Visiting Hezbollah HQ

Deep in the mountains of formerly occupied southern Lebanon lies Mleeta, once a stronghold for Hezbollah guerrillas, today a tour de force in museum architecture and propaganda.

Sunshine bathed the rocky southern Lebanese hills as an aging blue-green Mercedes taxi took us through several small Shia towns on the way into the countryside. Many of these small towns display posters and banners along the roadside or in their town squares, showing pictures of Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah and other political figures and martyrs past and present from both Hezbollah and its political ally Amal. The unmistakeable yellow and green flag of Hezbollah flies everywhere here. Once the car had passed through the town of Mleeta itself, and continued up the mountainside for a few more kilometres, the $25 million spectacular that is the ‘Mleeta Resistance Tourist Landmark’ appeared, sitting on the crest of a hill overlooking the valley.

Hezbollah is officially classified as a terrorist organisation in many Western countries, including, significantly and not surprisingly, the United States and Britain. The truth is far less black and white, although entirely subjective. But to cut a long story extremely short, they are a Shia Muslim political party and militant group formed in 1982 in response to the Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon, which at the time extended all the way to and included Beirut, to tragic consequences. They carried out military operations and guerrilla warfare against the Israeli occupying forces until these withdrew in 2000. They now have a huge influence in Lebanese politics, holding positions in the government and with a very strong military presence in the south. Controversial for their extremely staunch anti-Israel stance, military tactics and alleged financial backing from Iran and Syria, they nevertheless enjoy no shortage of support among many communities within Lebanon due to their ability to defend the country from what many see as unjust and overly aggressive Israeli attacks, something the Lebanese Army is not always able to do. This is an attempt at a neutral presentation of a very complicated situation and any mistakes or omissions are entirely my own.

The museum at Mleeta is quite unlike any other. Built on territory from which Hezbollah fighters based their resistance efforts against occupying Israeli forces in southern Lebanon until 2000, the hillside has since been bankrolled into a first-class museum. A team of top architects worked on the museum’s design. The result is in turns impressive, surreal, bizarre and grotesque. A centrepiece named ‘The Abyss’, a huge collection of captured and destroyed Israeli tanks, artillery, jeeps and even soldiers’ helmets, is set up in a meticulously designed arrangement encircled by a walkway symbolising, in the words of the guide, the ‘tornado’ that the occupying forces found themselves caught in. The piece de resistance is a Merkava 4 tank -the pride of the Israeli army - half buried in the ground with its turret tied in a knot. ‘We have no problems with any other groups or religions, and have Christian visitors, Sunni visitors, everyone’ continued the guide. ‘The only time we have a problem is if somebody wants to occupy our land’. 

As well as The Abyss, we watched a 10-minute film in an large theatre which documented the history of the Hezbollah-Israel conflict. Including images of attacks by both sides, accompanied by Nasrallah’s powerful speeches and a dramatic score, this was a full-on propaganda broadside. We then took a walk amongst the trees and plants of the hillside, where there were several exhibits on guerrilla warfare; models of soldiers which contributed to an eerie atmosphere as they appeared through the trees; and a 200-metre long underground tunnel including a number of bunkers. The tunnel opened out onto a spectacular view over the countryside and surrounding villages. At the end you arrive at a small bunker where 'Hizbu Allah' (Party of God) is sprayed onto the outside wall. An anti-aircraft gun still stands on the inside.

On the way towards the exit, the Hezbollah experience can be completed by picking up a souvenir or two from the gift shop – a flag, a history book, or a child’s baseball cap printed with a picture of a smiling Nasrallah together with Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Classes of schoolchildren ran around us, enjoying their day out. They were Muslim children - I doubt schools in Christian areas would bring their classes here - but was their trip education or instruction? I think the line at Mleeta is a fine one.

Far-Off Noises

Two weeks ago I was woken during the night by a call from a friend. 'What are you doing?' he asked.
'Sleeping'.
'Okay. Stay at home tonight, we can hear gunshots and rockets from our balcony'.

