[Reader-list] Out of Beirut: Exit Stamp July 17 2006 (Nat Muller)

[geert lovink]

> From: "nat muller" <nat at xs4all.nl>
> http://siegeoflebanon.blogspot.com/
>
> Out of Beirut: Exit Stamp July 17 2006
>
> My Lebanese exit stamp reads July 17th; it was supposed to read August
> 4th. It wasn’t till the next day, Tuesday July 18th that I arrived with
> the second flight of the Dutch evacuation convoy via Aleppo at the
> military airbase in Eindhoven. My friends and family were relieved to 
> see
> me “out of Beirut”, and escaping the violence.  The flurry of smses 
> with
> these 3 simple words “are you out?” keep coming in till today, July 
> 20th.
> It is strange how an exit can take on different connotations, what is
> deemed a lucky escape in one context, is an artistic export product in
> another:  “Out of Beirut” is the name of an exhibition recently held at
> the museum of Modern Art in Oxford.  I had made a mental note to ask my
> artist friends in Beirut to borrow the catalogue from them.  There was 
> no
> time. Nor was there time to say goodbye to friends; it all happened so
> quickly.
>
> I had only registered with the Dutch embassy on Friday July 14th; noone
> was picking up the phone so J. and I decided to go there.  Very few 
> people
> there, just one obviously distressed Dutchman of Lebanese origin.  “I
> haven’t been back since 26 years, and now this”, he tells me.  The 
> lady at
> the counter copies my passport and asks me for phone numbers.  She
> reassures me that now we have only reached “Phase I”, and that no
> evacuation plans are being made.  She advises me to stay in Beirut, and
> not attempt to go to Syria by myself, since the embassy cannot vouch 
> for
> my safety.  Fine, I wasn’t thinking of leaving to Syria, despite the 
> many
> phone calls of Swiss friends urging me to join them just across the 
> border
> in Tartus.
>
> In the meanwhile the situation keeps escalating, and bombs keep 
> pounding
> infrastructure, the South, and the Dahiyeh; the casualties mount.  We 
> move
> from Qasqas to a friend’s place in Achrafieh. By now electricity is on 
> and
> off.  We see the first refugees wandering around bewildered in the 
> streets
> of well-to do Achrafieh. Whenever electricity is on, we are glued to 
> the
> TV.  I joke that the only new Arabic word I learned this time around is
> “khabar ajil” (breaking news).  One wonders when news stops being news,
> how long it will take the world this time to turn its head away with 
> bored
> media saturation; how many more atrocities have to be committed before
> something can be viewed as “news”. There’s a paralysing silence on the
> part of the international community, especially the EU: no official or
> strong condemnation of the disproportionate use of force, absolutely
> nothing.
>
> I am in the middle of an interview with Belgian national radio Sunday
> night, fulminating at how biased the media coverage is, when an sms of 
> the
> Dutch embassy shows up on my phone: “Evacuation at 5.30 am at the Dutch
> embassy; bring money, passport, food, one piece of luggage.” I panic: 
> to
> stay/to go; how can I say goodbye to my friends?  I only have hours.  
> In
> the middle of my panic someone from Foreign Affairs in The Hague calls 
> me.
> His voice is so calm and friendly, as if he rehearsed the words and 
> tone
> to perfection. He inquires whether I had received the sms, whether I 
> was
> fine and had any additional questions.  “Is the crossing to Syria 
> safe”, I
> ask him.  It takes him a few – obviously very composed moments of 
> silence
> to answer me. “ Well, we cannot guarantee that.” “So the only thing
> safeguarding us, are a few flags attached to the buses?” “Well, yes, 
> but
> don’t worry.  Do you have any further questions, Ma’am?”
>
> July 17th, 5.30am. J. and I make it to the Dutch embassy.  The scene is
> surprisingly orderly. This has certainly changed over the past few 
> days,
> as more and more foreign nationals are trying get out of the country.
> While queuing up to register I meet my friend Raed, an artist and
> musician, but now free-lancing as a cameraman for foreign TV stations. 
> I
> break down in sobs; he tries to calm me down…to no avail.  “We will 
> meet
> again soon, Nat, in Amsterdam or in Beirut, inshallah.” I wish I could
> believe him. Later on, I chide myself for crying: I don’t have a right 
> to
> tears, with people’s lives being torn apart, their houses and 
> businesses
> destroyed, their loved ones gone. Where on earth do I get the 
> arrogance to
> weep? My goodbye to J. is very short.  “See you soon”, he says as he
> kisses me. I feel a pang; time has become suspended.  Who knows when
> “soon” will be.  We were supposed to leave together on August 4th for a
> holiday in Holland, now my travel companions are about 250 other Dutch
> nationals, many of them carrying dual citizenship.
