Reaffirmation - One Week Later

By Ashley Westerman

cross posted from http://ashleysu.wordpress.com

I know this is a bit late; but it took me about a week to get up the courage to write it out – better late than never.

Few people have seen misery.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying many people don’t experience misery, but I think the lucky ones who don’t have to experience it, do not often see it. Misery, some could say, may be a harsh vocabulary but I have contemplated long and hard and this is how I have chosen to describe what I saw yesterday. 

Today our group visited what few in the US will ever get to experience: Palestinian refugee camps.

We visited two camps: Bourj al-Barajneh and Sabra and Chatila, the latter being the largest refugee camp in Beirut.

The night before I was hesitant to go to sleep for I did not know what the next day would bring. I have heard horror stories about the refugee camps and knew I needed to mentally prepare myself for what I was about to experience. I have been to the slums of the Philippines, both in the city and in the countryside. But this was a whole different situation – at least in my eyes. Before I put my head down on the pillow to succumb to the night, I decided that I was going to approach the next day as a quiet observer. Not necessarily a journalist, but instead an outside observer whose only goal in being there was to experience. I decided that I would write down everything I saw in great detail and listen to all conversations had with as much effort as I could but I knew regardless of the walls I attempted to fortify the night before: tomorrow would be emotional for me.

As I sit here in my new favorite café in Beirut, my eyes tear as I write this. I firmly believe that everyone has times in their lives that they can remember as clearly as if they were still in the moment. This is what the camp was like for me, this is what seeing those people did to me.

At first glance, Bourj al-Barajneh looked much like the Filipino slums I had dredged through before when I was younger. But as mentioned previously, I see this camp and the Palestinian situation much different. In the Philippines I was emotional because those were my people and I was very sad that the majority of them were in dire poverty. It also made me sad because I knew that I could have been any of those children running down the filthy streets with no shoes.

But this was different.

The first thing that struck me was the wall that was built around the refugee camps. Walls, though simple in thought, are very imposing forces – both physically and psychologically. The wall outside of the camp reminded me of the piece of ghetto wall in Holocaust Museum in Washington DC that was brought from overseas. The houses looming above the wall were hollow; made of concrete and plaster. From the outside looking in, one must force themselves to believe that there is life within.

The camp was filthy, the sidewalks uneven and unkempt. Lining the thin walkways was dirt, rock and trash; crushed bottles and bits of paper lay everywhere. Some of the walls of the houses inside were plastered with posters of Palestinian – and even Hezbollah – heroes; the men who would lead these people back to their homeland. Above our heads was a labyrinth of electrical wires, like giant spider webs casting shadows on the filthy street below. Mazes of pipes of all shapes and sizes crawl up and down the walls of the buildings – some leading to drains and others seemingly leading to nowhere. The refugee camps do not receive any government services – no water and no electricity. They must find ways to obtain even the most basic of human needs.

The people in the refugee camp looked worn; even the small children looked older than they should be. Most of the women we saw were elderly and conservative, veiling to move about their prison. Teenagers were sitting about, smoking and gawking at the Americans who had dared to come see their living conditions. As we passed by the open doors and windows of houses, I noticed many of them were dark and very small; but I think it was the cry of infants lying on hard concrete floors was what got to me the most. Since it is summer time, some of the older yet still very small children were everywhere running around and playing, as if so used to their situation that they didn’t even notice they were playing tag among piles of trash.

As we made our way through the small alleyways, I noticed a mural drawn on the side of a house: a colorful picture of Jerusalem with the words “When are we going to return?” spray painted in Arabic. Graffiti like this is everywhere in the camp.

Our first stop was at a small grocery and supply store tucked away deep into one of the alleyways. The shop owner, Abdullah Shahidi, said he was forced from his home in Palestine in 1948 and had lived in this very refugee camp since 1953. Before he was driven out of his home, Shahidi was working on a degree in Diesel Mechanics, but since Palestinian refugees are not allowed to work in Lebanon, he could not get a job in that field. He said he had 6 sons (2 of which are currently in Sweden), 2 daughters (both reside in the camp) and over 30 grandchildren all together. His shop was simple, almost too simple with meager supplies inside and not-so-great vegetables sitting in plastic crates on the street outside. Shahidi said he has only had the shop for one year but does not believe it will stay open for long. He said the children who come to get ice cream every day is why he fights to keep the shop open.

