With Militias Offstage, Beirut No Longer a Theater of War

By Marilyn Raschka

The air-conditioned coaches are filled with camera-toting types looking very much "the tourist. " They point, stare and chat with their seatmates as the bus bounces along the old Green Line crossing near Beirut port. Rutted by 15 years of war and neglect, flooded with leaking waste water and crammed with port-bound trucks, this halfmile stretch leads to the city's hottest "tourist" attraction, the ruined remains of Martyrs' Square, the old city center.

The happy bouncing tourists are the latest phenomenon of peace. Although they are, in fact, Lebanese, even the ever-present soft drink vendors jokingly call them tourists. "Welcome to your country," one expects them to say.

They leave the bus and climb up the base of the bronze statue that gave the square its name. The four figures commemorate martyred Lebanese patriots whom the Ottomans hanged in 1916 for their independent ideas. The statue was riddled by bullets over the 15 years of recent conflict, as were thousands of modern-day Lebanese martyrs.

Click, click. The pictures are taken. Then the group wanders around the devastated square guessing and arguing about what was what 16 years ago. Those under 30 can't play the game. They are too young to remember.

The Serious Business of Tourism

Once the city's business center, the "Bourj, " as Martyrs' Square is called locally, is again showing signs of commercial life. At first it was only Pepsi, Seven-Up and bottled water displayed on carton boxes. Then beer was added. Old-fashioned ice boxes now assure the drinks are served cold. Cigarettes and candy came next. And now that the serious business of tourism has begun, flash batteries and film—choice of two brands—are available.

Monday morning office conversation used to center on which video you watched over the weekend. Now one hears tales of adventure. Trips north to the Cedars, east to Afka cave where the Greek legend of Adonis was born, or south to Tyre and its Roman hippodrome. Worthy of note, these conversations often end with "and next week we're going to…" The Lebanese as tourist is making a good showing, even if the stage is still politically and economically shaky.

A second category of "tourists" are beginning to arrive. This variety carries two passports. The first is always Lebanese; the second can be French, American, Canadian, Australian, etc. They fled the war for a better life abroad but have made periodic trips back to visit their families through the years. This year, however, is different. One recent arrival told her friends, "We're here on a jawlet-istikshaaf," meaning a scouting-out visit, or a "look-see."

To return or not to return is the question for thousands of homesick Lebanese. Beirut bound flights are booked solid through September. The scouting-out season has begun.

In the villages, balconies have sprouted colorful mattresses put out in the sun for airing. Houses have been given a double spring cleaning. The last of the artichoke crop is left in place for a soon-to-arrive nephew because his aunt remembers how he loves them.

Village girls of marriageable age thumb through fashion magazines for eye-catching haircuts and the latest styles. Village matchmakers, usually an aunt or a grandmother, find themselves busy for the first time in years. A young doctor coming from Baltimore might want a wife.

But the real test of peace for many Lebanese is the hoped-for return of the Western community, especially the Americans. Rumor has it that hundreds of families of Gulf based servicemen will use Lebanon as a halfway meeting point this summer. Even the reminder that 12 Westerners, six of them Americans, still are held hostage doesn't dent credulity.

Dents of another kind brought reality to a Lebanese-Australian who came from Sidney for a look-see. Determined to get into the swing of things as soon as possible, the traveler insisted that he drive to the village straight from the airport. Much against his uncle's wishes, he took the wheel. Less than five minutes down the road he was hit broadside by a driver who brandished a pistol, thus making sure there would be no arguments.

Although car accidents are chance occurrences, water and electricity cuts are as predictable as the setting of the summer sun. Even if there is enough water for a shower, the question is, "Has there been enough electricity today to heat it up?" Paying a call in Beirut involves walking up endless flights of stairs if the electricity is off.

Another chronic problem in both cities and villages is garbage disposal. A Lebanese-American couple tells the story of their two year-old who looked out the car window his first day in Beirut and shouted: "Daddy, what a mess!" The mayor of Beirut, Shafik Sardook, agrees. Not long ago he claimed that Beirut was the dirtiest city in the world.

The militias are off the stage and the good guys are walking on. But the cast still has to clean up the act, repair the roads and enforce law and order before those dreamed-of foreigners start booking passage for Beirut.

Marilyn Raschka is a free-lance writer who lives in Beirut, where she is an editor of the Americans for Justice in the Middle East newsletter.