Beirut usually is a busy town. It is noisy, loud, bustling with energy and traffic, yelling people, incoming airplanes and car horns, police sirens, ambulances, building sites and dust. It is a constant cacophony. Somehow the heat seems to amplify the sounds as well.
But right now, it sounds like a provincial village right after lunch time. The streets are empty, not a soul in sight. Shops are closed, and only those with urgent business venture out on the streets. The beaches are deserted; kids do not play out.
People monitor every bang, every clang in the neighborhood. “Was that a bomb?” they ask. But it is false alarm. Bombs of this magnitude do not explode that close together. There will be at least a fortnight of some peace. There may be lesser bombs. But not big ones, like yesterday’s.
A friend of mine has taken that exact same road maybe 400 times, if not more. She tried to see the positive side of it. “Well, we know that this beach at least is safe now.” After all, what are the odds they put a bomb in the same place twice? Besides, the man they targeted is dead now. And chances that other MP’s will be going to the beach anytime soon are slim, I’d say.
My son calls me; he wants to visit me at work. Shall I take the risk and let him walk? I guess it is safe today. Next week maybe not.
I hear birds, and dogs barking. I hear the humming of AC’s. But nothing else. The town is dead for the moment. I like Beirut this way. Quiet, serene (seemingly), I am the only car on the road.
Business will pick up again tomorrow. Hesitantly at first, but by Sunday it will be back in full force. People forget quickly. Until the next bomb explodes, of course.
But right now, it sounds like a provincial village right after lunch time. The streets are empty, not a soul in sight. Shops are closed, and only those with urgent business venture out on the streets. The beaches are deserted; kids do not play out.
People monitor every bang, every clang in the neighborhood. “Was that a bomb?” they ask. But it is false alarm. Bombs of this magnitude do not explode that close together. There will be at least a fortnight of some peace. There may be lesser bombs. But not big ones, like yesterday’s.
A friend of mine has taken that exact same road maybe 400 times, if not more. She tried to see the positive side of it. “Well, we know that this beach at least is safe now.” After all, what are the odds they put a bomb in the same place twice? Besides, the man they targeted is dead now. And chances that other MP’s will be going to the beach anytime soon are slim, I’d say.
My son calls me; he wants to visit me at work. Shall I take the risk and let him walk? I guess it is safe today. Next week maybe not.
I hear birds, and dogs barking. I hear the humming of AC’s. But nothing else. The town is dead for the moment. I like Beirut this way. Quiet, serene (seemingly), I am the only car on the road.
Business will pick up again tomorrow. Hesitantly at first, but by Sunday it will be back in full force. People forget quickly. Until the next bomb explodes, of course.
And this is how we live.
1 comment:
i too discovered your blog today.. great to read some realistic non sensational journalism about our great city.
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