When asked who he supported in the Palestine Liberation movement, Shahidi said he supports all of their causes but not one specific organization. He said that he foresees a 3^rd war between Palestine and Israel where all the liberation organizations will come together, defeat Israel and reclaim Palestine. As the old man said this, his body tense and his fists shaking, I could see that he truly believed that their liberation would come. He had passion in his eyes, regardless of the hopelessness that has surrounded him for over 50 years.

Our last stop in Bourj al-Barajneh was inside the house of Ishmel Abdul Ahmed, 74, who had been a resident inside the refugee camp since 1948. Ahmed’s house was a bit “nicer” than most of the other houses we had passed in the camp, but the living conditions were still meager at best. The house was 3 floors, each built as Ahmed’s family grew and as he obtained more building materials throughout his many, many years in the refugee camp. The old man was worn, you could see the years in his eyes, on his hands, on his face. He had not lived an easy life.

Ahmed and his wife, who was also present during our visit, have 6 sons, 3 daughters and 9 grandchildren. Two of his sons are in Sweden, two are in Denmark and the other two are in the United Arab Emirates. Ahmed said that most of his sons left during the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1982 but that he still hears from them by phone every single day. When asked about his daily life in the refugee camp, Ahmed says that he works for the daily and social life of all the people in the camp, getting them water, electricity and building materials. He says that he has lots of friends because of the work he does.

Ahmed says that only has 20% hope that the bill that will allow Palestinian refugees to work in Lebanon will pass in the legislature but still has hope to return to Palestine. He came from a family of farmers, he said, and once owned 100’s of acres of land. Ahmed said that he returned to his home in occupied Palestine in 1973 via a Jordanian visa. When he got to where his home used to be, he said he prayed and cried for hours because it had been taken over by Israeli occupation.

When asked if he would ever return to Palestine, Ahmed said: “Anything is better than living in Lebanon.”

We left the old couple then and headed back to the entrance of, the camp, along the way passing more children and other adults going about their day inside their prison. As we left, we passed a group of elderly, veiled women who smiled at us.

I quietly whispered, “Merhaba” as we passed them. These women made me wonder how people who had lived in such conditions for such a long time could still be so friendly to outsiders – especially to people who were blatantly American.

The van ride to Sabre and Chatila was short and as soon as we arrived, my eyes lay upon another imposing wall; built to keep people in, built to keep people out. We did not actually step foot inside of the largest refugee camp in all of Beirut because of safety issues but we walked far enough into the market that lay right outside of t to get the gist of the type of atmosphere inside. Our guide told us that in all actuality, few Palestinians lived in this refugee camp. Instead it was mostly other foreigners such as Syrians, Iranians and Jordanians who had been uprooted from their homes with nowhere else to go.

Less than a hundred yards into the market; we took a right into what appeared to be a fenced-in, vacant lot. The lot was mostly completely empty, except for some trash that had accumulated near the surround fence and to the right stood two billboards. And finally, directly across from the entrance of the lot on the far side, stood a large granite memorial: the memorial for the Sabra and Chatila Massacre of 1982.

After reading the billboards more closely and as our guide began to talk in a quiet, somber voice, I realized that I was literally standing on the mass grave of about 3,000 Palestinian refugees. Our guide told us that half who died in the massacre were children, 300 of them were Lebanese and 90% of those murdered by forces that day were women and children. He got down on his knees and spread out his hands, to show us that the dead were buried in more than 10 rows.

Our guide took us over to the far side of the lot to see the billboards more closely. They were splashed with giant pictures of murdered children being pulled from the piles of dead bodies one by one. The boards also noted the Qana Massacre of 2006.

As we gazed up at the boards, one my classmates asked: “Why did they do this?”

Our guide simply answered that that is what people have been asking for years, yet it keeps on happening. He then proceeded to tell us one of the most horrific stories I have ever been told in my entire life. He said that during the 1982 massacre of Sabre and Chatila, a woman was being chased into her house by Israeli soldiers. When she got to her house, she retrieved her infant child – still nursing – out of its crib and begged the soldiers not to kill her because she had a child. The soldiers shot her anyway, letting the child fall the floor. After the soldiers left, the baby, old enough to make its way to its mother’s still warm body, somehow got to her breasts and proceeded to suckle. An Israeli soldier heard the infant, came in and snatched the child away from its mother. When the baby began to cry, the soldier threw the child against the wall, letting it fall to the ground, still crying – so the soldier took out his gun and finished the infant off.

