston Lagaffe, and I didn’t know quite what to believe, not that I know anything about plumbing, but I still thought it was far-fetched, despite his apprentice’s confirmation.

  The apprentice was nothing like the type you would expect: he was an old man, a little tired, bent and anxious, constantly jiggling his knee. The plumber spoke to him deferentially and only asked him to do small favors. In the end, he asked him very politely, almost apologetically, to go down to the car to get a box of joints. When the old worker left, the plumber took the opportunity to tell me that the poor guy was his brother, fifteen years his senior. He had been working in a furniture factory that laid him off, giving him three months’ salary, but at the old rate, which meant he was left with nothing. “He came over to my place and begged me to give him something to do. But what can I give him to do? Nothing. He knows nothing of the trade. But I can’t allow him to realize that. He’s my older brother, he basically raised me and my brothers. So I bring him along with me, and that way he feels like he’s working.”

  “What about welfare payments after he was laid off?” I asked. The plumber then reminded me that unemployment benefits are paid by the social security fund, which is bankrupt. I was ashamed to have asked such a ridiculous question.

  “Not a single employee is going to see a shadow of their savings or contributions for years,” he concluded. “The worst misery is yet to come. We haven’t seen anything yet.”

  For over two years now, all international financial aid has been blocked, and one government after another has been warned it will be unblocked only if reforms are carried out at the highest level of the state sector, to stop corruption and make government spending more transparent. Nothing was done, naturally, for two years. The aid therefore never arrived, and the country collapsed. One of the reforms that was required, as Nadine, who works at the World Bank, often explained to me, is the computerization of the government accounts, which would allow all expenditure to be traceable. But of course that would terribly complicate the work of the whole gigantic apparatus of siphoned funds on which the political regime is built. The new cabinet, which promised to start the reform process, has done nothing, of course.

  This evening a short demonstration in the city center of Beirut led to the closure of several main roads. At the end of the evening, I went to pick up Nadim at the home of one of his friends. I had to make several detours, the streets were blocked off, but there was no one about, only the ghostly dumpsters, burning through the night.

  Case numbers are rising again, and a temporary lockdown is announced. For countless small retail businesses and restaurants, this is the predicted culmination of the disaster.

  Covid-19, the economic crisis, the bankruptcy of the government, the stifling heat coming unusually early this year, along with the electricity cuts and the distressing noise like lawn mowers of Israeli drones overhead, the Damocles’ sword of war permanently hanging over us: what more does it take to let loose a wave of cynicism on social media? Triple and quadruple punishment, the ten plagues of Egypt, a whole lexicon playing on victimization, powerlessness, and subjugation to predictable calamities that are said to have inescapably befallen us. A stupid custom of local TV stations is to host so-called soothsayers, who are very seriously accorded the status of oracles and whose pronouncements and predictions are endlessly analyzed and compared to current events to check how they match up. It’s total desperation.

  I called the owner of the land in the mountains to discuss the price he is asking and the payment conditions again. He obstinately refuses to lower his figure and tries everything he can to get as much cash as possible. He can’t seem to grasp the fact that I have no cash, that all we own is locked up in the bank and that I am prepared to give him almost the whole amount, that it will be transferred from my account to his. In the end he offers to sell me a smaller plot. I tell him I’ll come have a look. I realized when I hung up the phone that my stubborn desire to own some land on which I can grow a few trees and especially build a little house, even if I don’t quite know what with, is no longer just an old fantasy of someone from a traditionally urban family, but a kind of unconscious challenge. Buying a piece of land with the last pennies you have, dreaming of building something on it, those become acts of resistance to the very idea of collapse.

  We celebrated Christmas last year with no decorations and no lights, in an extremely depressing gloom—this Christmas, which is in a
few months’ time, we might not even have a tree. Today, eight months later, we are celebrating the Feast of the Sacrifice with no sacrifices, since there are no more sheep. Bitter comments are spreading on social media: the sheep can sleep soundly this year, it’s the people who are being sacrificed instead—a strange Christian interpretation of the idea of the substitution of the lamb.

  I noticed some graffiti on a wall a few days ago with this fine inversion: The government is trying to overthrow the people.

  Today’s medley of bad news is endless, like every other day’s: an announcement that ninety employees of the Mechanical Inspection Center are being laid off, and the salaries of all the others are being halved; a strike in the city council of Baalbek because salaries have not been paid; a new garbage crisis looming; a demonstration in front of the Ministry of Energy; violence and confrontations with the police.

  On video footage shared by activists, you can hear, as we often have these last few months, a protestor shouting at the immobile, impassible police officers standing in front of him blocking his way. He is pointlessly haranguing them: “Who are you defending here? Who are you defending? Which government, which power?” Then he addresses one of them in particular, pointing at him: “You for example, how much do you make per month? A million and a half pounds, two million tops? And how much are your two million worth these days? What can you buy with that amount?” None of the officers reacts, they all look absent above their face masks, until one of them makes eye contact with the shouting protestor. He holds his gaze for a moment, it looks like a challenge, but then he finally lowers his eyes, then his head.

  During the protests in October and November, as they faced the huge crowd, the singing, the slogans, the enthusiasm, some military personnel had lost their cool and burst into tears. They’ve hardened up since then.

  Two months ago Sabine made the difficult decision to leave for Canada with her family. Like many others, she fears she will not be able to cope with the general deterioration in working and living conditions here. The bankrupt government, which is no longer subsidizing organizations that help special-needs people like her son, and the closure of the institution where he was being cared for were what made her decide to weigh anchor for good. It’s particularly heartbreaking for her, because like so many others she had already emigrated from Lebanon with her parents, exactly thirty years ago, in 1990, following the calamitous wars of General Aoun. And two weeks ago, when she set the date for her departure, now confirmed for August 7—another departure, reocurring like a curse under the presidency of the same General Aoun—she realized that the first time, thirty years ago, she had also left on August 7.