>
> We only manage to leave around 7.45 a.m. The coordinators had decided 
> last
> minute that probably it would be a better idea to attach the Dutch 
> flags
> on the roofs of the busses, rather than have them in front.  Well yes, 
> the
> roof is definitely a better idea for aerial vision than the windscreen.
> The whole flag operation takes about an hour. The irony of it all: 
> only a
> week before had we smiled upon the Lebanese passion for football during
> the World Cup, and the exuberant flag parade in the city of favourite
> teams (Italy, Brazil, Germany, you name it). We had joked how easy and
> playful the bearing of a flag was: if your team loses, then you just 
> pick
> another.  How exclusive and devoid of choice the bearing of a flag has
> become now: it can mean your ticket out, and your only guarantee of
> safety, or it means you cannot get out and are fully exposed to the 
> spoils
> of war.
>
> We slowly make our way out of Beirut, passing familiar places. Many 
> people
> weep; it’s heart-breaking. Once in the bus, I start hearing stories. 
> One
> Dutch woman, fluent in Arabic, had come to the embassy with absolutely
> nothing…just the clothes she was wearing.  She had fled her house in
> Dahiyeh with her kids, not knowing whether it was still standing. 
> Another
> family had been living in Lebanon for over 5 years; doing relief work 
> in
> the Palestinian camps.  The decision to leave was extremely hard, but 
> they
> just didn’t want their kids to go through the trauma. And then of 
> course
> the Lebanese-Dutch, who leave family and friends behind. But there are
> also a bunch of back-packers and tourists who are pragmatically sober 
> and
> unaffected about it: they aren’t leaving anyone behind. My neighbour 
> turns
> out to be something of a distant colleague; he’s an art professor 
> teaching
> at the art academy in Enschede where I did a few guest lectures. He 
> just
> left his Lebanese girlfriend behind; they only managed to have one day
> together before she moved out of the Southern suburbs, to the safety of
> mountains. The trip takes ages, in Tripoli we see the bombed out police
> station or army HQ, I cannot remember. At the border we hear Tripoli 
> was
> bombed again, moments after we passed it. We get held up 5 hours at the
> border, which seems nothing in comparison with the 9 hours of the
> Italians, the previous day.  I see refugees pushing wheelbarrows filled
> with suitcases over the border; people just clutching flimsy plastic 
> bags,
> with no possessions whatsoever. The line of busses and cars keeps 
> getting
> longer and longer, the Lebanese as the Syrian officials have no way of
> coping with this.  How can bureaucracy matter in times like these?  At 
> the
> Dutch embassy in Beirut they had distributed copies of the exit forms 
> to
> us. The Lebanese officials didn't accept the copies; they wanted us to
> fill in the proper forms. More delay and agitation in the heat of the
> midday sun.  Then the Syrians make a fuss about the transit visa…I 
> become
> exasperated: it was better in Beirut. We finally make it to Aleppo 
> around
> 8.30pm.  More bureaucracy, this time Dutch.  They flew in an evacuation
> team.  The boys of the Dutch “Koninklijke Marechaussee” (the Royal
> Constabulary) look fresh and cleanly-shaven.  We on the other hand, are
> exhausted, hungry and dirty.  At 3.30am, I am finally allowed to board 
> the
> second plane to the military base of Eindhoven.  The first plane took 
> the
> elderly, families with small children and pregnant women.  The Dutch 
> have
> chartered a Turkish charter with a Turkish crew, since it was 
> impossible
> to get a Dutch carrier on such sort notice due to the holiday season.  
> The
> hostesses are made up and dressed impeccably; they smell of expensive
> French perfume.  It seems so absurd to me.  They beam benevolent smiles
> upon us as we scramble for seats. 4,5 hours later we land in Eindhoven.
> “Ladies and gentlemen.  Welcome to Eindhoven.  Thank you for flying
> Freebird Airlines; we wish you a pleasant stay.” The protocols of 
> decorum
> seem absolutely grotesque when thinking about what’s happening in 
> Lebanon.
>  Everything seems trivial and meaningless, and even words have  become
> reduced to rubble.
>
> Nat Muller