I cannot believe that these are the chosen people of God; I cannot believe that these crimes against helpless women and children and the crimes of forcing people from their homes into horrendous conditions are all in the name of some country supposedly assigned to someone by God himself. I cannot believe this is right; this is not right, it is not practical and it certainly is not logical. Furthermore, for the United States to support these actions with weaponry and money is wrong; frustratingly wrong. It’s so blatant – I don’t really understand how people don’t see that this is clearly a black and white issue.

I cannot support the Israeli fight for their own country when they are displacing others, refusing to make them citizens and refusing a two state solution. I cannot support the United States in their endeavor to allow these crimes of humanity to continue. Zionism is an inherently racist idea and these refugee camps are living proof of that.

Seeing these camps, talking to these people and standing above the graves of over 3,000 innocent martyrs only reaffirms my opinions that had been recently only shaped by education. Now that I have the element of actual experience, I am confident is saying that this is where I lie on this issue and there is no logical path that will lead me to think otherwise.

Culture Awe

By Kelsey Thomas

I was asked today if I had any culture shock in my first two weeks in Lebanon. That can be difficult to answer. There are things I love and things that drive me crazy. I am sure this is the case everywhere. But in Lebanon the things I love, I really LOVE. The things I dislike I really DISLIKE.

I love the history. Though it may seem bloody and destructive, it is also rich. We have been to Balbeck and Byblos to see roman ruins. Imagine being among artifacts thousands of years old. I cannot even fathom it. We also went to Damascus, Syria. Damascus is one of the oldest populated cities in the world! I decided I like Beirut better. Here the people are happy, but it didn't feel that way in Damascus.

I love the food. Every new delicacy we try is delicious. One day we had raw meet and baby birds and both very delicious. The food here tastes so fresh and light. It feels more natural than food at home- less preservatives and chemicals. As we travel and eat I can see the importance of food to the people. A meal here is a show. You start with a mezza, or a bunch of small plates of several different foods. Usually there are olives and little bowls of tasty dips like baba ghanouj, hommos and fattoush. Then the main course is a fish or meat dish. It is about a good meal and spending time with people. The rush to eat and go is not on the mind. People will sit and eat here for hours, chatting and passing the time. It's nice to see people enjoying each other's company instead of walking head down to the closest McDonalds -- and some shisha after dinner to relax isn't too bad either.

I like and dislike the people. It is the same as everywhere else. Most of the people are so friendly and welcoming. Sometimes I get a little annoyed because I don't feel like talking to people anymore and someone new will come up to chat. It is nice to be welcomed but sometimes you just want to shop at H&M. Haha! But, at least they don't act annoyed with us like they did in Italy last summer. I do dislike some of the people. They can be very snobby. The women tend to think they are the most beautiful and wonderful and should be treated that way. They either say hello and are friendly or walk right past us, their noses in the air. But hey, there are snobs everywhere – we all went to high school. The guys have apparently learned some phrases in English because we hear the same things over and over again. Who doesn't like a compliment now and then?

I DISLIKE the way things are run. It took us two weeks to get the Internet. We went from person to person waiting for help. Every office just sends you to a different office. Efficiency is just not present. I feel like the whole system works as individuals rather than as a team. No one can answer more than one question. It can be incredibly frustrating when you're hot, carrying a bag of laundry and just walked up a hill comparable to Everest. Terry Anderson did say, “Nothing is easy in Lebanon.” I think he's right.

Also, that whole concept of a line. Non-existent. I've learned to just push my way to the front.

Finally, I LOVE the social scene. I have never been to a place with such a exciting night life. The people are fun and I am trying to learn Arabic dance.

As our trip unfolds, more and more comes out. Like I said before, “Lebanon is like an onion.” We peel another layer every day. If we wrote everything we would spend more time typing than learning. I write about what I would want to know. It may not be deep or philosophical but I do think it will help people learn and relate to the country better.

It Is Hot Over Here, or Am I Just At My Wits End?

By Christopher Robbins

I think I know why Beirutis drink – it isn’t the broiling sun or the lack of rain. It isn’t the threats of violence or the ephemeral stability of their political system. It isn’t the long nights and the world-class clubs.

It is the ridiculous bureaucracy that drives them into the bars each evening for intoxicating refreshment.

I have spent the last two weeks trying to get the campus wireless internet working so I can research and write in the relative peace and quiet of my dorm rooms. Let me correct myself, I have wasted the last two weeks on a snipe hunt.

Today was the last straw for me – I have marched up and down the steeply hilled American University campus trying to get an ID, trying to get a log-on, trying to by minutes for my web quota, and then trying to get my lap top configured. For all the walking this has cost me I could have gone from Lexington to Louisville and back and not sweat out the entire moisture content of my body several times over.