  As the days go by, we follow the progress of her preparations with each of our visits to her: the house with nothing left in it, the belongings sold, the emptied-out living room, then the bedrooms, the walls, the floors. And suitcases replacing the furniture.

  This afternoon, the rag-and-bone trader

  I haven’t been able to reopen this document until this morning. And today, as I do so, and reread the chapter I had just finished, and then the notes for the next one that I had jotted down before standing up just as the explosion occurred, I feel like I am reading stories from another era altogether.

  As I read back into the fragments written over the past month, it’s as if I were entering a room where a few distant memories of a happy time are preserved intact.

  Which just goes to show…

  As if that entire collapse I was describing was not happening fast enough, as if this degeneration was not swift enough, some unknown malignant force decided to precipitate them and in a matter of seconds hurled everything that was still standing to the ground.

  Tuesday, August 4, 6:07 p.m. I’m working on the terrace where I’ve completed the chapter on Sabine’s preparations for departure. Before going on with the next one, of which I’ve written the first few words, I stand up to take a plate of fruit I’ve just finished back to the kitchen, when I get a voice message. I set the plate down on the little table, open the message, and start listening to it, standing up. Suddenly the floor begins to move with incredible violence, accompanied by a sort of hideous roar. I’m petrified as I feel the terrace come and go beneath me like an old swing, and I think it’s obviously an earthquake. My mind freezes, I’m standing stock still in the midst of the quake as if the least movement might increase my sense of total loss of control over everything, I don’t do anything except repeat to myself: it’ll be over soon, it’ll be over soon, and I also think: the children, the children, or the concrete is solid, it’ll hold, the concrete is solid, it’ll hold, as my eyes see, without processing this information, how objects are falling all around me and smashing to the ground. And then everything suddenly stops moving and roaring, and I’m about to rush inside, but at that moment I’m nailed to the spot again, submerged by the deafening, interminable blast of a monstrous explosion, and this time my eyes seek out the familiar landscape around me, the trees, the buildings in the distance, everything that is always there before me and which now seems to be thunderstruck by the ghastly soundtrack flattening it. When this horror is over at last, I finally run inside while realizing that I still don’t know what has happened, an earthquake, sure, but then why that explosion? or an explosion, okay, but why an earthquake just before it? But there are more urgent things to worry about: my panicked children, Nadim who has blood on his legs, and my wife who has gathered them up and is holding them together in her arms like a rampart against who knows what.

  After a few more minutes of chaos, of fevered gesticulation—find something to wipe away the blood from Nadim’s very light wound, go get some money and our identity cards, without stepping on the broken window glass, in case we have to leave and not come back if there’s an aftershock—the first fragments of information start reaching us, in texts or phone calls, because cell-phone communication has not been cut off, and the unthinkable becomes clear: everyone we manage to contact, everyone who is already posting on social media or calling for help, everyone in the city seems to have experienced the same long nightmarish seconds, and that’s what is so incomprehensible, because each of us thought at the time that it was just our house, our neighborhood, our street that was targeted, and we realize that we all were, at the same time.

  The devastation from the explosion reached almost every part of the capital to varying degrees. But the most affected areas are undoubtedly the northern slope of the hill in Achrafieh and the city’s entire northern seaboard, all the way from the central district to Ain el Mreisseh. And the most terrible destruction within all those areas occurred in and around the Gemmayzeh and Mar Mikhaël neighborhoods, from the port to the city limits of Bourj Hammoud. In a few seconds the blast destroys tens of thousands of apartments in the low-rise buildings and hypermodern skyscrapers scattered across this open stretch of land, blowing apart, pulverizing windows, glass, doors, furniture, and the inhabitants as well. But concrete is strong, the structures of the buildings hold, while hundreds of heritage residences are disemboweled and their old sandstone walls collapse on top of their occupants, while in a single second hundreds of cafés, restaurants, pubs, and stores are reduced to ruins, while scores of cars from the traffic on the avenue along the waterfront are hurled into the air, projected upward, then fall down again like toys, and thousands more in hundreds of streets are suddenly buried under thousands of tons of glass, tiles, and stones that cover the streets in an instant. And during those same few seconds the shock wave sweeps all the way up the hill of Achrafieh right to the top, then down the first few streets on its southern slope, laying waste in the blink of an eye to all the buildings, wards, operating rooms, and the whole population of the Saint George, Geitauoi, and Rosary Hospitals, and all the rooms and collections of the Sursock Museum, all the boutiques and their hundreds of shoppers and browsers in the ABC shopping mall, all the supermarkets, the smaller stores, the market stalls, the street vendors. And during those same few sec
onds, the same inexplicable and monstrous tempest blasts everything away in Bourj Hammoud, along the freeway toward Dora, through the Karantina district and its hospital in the east, and toward the hill of Ain el Mreisseh in the west, passing through Ghandak el Ghamik and the city center, where in a single instant virtually all the stores cease to exist. After that, for the next two or three minutes, the streets everywhere are filled with a white haze from all the dust and smoking debris, and the haggard pedestrians and residents who manage to get out are nothing but a fright of bloodied ghosts, while tens of thousands of men and women, who were living their lives in houses, offices, and businesses over an area the size of a whole city in itself, are now still prisoners in the rubble, the ruins, the blood, the cries, the calls for help…