a letter from Beirut
The following is a re-post from my friend and co-worker Sean. It definitely helps to put things in perspective.
"I found this very informative and very well written which is pretty impressive considering it was written during the full scale bombardment of Lebanon.
Zoë Horn: A letter from Beirut
Escape from Beirut
July 18, 2006
This is a letter that was received by CBC.ca from Zoë Horn, a Canadian living in Beirut, who wrote about the early days of the Israeli bombing and her rescue from Lebanon.
I wanted to send another update, but I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment, so forgive me if this e-mail is rambling.
Last I wrote, I was sitting in an internet café recounting the first days of the fighting while listening to bombs falling around me. At times, I felt like I was writing a fictional story, as opposed to relaying the reality of my situation.
After writing to you, I went to the house of some friends who had barricaded themselves in their apartment since the beginning of the conflict. Their house had become a hub for our friends, their couches always full of people staring at the television and checking their internet on Jihan's computer. Jihan and her brother, Tarek, are Palestinian students who have been living and studying in Beirut for a year.
These days Tarek is very irritable and Jihan is a nervous wreck. They argue constantly over what to do. Tarek has an Egyptian passport and will not get evacuated. His options are to flee over the border by land or to stay in Beirut and keep an eye on his newly renovated recording and visual media studio.
Jihan has a British passport because of the circumstances of her last evacuation from a war-torn country (Kuwait) and is likely to be given a place on a boat when British citizens begin exiting the country. Jihan was going to be finished her B.A. at the end of this summer, but now she will not be able to finish her credits and is terrified that her current work may not transfer to another school. She is traumatized because she does not want to leave her brother, her apartment, her cat and thinks that maybe the school will stay open, as it did during the civil war.
Paralyzed with frustration
This story is playing out everywhere in Lebanon. I have heard that in times of war you snap into a 'fight or flight' mentality, but I must say that what I see is something different. Yes, some people have been quick to react, but I believe most of the country is experiencing paralysis. They have been paralyzed, not necessarily with fear, but with frustration.
There are the obvious frustrations, like being trapped inside the country with seemingly no exit routes, watching the city and country you love get smashed in front of you, watching your friends grapple with the loss of their life plans, trying to calm the panic in your family members' voices when you know you are perfectly safe and the agony of waiting to hear something, anything from your embassy (more on this later.)
But there are more insidious frustrations that eat at you without you even realizing it. Every time I heard Lebanese friends talk about what to do, I got a cramp in my side. Secretly, I knew that while I would always have some way out, through my government's efforts (whenever that may come), Lebanese nationals are on their own. Also, it tears at you knowing how far Lebanon has come to rebuild itself. Most people on the ground feel that the only certain outcome of this conflict with Israel will be a renewed civil war. It's disastrous and I feel totally depressed.
Right from the beginning of the strikes, people started disappearing. What I mean to say is that people I have known in Lebanon, come to befriend, come to cherish, have been scattering. Every few hours, my phone would beep to let me know that someone has gone to hide in the mountains or fled over the border.
No word for Canadians
Upwards of 100,000 people are supposed to be evacuated to the tiny Cyprus, having left most of their things behind and with limited transport off of the island. Trapped again. But what option did most people have? We heard constant reports about the Israelis bombing the highways and the border checkpoints.
The evacuations seemed the most likely exit for most of those who wanted to leave. The French and the Dutch had been told to get ready for Monday. The Germans had been told that they were going by land on Monday or Tuesday, the Americans and British had been told that they would be evacuated by sea over a period of several days to a week and that they would have to pay for it. And the Canadians had heard nothing.
On Saturday morning, Shirin told me that a United Nations NGO had arranged an SUV convoy out of Beirut to Amman, in Jordan. They told me there was one extra spot and that they were leaving in an hour. I was shocked and immediately felt sick.
I went over to Jihan's place to think for a bit. The bombings were very loud and close on Saturday afternoon and everyone seemed nervous. Jihan and Tarek were arguing about whether Jihan should leave; others were on the phone with their embassies and some were talking about how they were going to stick it out. I waited for a bit and then told everyone that I had been offered a ride over the Syrian border into Jordan. The conversations quickly turned to whether or not this was a stupid move. Jihan seemed sort of angry at me. I understood. It was not a good sensation to feel like I was abandoning people.
I sat silent for most of the afternoon, receiving no word. I sort of secretly hoped the convoy had left without me. Everyone in the house decided to go for a snack and then to our favourite neighborhood bar. Most streets were completely empty and almost all shops were closed.