I feel like a zit that is about to burst.

I look like a Christmas ham, skin red and glistening with the juices that have been cooked out of me.

I have falafel breath.

I have been to the office of the dean of student affairs, the comptroller’s office, the computing and network services office, the student computing lab in Van Dyck Hall, back to the office of the dean of student affairs, back to the computing and network services office, back to Van Dyck Hall, to the library computing lab, all the way down the hill to the engineering building, back to the comptroller’s office, back to the computing and network services office, and... and...

...and despite my clearly growing frustration I tell no one off, as everyone is very polite and tries to be helpful, but they also don't know how many times I have been sent one place only to be told by someone with a calm voice and smiling face that I'm not where I need to be, that my wild goose chase will end in a different office, in another building, at least half a mile away and 200 feet up or down in elevation. How do the students here find time to study?

But I swallow my anger and follow my instructions with aplomb, hoping that today will be the day. If it isn't, my laptop may take a swan dive off the 6th-story balcony of my dorm room.

Now, finally, they have told me that my internet should work. Let me try to fire the old MacBook up.

Drum roll please. 

Ladies and gentlemen, strike up the band.

We has internets.

Of Cats and Refugees

By Noha El Maraghi

I wanted to write about our AUB campus because it is really gorgeous, but not only that it has a huge cat population that is all friendly. I’m not very cat friendly myself, maybe I’m a little scared of them, but these cats are so sweet. I’m contemplating having one of my own. We found out from a Lebanese friend that this huge cat population actually has designated money from the budget of the university. He said they put aside a good amount of money for these cats to feed them and vaccinate them. Also it is illegal to take any of the cats out of campus or harm them in anyway. One time his friend was cited and fined by the Dean’s office for pushing a cat away from his food on campus. According to him the campus has some cat-keepers that feed and take care of the cats that are left to roam freely in the vast vegetation on campus. 

It is ironic to think of these cats in luxury and the Palestinian refuge camps we visited last week at the same time. While a population of cats is left to flourish and is provided with food and medicine a population of people is left with almost nothing. The two entities cannot be compared because the AUB flourishes from rich parents paying for their kids and apparently the cats, while the Palestinians camps are left to mend for themselves. Nevertheless, it’s hard to mend for yourself when you don’t have the right to work many jobs; limited to the low income, high labor jobs, and you don’t have the right to many other things that are necessary to make a life and integrate in the community. 

The camps are half built slabs of brick and cement with small alleys that you can easily get lost in. There are wires spiraling everywhere. People are making do with what they have, or the lack of it. What struck me about these camps is the suddenness of poverty. Usually when you are going into a poor part of town it progressively gets worse as you go. Here everything seems to be normal outside the boundaries of the camp and as soon as you enter you see how miserable the lives of people are inside.

A Moment

By Ashley Westerman

Cross-posted from http://ashleysu.wordpress.com/

Yesterday as my friends and I walked among the thin forest of remaining Cedars in the mountains of Lebanon, we happened upon a small chapel. The building itself was a surprise to me; I didn’t even see it out of the corner of my eye as we entered the Cedar sanctuary. But regardless we followed Katie into the small door that stood open on the side of the stone building.

Inside I was greeted with the familiar hush of reverence, as I laid my eyes upon one of the simplest yet beautiful sanctuaries I have ever seen. It was a Christian site, evident by the symbols of Jesus and the Virgin Mary. The pews, podium and alter were all made out of Cedar wood; which was appropriate considering we were on a Cedar reserve. The pews were beautifully simple; smoothed and stained with raw wood as the front two legs. Because words escape me to correctly describe it, a picture of the alter is below…

As I sat in the second pew on the left, I breathed in the lingering smell of stone and Cedar with deep breaths. I knew instantly that this was a place I wanted to remember. Caught up in the moment, even with my friends around, I suddenly felt the urge to bow my head in silent prayer. Perhaps it was the Cedars; perhaps it was the mountains; perhaps it was the atmosphere in general this small sanctuary cultivated within itself or perhaps it was the realization of the fact that we were 6 young people on an experience of a lifetime.

Whatever it was, it was beautiful and it was powerful and it brought all of us together at once.

The silence was deafening as I meditated to the soft beat of my own heart, and in the back of my mind, I could hear the other 5 hearts in the room beating to the same, quiet rhythm. I was at ultimate peace for the first time in a very long time.