I'll admit that this is perhaps an overly melodramatic way to begin a post which will now attempt to make reassurances about the current situation in Beirut. The gunshots in question were a reaction to an escalation of some unrest in Tripoli, the northern Sunni-dominated city that welcomed us so warmly when we visited at the beginning of March. During the last month or so, there have been a number of clashes between two different Sunni factions in the area. This is actually not an unusual occurrence, but many commentators are suggesting that it is a sign of the catastrophic Syrian conflict spilling over into Lebanon, as one of these groups supports the Syrian government and the other is against it.

The unrest escalated on Sunday May 20th, when two Shaykhs from the anti-Syrian group ostensibly drove through a military checkpoint (of which there are many placed on main roads throughout the country). They were both shot dead by the checkpoint guards, provoking outrage in Tripoli and accusations of Lebanese government support for the Syrian regime. The anger spread to the district of Tariq al-Jdideh in southern Beirut, where three people are thought to have been killed as tyres were burned and shots fired. The sound carried to my friend's apartment but not to mine, far away in the quiet Armenian section of East Beirut.

The following day a 'No War in Lebanon' demonstration was held on Martyrs Square at the heart of the city. No more than around two hundred people showed up, half of them foreigners. Apathy and pessimism, or just calm from a people who have seen far, far worse?

In the nearly two weeks since the first and only unrest in Beirut since the Arab Spring, no other tangible signs of trouble have been reported. The 'no news, good news' signs so far are positive, suggesting that further escalation is unlikely. Having had the pleasure of getting to know Lebanon and learning something about its people (and I do mean the whole country), anything else would be a tragedy.

After the phone call, I briefly listened through the window, then rolled over and went back to sleep. There was no reason to do anything else. Armenia Street is as safe as any place in Aarhus, Brighton or Sudbury, and will remain so for the rest of my time here and beyond.

Girls Football Academy

Deep inside the Bourj al-Barajneh Palestinian refugee camp, the evening sun glows through the wire fence from behind a mosque and the ramshackle houses, piled up like scruffy lego. The Girls Football Academy, Lebanon's first all-female football club, are well underway with their evening training session at Ansar football ground, a decent facility with a full-sized astroturf pitch and no shortage of equipment.

Sent to the southern suburbs on an assignment for TimeOut magazine, I arrived and introduced myself to Walid, a former semi-pro in France and co-founder along with his girlfriend and first team player Nadia. Both were welcoming and enthusiastic about their club, which, in its first season since being formed last Autumn, has already shot to the upper reaches of the national league. Although it only contains 8 teams, Lebanon's progressive women's league is the only one of its kind in the Middle East. 'The senior team's results are just a bonus though', Walid said as he returned a stray ball to a game of piggy-in-the-middle. 'The point of the academy is team building. The senior players have to be taught the technical side of the game from scratch, many of them have never played 11-a-side before. Our target is to train girls to play as a team from a younger age, so that one day they will play for their country and defend the colours of Lebanon'.

A few youngsters took a break from their training to speak to me. 'Kifik?' ('How are you?') I asked one small girl. 'Good' she replied shyly, before switching to flawless American English and explaining excitedly how she started playing football with her big brother at the age of three (her current age: 'nine and a half'), and now gets to play three times a week, and it doesn't make her tired even though she has school too. Sophie, the captain of the U14s, said 'I get the feeling you're a Newcastle fan' and looked slightly disappointed when I admitted I didn't share her affection for her favourite Premier League team. She soon forgot this though as she proudly told me about how she was selected to be captain because the coach thought she had 'experience and skill'.

Girls come from relatively long distances to play at the academy in spite of its out-of-the-way location near to Beirut Airport. One lives close to me in the Armenian quarter, another in the city of Jounieh an hour north of the capital. 'What is the mix of religious background?' I asked Walid. 'I honestly couldn't tell you' he answered. 'I've never asked anyone, it's not something that is ever relevant here'.

