It's a gorgeous afternoon in Beirut, the sky is a clear Kodak blue, the sun warm, a soft breeze blows cold. A quiet day it is, quiet days they have been preceding the holidays. The usual frenzy is palpably (understandably) dimmed. Everything seems smaller, shrunk to a barely functional size, Christmas decorations, the commerce of gift-giving, celebrations. The mobilization in downtown Beirut, where more often than not one can hear Christmas carols blaring in English on one square and thundering calls for overthrow of government on the square right adjacent to it, is also a little dimmed. Much to my surprise (but that's the result of my own failing), Beirut has managed to cope with the political upheavals with the two factions effectively looking away from one another. Even when cars jam in traffic along the periphery of the protest area, you look around and see drivers chatting away casually with their passengers, taxi drivers are able to have conversations worlds removed even when the outpour of either Christmas caroling or revolutionary fervor are deafening. The country is stuck in an impasse, we have been granted a lull for the holidays (Christmas, New Year's, Adha and Armenian Christmas... who knows). On the one hand the protestors promise to up the ante and stage violent disruptions (civil disobedience) after the holidays, and on the other hand the other side is bracing for more assassinations. They are all living martyrs, potentially. There is no resolution for the present conflict in sight. Blood will be spilled. It will have to. Since the assassination of Hariri, this country seems to be living a big noir moment, at moments I suspected the script to be pretty bad, closer to dinner theater than fiction from the 1930s and 1940s, but I have been systematically surprised with the turn of events. Except for Bogie and Bacall, all the motifs of noir novels are here, added to them, hordes of ghosts from unsettled deaths, unavenged assassinations. I have grown in the habit of writing that Beirut is now the realm where Stephen King would be king and Guy Debord never dreamed such a spectacle, and if the two should have ever met, it would have been here.
Continue »