War? What war?
One store that was open was the awesome independent video store on the corner. When we walked inside, the owner was making a cappuccino and talking and laughing about new releases. War? What war? He had lived through 30 years of conflict and he jokingly called this a "mosquito bite."
We went down to Faysal's for manakeesh and snacks and later moved up to De Prague (the bar) and ordered mint-lemonades. My phone rang and Shirin told me the cars were here and they were leaving in 15 minutes. I freaked out. OK, I was going. This was my best shot to get out quickly and without the evacuation. The drivers were professional, they had travelled the route twice already and the convoy was full of NGO staff. I hugged everyone and exchanged e-mails. I told them I would text them if I made it to the border.
I half-jogged to my apartment with a mix of exhilaration and dread. I threw all my last bits into my bags and dragged everything down to the sidewalk were I grabbed the only cab in 10 minutes to go up to the Crown Plaza where Shirin and the others were being picked up. When I got there everyone was standing nervously in the lobby.
We were going with Katinka, a Romanian NGO worker with no visas, Herman, the South African senior official, and Herman's wife and family who were Iraqi and had just fled Iraq because an uncle had been taken hostage. They have all worked and lived in Afghanistan and Iraq and they were nervous. Can you imagine how I felt?
The cars were supposed to come in 10 minutes but a half hour later, the last truck still hadn't arrived because it had been blocked by a bomb at the Beirut port. The Israelis had just bombed Batroun, Jbeil and the lighthouse and the port, Manara. These were all very close to us and not obvious targets, so we were confused and frightened.
Herman's wife, visibly alarmed and tremendously stressed, started to scream at Herman and some of the Jordanian drivers. People were gathering in front of the hotel to ask us where we were going and how we were getting there. Some rich Lebanese staying at the hotel asked of they could come with us. They offered a lot of money.
A jolt from sadness
It was almost dark when the last car made it. Katinka wanted to wait until morning and go with other NGO evacuees. We were all very stressed out and hesitant. We were organized into the four huge Jordanian trucks and we sped away. There was no one on the streets and for the first time since my arrival in Beirut, and probably the history of the city, no traffic jams to contend with. The city was desolate and grey from the smoke. We were speeding along when our driver turned down a street to follow the same route he had arrived to Beirut on, when another driver honked to remind him that it had since been blocked by a rocket blast. I was jolted out of my sadness and suddenly felt very alert.
As we left the city on a open road, Katinka commented that it reminded her of the drive on the road from the Baghdad airport. No one responded.
Our driver was clearly nervous he wouldn't respond to any of our questions and he was gripping the wheel so tightly we could see the tendons in his hands. We were driving on winding backroads across the mountains east of Lebonan and parallel to the Damascus highway. Our cars passed families sitting outside their homes in the mountains, eating meals together, watching outdoor TV sets, and even a father playing basketball with his little sons in the dark.
After too much silence, Shirin started asking me about Canada and so I monologued about Canada for an hour and a half, right through the bomb blasts in the distance and up to the Syrian border. I think everyone just wanted someone to talk, and I feel better when I'm talking, so that was that. I relayed my love of Toronto's neighborhoods and Montreal's culture and Vancouver's scenery and the East Coast's charm. I made up a story about Sikh cowboys in Alberta (it involved turbans under 10-gallon hats) for laughs and tried to answer an inquiry about prairie oysters (he's British).
Almost safe
I got so wrapped up in extolling the virtues of Canada that I blocked out my fear of being bombed off the road, and before I knew it, we had made it to the exit point. We had expected hours of waiting at the border, but at 12:30 at night and at such an obscure exit point, it wasn't nearly as bad as we had expected. We filled out exit cards for Lebanon and texted our friends to let them know we had made it. I talked to several people on the phone to reassure them and wish them luck in their own departures. It was sad, but I was very relieved to (almost) be safe.
With few hitches, our car drove out of Lebanon and into no-man's land on the way to the Syrian entry. That was it; our phones didn't work anymore and we were out. It was such a mix of emotion and we all hugged in celebration and to comfort us. Suddenly our driver relaxed and started talking to us. We waited for another hour at the Syrian side for visas (we had to bribe the officials for Katinka's because they think all Eastern European women are prostitutes) and then we drove into Syria. The lights of the cars came on and it wasn't a war zone anymore.
