There are places where the sound of a bomb belongs. Accompanied by black and white photos compacted into the digestible size of a screen, or in a war torn city whose buildings echo the sadness of its people. But Badaro is a sleepy Christian quarter of Beirut: its Volvos sit neatly next to pavements and its little old ladies could be an export from a Sicilian market or French boulangerie.
I was emptying the bins when the bomb exploded and everything went quiet. The office worker across the road straightened his tie and went back inside and the builder next to me stubbed out his cigarette. After all, this is Beirut, where people appease their cramped living conditions with a dynamic mix of Arabic and Mediterranean culture. But it was the silence that made everything so different. The sirens waited at least an hour, as if to check whether the sleeping dragon of Lebanon’s dark past really had decided to emerge from hibernation. As Beirutis took to Twitter to voice their concerns, we climbed to the top of our apartment block where a chimney of smoke announced that something hostile had arrived.
The next day as news came in that the blast had killed the head of the Intelligence Service, the streets were empty. Usually bustling bars were boarded up and Beirut’s suffocating traffic had been replaced by an eery trickle of army convoys and black Cadillacs. The most poignant sight was a little girl’s birthday party in a nearby café; her curiosity about the lack of friends clashed with the worried faces of her parents.
The weak foundations of the Lebanese state are constantly strained by different communities who, although living in relative harmony, have totally different perceptions of the direction Lebanon should take and with whom her future lies. On the streets, the majestic cedar flag jostles for attention amongst the many sectarian and religious flags. Thanks to economic and political uncertainty, many of Lebanon’s brightest fled its borders in the eighties.
This is not to say Lebanon cannot work. Lebanon must work. Lebanon is the only place in the Middle East where minority groups have made real advances and where there is genuine promise of a more tolerant offshoot of Islam. I urge the Lebanese to put away their many different flags on the day of Wissam al-Hassan’s funeral, be it the green of Shiite Hezbollah or the geometric cedar of the Phalangists, and fly the majestic cedar of the mother country. If there is one thing that Lebanon does well, it is difference, be it from the autocracy of her neighbours or the fledgling openness of her art scene. The Lebanese must realise this and embrace their differences and not allow their rich civilisation to be destroyed by a state of mistrust and fear. I therefore urge the Lebanese to remember the promise of their unique situation, because if there is one thing that does not belong in Lebanon, it is silence.