This moment and the conversations between us all that happened immediately afterward, has sparked my interest in being spiritual again. Though I do not identify with any religion because I am tolerant and considerate of all, I do worship and pray to the One, the overarching, the only almighty God. Even my readings of the Qur’an these past weeks have stirred up a spiritual upheaval within me that I’ve never felt before. I think God meant for us, especially myself, to find this small, beautiful sanctuary. Even as I write this in my cold dorm room, hours later; I still manage to drift into a peaceful trance with a heaviness behind my eyes just thinking about that small, simple place in the middle of the Lebanese mountains.

Though fleeting, I will always remember that moment.

Back to Lebanon - Another View

By Christopher Robbins

At the border

 

Arab border crossings are unusual, especially given my limited experience crossing borders at my own country. People here have not easily taken to the concept of lines – the border is a mob of traffic jams and crowds of people pressing against the counters, passports and customs documents in hand. Luckily we have a good guide and another fluent Arabic speaker with us or the crossing would be a terrible fiasco. As it stands the border crossing takes up the majority of our time in transit as we navigate the bureaucracy of Lebanon and Syria. Serious looking men in uniform, many with guns and handcuffs, are everywhere.

 

The men with handcuffs at the border into Syria are especially disconcerting, and all are watched over by a portrait of President Assad looking very serious. People cut in line, waving currency and passports to try to smooth the transition. Through it all the personnel work with a patient and non-exasperated diligence – our fate is entirely in their hands.

 

On the way back to Lebanon our guide is in an informal race with one of his peers, so we do what we can to smooth the transition and press on ahead of him on foot while he gets the car through customs – but we have difficulty finding the line for foreigners through immigration. In Lebanon and Syria, there are several lines for ‘all nationalities’ and generally one for ‘foreigners’ – the difference? All nationalities refers to Arabs of any origin, while foreigners refers to non-Arabs – the essence of institutional racism.

 

We are told not to take pictures here, not to make small-talk or tell jokes. My always jovial Austrian friend Ralph and I broke decorum by cutting up a little bit in the ‘line’ to get into Syria and faced pressing questions about our ‘business’ in Syria most likely as a result of our giggles. We did not repeat the mistake on the way back through the border. More proof that I am a stranger in a strange land.

 

In Zahle

 

On our return to the more familiar ground of Lebanon we changed back our Syrian currency at a fairly heavy loss (12% for me). From there it was a pleasant drive through the Beqaa valley, Hezbollah country. I didn’t have to be told – the green and yellow flags were enough, along with pictures of prominent Shia clerics and Hezbollah general secretary Hassan Nasrallah.

 

Zahle is a Christian enclave in the valley. We went straight to our hotel, a beautiful luxurious resort with beds as soft as clouds and amazing service. At dinner that night I began to feel ill, and my illness woke me up during the night despite the comfort of my bed and room.

 

The hotel was playing host to a huge Lebanese wedding party, over 1200 people attending. During our dinner that evening the bride arrived on the shoulders of her relatives with Arabic dance music blaring and a huge roar erupted from the crowd. We all wish we could have celebrated with them – Lebanese weddings are no simple affairs. For one thing the legalities of the wedding have to be arranged through the sectarian leaders of each religious community. For this reason it is impossible for inter-sectarian marriages to occur in Lebanon – there are no secular/civil marriages here, a subject of much recent dispute. In 2004 there was an attempt create civil marriages that was quashed by the religious communities and the late prime minister Rafic Hariri. The subject was again raised by large protests for secularism at the end of April, but little movement on the matter has been made in the government – the power of the religious leaders is just too strong.

 

In Balbeck

 

After a queasy breakfast (probably not a good idea), we were on the road to Balbeck, home to some of the most spectacular Roman ruins anywhere in their expansive empire’s wake. The temple of Jupiter, now just a few columns, was once the largest Roman temple ever built. The temple of Bacchus is considered the most intact Roman ruin left. At this time I was becoming woozy and dehydrated – stomach issues, warm weather, and direct sunlight do not mix well.

 

The shop we visited in Beirut was operated by men affiliated with Hezbollah – t-shirts blazoned with the party’s banner were available everywhere, as well as wood carvings, knickknacks and antiquities from all eras of the area’s history. Beautiful jewelry was sold there also and we freely indulged ourselves. The keepers offered us coffee and tea and treated us well, watching our purchases as we toured the site.

 

Also in Balbeck was a museum about Hezbollah’s struggle against Israel, a war they see as a defense against an aggressive foreign power. Implicit in their argument is that they are not a terrorist group – they attack military targets. If Israel were to attack Lebanon again, Hezbollah would attack Israel again, launching rockets once more into the Jewish state. As presented their argument did not seem anti-semitic, but it is clear that they have little love for Zionism or Judaism as a whole.

