BEIRUT The art of letting the past become the past, the future become the future, and engaging only in the present. The art of confronting regions which have been tormented, mutilated, or lost to things beyond one's control; the art of existing in the contemporary reality of Beirut. The city itself has seen significant rebuilding - one could, perhaps, never encounter war damage if they avoided most of the city. But it exists, and when you encounter it you cannot help but feel uneasy. It is a recent past - even for a young fellow such as myself, the fact that this city is still subject to occasional air attacks from Israel adds a certain intensity to it; perhaps only an intensity which the individual brings. But the other intensities - that of the dichotomy between the two religions in the city, and the legendary hot-blooded middle eastern methods of resolving differences, makes Beirut memorable. The sights are minor and relatively unspectacular; Beirut's true intrigue lies in its ambience as a tired postwar ghosttown desperately trying to regain footing. So far, the going is slow.



Wandering in blocks like this, on friday, they are empty at noon; almost everyone is praying in the mosques. The exceptions are the soldiers standing on guard, the service taxi drivers ever vigilant for opportunity of profit, and the christians who seem to be content staying indoors at times like this. The bullet dotted buildings, some without rooves, some without life, become alive again at this call to prayer. The songs and prayers fill the empty concrete shells with ghosts who rise and live with the prayers. It's all rather creepy if you ask me.

With the muslim prayers blasting through crackling speakers through the streets lined by bullet riddled buildings, the recent war confronts you. It is not the same as ogling at a war monument from even ten years ago; the impact of the damage is significant because this conflict has not yet been resolved.

It is a feeling of passion. for all of the emotional repression due to Allah, the intensity is thick in these streets at prayer time. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck. To think that everyone over 8 years old here was somehow affected by the war - which means everyone you see. They remember the past, and the city also reminds them of it - in Beirut, the disasters of war are not confined to museums but lived beside.

The prayers sail to the sky, and the heavens grasp them. Those voices shout from rooftops and minarets and ignite the dead. It is the shell of a city never to be the same, and the monuments of despair shout back at those who live in the concrete shells.



Part 2- the Bekaa Valley
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* A full account of my visit to this country is available in my yet to be published book, Means To An Exit. If you are an agent or publisher and would like to receive an outline and manuscript, please Contact Me.