An hour and a half through Syria and we were at the Jordanian-Syrian border. There were the usual delays but no one cared anymore. We were just extremely drained and tired and our main concern was keeping our driver awake. At 4 a.m., we arrived in downtown Amman.
The car went to drop me off first but there was no answer at the house I was hoping to stay at. I had the car leave me at the Crown Plaza up the road and, bleary eyed, I said goodbye. I dragged my bags to the front desk and asked for a room. "Do you have a reservation?" "No." "Well, we don't have any rooms." I walked around the corner and burst into tears for the second time that day. It was just too much for me and I felt so alone.
I must have looked really pathetic because they scrounged up a room for me for just the night and even gave me a cheap rate. I don't normally advise crying as a bargaining tactic, but I guess it can really work. At 5 a.m., I got up to my room and collapsed.
No help from Canada
So yesterday I finally contacted people I knew here and I'm staying at a house because there are no hotel rooms available anywhere in Amman. The people I hoped to stay here with are not in town right now, and the house is under construction, but I got in touch with the staff at the house and I'm bunking with the housekeepers in the basement.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do now. First, I need to write a hysterical letter to the newspapers and the government about the absence of communication and help being given to Canadians in Lebanon.
Today, seven Canadians were killed in strikes and I hold the Canadian government responsible. Ottawa did not take the action it needed to at the beginning of this conflict even though Canadian nationals are a huge portion of the Lebanese population. Prime Minister Stephen Harper is enraging me.
The embassy staff in Beirut are totally overwhelmed and not getting the support they need from Ottawa. No Canadians in Lebanon have any clue what to do; there are something like 40,000 Canadians in Lebanon.
Yesterday, I received an e-mail from the government saying they are working on it, but most people in the country no longer have access to the internet. Other countries are sending regular texts to their citizens, which is very effective.
The Canadian situation in Lebanon is outrageous and people need to be alarmed. Harper is not acting fast enough and neglecting citizens in favour of fostering cozy political ties with U.S. President George W. Bush and other like-minded fellows. He isn't even criticizing the Israelis while they bomb Canadians.
I need to take a breath.
I will now have to figure out how to get home from here. My old tickets to Canada are no longer useful, so I will be trying to sort that out over the next few days. For now, be assured that I am safe and out of Beirut. Please keep sending your good thoughts to everyone still going through this nightmare. Miss you all, XO Zoe."
"I found this very informative and very well written which is pretty impressive considering it was written during the full scale bombardment of Lebanon.
Zoë Horn: A letter from Beirut
Escape from Beirut
July 18, 2006
This is a letter that was received by CBC.ca from Zoë Horn, a Canadian living in Beirut, who wrote about the early days of the Israeli bombing and her rescue from Lebanon.
I wanted to send another update, but I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed at the moment, so forgive me if this e-mail is rambling.
Last I wrote, I was sitting in an internet café recounting the first days of the fighting while listening to bombs falling around me. At times, I felt like I was writing a fictional story, as opposed to relaying the reality of my situation.
After writing to you, I went to the house of some friends who had barricaded themselves in their apartment since the beginning of the conflict. Their house had become a hub for our friends, their couches always full of people staring at the television and checking their internet on Jihan's computer. Jihan and her brother, Tarek, are Palestinian students who have been living and studying in Beirut for a year.
These days Tarek is very irritable and Jihan is a nervous wreck. They argue constantly over what to do. Tarek has an Egyptian passport and will not get evacuated. His options are to flee over the border by land or to stay in Beirut and keep an eye on his newly renovated recording and visual media studio.
Jihan has a British passport because of the circumstances of her last evacuation from a war-torn country (Kuwait) and is likely to be given a place on a boat when British citizens begin exiting the country. Jihan was going to be finished her B.A. at the end of this summer, but now she will not be able to finish her credits and is terrified that her current work may not transfer to another school. She is traumatized because she does not want to leave her brother, her apartment, her cat and thinks that maybe the school will stay open, as it did during the civil war.
Paralyzed with frustration
This story is playing out everywhere in Lebanon. I have heard that in times of war you snap into a 'fight or flight' mentality, but I must say that what I see is something different. Yes, some people have been quick to react, but I believe most of the country is experiencing paralysis. They have been paralyzed, not necessarily with fear, but with frustration.
There are the obvious frustrations, like being trapped inside the country with seemingly no exit routes, watching the city and country you love get smashed in front of you, watching your friends grapple with the loss of their life plans, trying to calm the panic in your family members' voices when you know you are perfectly safe and the agony of waiting to hear something, anything from your embassy (more on this later.)
