NMH Magazine : Winter 2007

Leaving Lebanon

I was packing for summer vacation when the violence started. The day before, I’d been in southern Lebanon with my professor, who is a former UN diplomat, and a few other grad students. We sat on the public beach in Tyre while my professor discussed what this region had been like during the Lebanese civil war and Israeli occupation. He identified towns that rival Lebanese militias had attacked, bridges destroyed by the Israeli military, and the proximity of Israel, which stood in clear view across the bay. Little did we know that within 24 hours, those bridges—symbols of reconstruction—would be destroyed again.

At first the fighting seemed like another border flare-up. It’s not unusual for Hezbollah and Israel to exchange fire; I didn’t think the violence would escalate. The second morning after returning from the south, however, I awoke to the sound of bombing. When I learned that the airport, the usual exit route for Western travelers, had been bombed, I realized this was no ordinary conflict. An attack on the brand-new airport, another symbol of the country’s recovery, threatened far more than southern Lebanon. It touched every corner of the country.

Throughout the first three days of fighting, life continued somewhat as normal. The streets were unusually quiet, but essential businesses hesitantly opened: grocery stores, coffee shops, restaurants. Flower shops, beach clubs, and hair salons were open too: Lebanon’s fashionable trends and behaviors are not easily suppressed.

By the fourth day, I felt I needed to leave. I had two choices: wait for the American government to send boats to carry US citizens to Cyprus, or go by taxi to Damascus or Amman and fly home from there. A group of friends arranged for a cab out of Lebanon. Our plan was to leave at five am on the fifth day. Throughout the night, heavy bombing of Beirut’s suburbs rattled my windows and shook my bed. I’d been warned that it was dangerous to leave by car, so in the end, I backed out of that taxi ride.

The fifth day’s atmosphere matched my sleep-deprived mood. The city was silent. There was no traffic along the ocean corniche; no loud jackhammers pounded out the construction of high rises. The labor force—mostly Syrian workers—had fled. A normal day of tourism and beach parties was instead still and grey.

I left Beirut the next day by taxi, risking the drive because my friends had safely made the journey the day before. We drove into the mountains early in the morning, and from there we could see the northern half of Beirut glittering with streetlights. Smoke from the southern half billowed from burning fuel reserves destroyed a few days earlier. After passing through the mountains, we drove across the Bekaa valley, where houses were still in flames from overnight bombings. As I walked into the border crossing station, a bomb exploded in the village we’d just passed through.

As an American, I was privileged to have a passport that allowed me to travel to Jordan. I was even luckier to have a family who booked me a flight to the United States a few days later. I left Beirut with profound sadness for the city and for friends who remained trapped. I left behind most of my belongings, a funded research project, and a thesis proposal.

Safely back in the United States, I worried constantly about my Lebanese and American friends who chose to stay. They stayed, hoping for a better future for the country that we’ve all witnessed struggle so hard. I am full of sadness after being in the presence of so much violence and fear. Beirut has now become a place of broken hearts, a place where hope is hard to find. But Lebanon is a place worth saving even now, even after the bombs, and I look forward to seeing it again.

Alex Fischer ’01 graduated from Wesleyan in 2005 with a dual degree in political theory and Arab studies. At the American University of Beirut, he researched ancient hydraulic structures in Lebanon and how they’re still used today. Fischer plans to go back to Lebanon and hopes to finish his research. He lives in Montpelier, Vermont.

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