 

The Forest of the Cedars of God

 

Leaving the Roman ruins and the land of Hezbollah behind, we drove upon a narrow, winding road up into the Lebanese highlands. Zigzagging around tight switchbacks with little space for cars to pass, my stomach lurched with every bump, every turn. Only the stunning scenery compensated for my illness, the road offered incredible views of the Beqaa as we literally climbed into the clouds. The mountains here are so high that there are still patches of snow in the middle of July – and the valleys are so remote that sum farmers flaunt the law and continue to grow small fields of cannabis. At the top of the mountain were men selling roasted nuts – cashews, almonds, peanuts, pistachios. I had no stomach for such things.

 

Down the hill we stopped at al-Arz, the cedars of Lebanon – also known as the Forest of the Cedars of God. Here sat a small grove, barely a forest, that contained some of the few remaining mature Lebanese cedars. Trees thousands of years old towered above us, ancient symbols of this beautiful land. Legend has it that Solomon’s temple was built from these timbers. Our brief stroll through the forest was one of quiet awe.

 

The ride down the mountain, along the beautiful Kadisha Valley with it’s hermit caves and historic monastery, was one of semi-consciousness for me – I was awake enough to snap a few photos through the window of our van before we descended once more to the Mediterranean coast and a drive along the highway back to Beirut.

 

I like Beirut – strong drinks, smart and beautiful people, and not a dull moment, but these two days showed me that there is much more to Lebanon than this jewel of a city. The hinterlands of Lebanon contain peaceful, rustic beauty that is always tinged by the potential for another war.

Beirut Days 9 & 10: The Bekaa Valley, Baalbek and the Cedars (w/ PICS!)

By Ashley Westerman

Today our group returned from a two-day trip from the Bekaa Valley, located in the East of Lebanon. Due to Visa miscommunication, I was forced to stay behind from the trip to Damascus, Syria; something that I am actually pretty sad about. I would have loved to have seen Syria!

Regardless, I traveled to the Bekaa Valley yesterday evening to meet the group at a 5-star hotel called the Grand Hotel Kadre. The hotel was absolutely beautiful; luxurious, fancy and comfortable. We had a some dinner at the hotel restaurant and then settled in for the night. The beds were AMAZING; definitely better than the hard dorm mattresses. The comforter was so thick, it could have been one giant pillow in itself. Needless to say, I slept very soundly.

This morning we got up bright and early to leave for the city of Baalbek. Since it is very difficult to do the city and sites justice, I will just refer you to my PICTURES.

While there we rode camels, visited the Roman ruins of the Temple of Jupiter, a museum of Hezbollah and did some shopping. The ruins were breathtaking; it just blows my mind when I see such giant, elaborate temples built in a time when technology is meager. Even the detail on the columns was interesting to look at because once you think about it: someone had to hand-chisel the details into those Corinthian columns, a task that I’m sure took a very, very long time.

After the ruins we went into a museum set up by Hezbollah. Now, this was a very interesting thing to see, especially since in the US, Hezbollah has been defamed as a terrorist organization. I found this museum very heartfelt to their cause and even the measures they were willing to take to achieve their goals. Yes, it was violent and showed some pretty gory and detailed pictures but I got their point. I now see them as a resistance to a blatant evil – this is logic to me. Perhaps others see it differently, but I am also sure that others have never been to this side of the world and seen what they really fight for and why.

After the museum we finished up our shopping and then headed to the Cedars in the mountains. The ride all together took about 3 hours and took us up and over the peak of one of the mountains. The view was breathtaking, especially since we were clearly above the clouds. When we arrived in the valley of the Cedars, we stopped for some lunch and then walked around the Cedar sanctuary where they are attempting to rebuild the great forest that once stood. The Cedars of Lebanon fell to the Ottoman and Egyptian empires to create their navies so the “forest” was really only a small patch of trees that covered maybe 6 to 8 acres of land.

Our ride back down the mountain and back to Beirut was filled with lovely scenery and many great stories from Terry and Adel. It was really interesting to see the kinds of people and places that lay just above the busy cosmopolitan rush of Beirut in the mountains that are clearly visible, even from the coast of the Mediterranean.

I was very glad to make it out of the city and to escape the heat. The weather in the mountains and the valley was cool but sunny.

I think this weekend we are just hanging around the city and seeing what turns up.