But there are more insidious frustrations that eat at you without you even realizing it. Every time I heard Lebanese friends talk about what to do, I got a cramp in my side. Secretly, I knew that while I would always have some way out, through my government's efforts (whenever that may come), Lebanese nationals are on their own. Also, it tears at you knowing how far Lebanon has come to rebuild itself. Most people on the ground feel that the only certain outcome of this conflict with Israel will be a renewed civil war. It's disastrous and I feel totally depressed.
Right from the beginning of the strikes, people started disappearing. What I mean to say is that people I have known in Lebanon, come to befriend, come to cherish, have been scattering. Every few hours, my phone would beep to let me know that someone has gone to hide in the mountains or fled over the border.
No word for Canadians
Upwards of 100,000 people are supposed to be evacuated to the tiny Cyprus, having left most of their things behind and with limited transport off of the island. Trapped again. But what option did most people have? We heard constant reports about the Israelis bombing the highways and the border checkpoints.
The evacuations seemed the most likely exit for most of those who wanted to leave. The French and the Dutch had been told to get ready for Monday. The Germans had been told that they were going by land on Monday or Tuesday, the Americans and British had been told that they would be evacuated by sea over a period of several days to a week and that they would have to pay for it. And the Canadians had heard nothing.
On Saturday morning, Shirin told me that a United Nations NGO had arranged an SUV convoy out of Beirut to Amman, in Jordan. They told me there was one extra spot and that they were leaving in an hour. I was shocked and immediately felt sick.
I went over to Jihan's place to think for a bit. The bombings were very loud and close on Saturday afternoon and everyone seemed nervous. Jihan and Tarek were arguing about whether Jihan should leave; others were on the phone with their embassies and some were talking about how they were going to stick it out. I waited for a bit and then told everyone that I had been offered a ride over the Syrian border into Jordan. The conversations quickly turned to whether or not this was a stupid move. Jihan seemed sort of angry at me. I understood. It was not a good sensation to feel like I was abandoning people.
I sat silent for most of the afternoon, receiving no word. I sort of secretly hoped the convoy had left without me. Everyone in the house decided to go for a snack and then to our favourite neighborhood bar. Most streets were completely empty and almost all shops were closed.
War? What war?
One store that was open was the awesome independent video store on the corner. When we walked inside, the owner was making a cappuccino and talking and laughing about new releases. War? What war? He had lived through 30 years of conflict and he jokingly called this a "mosquito bite."
We went down to Faysal's for manakeesh and snacks and later moved up to De Prague (the bar) and ordered mint-lemonades. My phone rang and Shirin told me the cars were here and they were leaving in 15 minutes. I freaked out. OK, I was going. This was my best shot to get out quickly and without the evacuation. The drivers were professional, they had travelled the route twice already and the convoy was full of NGO staff. I hugged everyone and exchanged e-mails. I told them I would text them if I made it to the border.
I half-jogged to my apartment with a mix of exhilaration and dread. I threw all my last bits into my bags and dragged everything down to the sidewalk were I grabbed the only cab in 10 minutes to go up to the Crown Plaza where Shirin and the others were being picked up. When I got there everyone was standing nervously in the lobby.
We were going with Katinka, a Romanian NGO worker with no visas, Herman, the South African senior official, and Herman's wife and family who were Iraqi and had just fled Iraq because an uncle had been taken hostage. They have all worked and lived in Afghanistan and Iraq and they were nervous. Can you imagine how I felt?
The cars were supposed to come in 10 minutes but a half hour later, the last truck still hadn't arrived because it had been blocked by a bomb at the Beirut port. The Israelis had just bombed Batroun, Jbeil and the lighthouse and the port, Manara. These were all very close to us and not obvious targets, so we were confused and frightened.
Herman's wife, visibly alarmed and tremendously stressed, started to scream at Herman and some of the Jordanian drivers. People were gathering in front of the hotel to ask us where we were going and how we were getting there. Some rich Lebanese staying at the hotel asked of they could come with us. They offered a lot of money.
A jolt from sadness
It was almost dark when the last car made it. Katinka wanted to wait until morning and go with other NGO evacuees. We were all very stressed out and hesitant. We were organized into the four huge Jordanian trucks and we sped away. There was no one on the streets and for the first time since my arrival in Beirut, and probably the history of the city, no traffic jams to contend with. The city was desolate and grey from the smoke. We were speeding along when our driver turned down a street to follow the same route he had arrived to Beirut on, when another driver honked to remind him that it had since been blocked by a rocket blast. I was jolted out of my sadness and suddenly felt very alert.
As we left the city on a open road, Katinka commented that it reminded her of the drive on the road from the Baghdad airport. No one responded.
Our driver was clearly nervous he wouldn't respond to any of our questions and he was gripping the wheel so tightly we could see the tendons in his hands. We were driving on winding backroads across the mountains east of Lebonan and parallel to the Damascus highway. Our cars passed families sitting outside their homes in the mountains, eating meals together, watching outdoor TV sets, and even a father playing basketball with his little sons in the dark.
After too much silence, Shirin started asking me about Canada and so I monologued about Canada for an hour and a half, right through the bomb blasts in the distance and up to the Syrian border. I think everyone just wanted someone to talk, and I feel better when I'm talking, so that was that. I relayed my love of Toronto's neighborhoods and Montreal's culture and Vancouver's scenery and the East Coast's charm. I made up a story about Sikh cowboys in Alberta (it involved turbans under 10-gallon hats) for laughs and tried to answer an inquiry about prairie oysters (he's British).
Almost safe
I got so wrapped up in extolling the virtues of Canada that I blocked out my fear of being bombed off the road, and before I knew it, we had made it to the exit point. We had expected hours of waiting at the border, but at 12:30 at night and at such an obscure exit point, it wasn't nearly as bad as we had expected. We filled out exit cards for Lebanon and texted our friends to let them know we had made it. I talked to several people on the phone to reassure them and wish them luck in their own departures. It was sad, but I was very relieved to (almost) be safe.
With few hitches, our car drove out of Lebanon and into no-man's land on the way to the Syrian entry. That was it; our phones didn't work anymore and we were out. It was such a mix of emotion and we all hugged in celebration and to comfort us. Suddenly our driver relaxed and started talking to us. We waited for another hour at the Syrian side for visas (we had to bribe the officials for Katinka's because they think all Eastern European women are prostitutes) and then we drove into Syria. The lights of the cars came on and it wasn't a war zone anymore.
An hour and a half through Syria and we were at the Jordanian-Syrian border. There were the usual delays but no one cared anymore. We were just extremely drained and tired and our main concern was keeping our driver awake. At 4 a.m., we arrived in downtown Amman.
The car went to drop me off first but there was no answer at the house I was hoping to stay at. I had the car leave me at the Crown Plaza up the road and, bleary eyed, I said goodbye. I dragged my bags to the front desk and asked for a room. "Do you have a reservation?" "No." "Well, we don't have any rooms." I walked around the corner and burst into tears for the second time that day. It was just too much for me and I felt so alone.
I must have looked really pathetic because they scrounged up a room for me for just the night and even gave me a cheap rate. I don't normally advise crying as a bargaining tactic, but I guess it can really work. At 5 a.m., I got up to my room and collapsed.
No help from Canada
So yesterday I finally contacted people I knew here and I'm staying at a house because there are no hotel rooms available anywhere in Amman. The people I hoped to stay here with are not in town right now, and the house is under construction, but I got in touch with the staff at the house and I'm bunking with the housekeepers in the basement.
I'm not sure what I'm going to do now. First, I need to write a hysterical letter to the newspapers and the government about the absence of communication and help being given to Canadians in Lebanon.
Today, seven Canadians were killed in strikes and I hold the Canadian government responsible. Ottawa did not take the action it needed to at the beginning of this conflict even though Canadian nationals are a huge portion of the Lebanese population. Prime Minister Stephen Harper is enraging me.
The embassy staff in Beirut are totally overwhelmed and not getting the support they need from Ottawa. No Canadians in Lebanon have any clue what to do; there are something like 40,000 Canadians in Lebanon.
Yesterday, I received an e-mail from the government saying they are working on it, but most people in the country no longer have access to the internet. Other countries are sending regular texts to their citizens, which is very effective.
The Canadian situation in Lebanon is outrageous and people need to be alarmed. Harper is not acting fast enough and neglecting citizens in favour of fostering cozy political ties with U.S. President George W. Bush and other like-minded fellows. He isn't even criticizing the Israelis while they bomb Canadians.
I need to take a breath.
I will now have to figure out how to get home from here. My old tickets to Canada are no longer useful, so I will be trying to sort that out over the next few days. For now, be assured that I am safe and out of Beirut. Please keep sending your good thoughts to everyone still going through this nightmare. Miss you all, XO Zoe."