In a time when elite professional football is characterised by obscenely rich owners, cheating players and idiotic, small-minded fan culture, the beautiful game remains great for its ability to unite different people anywhere in the world. When one day the young players from the Girls Football Academy do defend their country's colours, maybe their country will unite behind them.


Pictures from GFA's league fixture against reigning champions Al-Sadaka, Sunday 13th May. Final score: 0-0.

Migrant Workers' March

You see them everywhere, yet you never really see them. In a country of many groups, minorities and interests, all vying for influence and fair conditions, Lebanon's forgotten minority is its migrant workers. All Lebanese citizens are ethnically Arab or Armenian (due to an influx of refugees from Turkey at the start of the 20th century). But the country's residents are not so homogeneous. Employed as construction workers, refuse collectors, nannies, maids and in a range of other unskilled capacities, migrant workers have steadily flowed into the country in recent years, bulking out the working classes in and around central Beirut as the locals prosper.

In order to gain a working visa, these migrants must first obtain a 'sponsorship' from their would-be employer. Working visas can cost thousands of dollars and sponsorships are non-transferable. In other words, once your host employer has 'bought' you, you are stuck with them. This can result in appalling working and living conditions and terrible pay, which drives many foreign workers to the brink - stories of deaths caused by both suicide and accidents are common.

On 29th April, migrant workers had the chance to be noticed for a change. Staging a peaceful demonstration, a colourful crowd from Sri Lanka, Ethiopia, The Phillippines, India, Kenya, Nepal, DR Congo, and a host of others marched across town. That morning, walking through town to join the demonstration, I passed a refuse collector of South Asian origin, quietly going about his work on a bridge. Fortunately, plenty of people did have Sunday off and there was a party atmosphere, with African drumming and dancing accompanying Asian chanting, and banners and t-shirts proclaiming 'Proud to Be An African' or 'I Love Nepal'.

As the crowd progressed along some of East Beirut's main streets it grew in size. Crossing back across the bridge in the other direction, the refuse collector was nowhere to be seen. Onlookers, Lebanese and otherwise, looked on and cheered. The final destination of the march was the courtyard outside the large St. Joseph's church. On arrival, the pace and volume of the drumming intensified and impromptu dancing broke out.

There followed a concert of traditional and less traditional dancing and music. The standard varied wildly, including a superb display of Ethiopian dancing, presumably the original inspiration for robot-dancers everywhere, to a solo by a little Indian girl, a Phillippino choir singing Michael Jackson and a bizarre miming of a Sean Paul song.

The overall theme of the day seemed to be unification, with different cultures and people uniting behind one message while showing their individuality at the same time. It was a convincing case. There is no reason why a well-developed and educated country like Lebanon, regardless of its other problems, cannot treat its migrant workers like human beings.

Cairene Weekend

Salim, a wiry, balding taxi driver in his 50s, weaves in and out of the labyrinth of jostling cars and motorcycles on one of Cairo's countless jammed highways. Yelling abuse at other drivers one second, conducting conversations with other stationary chauffeurs through his open window the next, he ducks into an opening in the traffic to take the junction he wants. He asks me for my phone number so that I can call him whenever I want to 'go somewhere'. We both know that he is going to try to overcharge me for airport parking fees when we arrive at my friend's apartment in the district of Mohandesin, and he has already driven a hard bargain over the fare. I am hungover, the car is hot and stuffy, the air chokes my throat. The concrete sprawl seems to go on forever. A short flight from Beirut is turning into a long haul.

A growling, restless, polluted behemoth of a city, the version of the Middle East that confronts you in Cairo is a world away from Beirut, which seems positively serene in comparison. Its population of around 20 million is 4 times greater than the whole of Denmark but squeezed into an area the size of Copenhagen (population: 1.2 million).

Required to temporarily leave Lebanon within 3 months of my arrival due to visa regulations, I chose to visit friends from Aarhus University who are spending their exchange semester learning the markedly different Egyptian dialect. In a place of such overwhelming size and stature, it's lucky to have someone you can rely on to help you find your way around as a newcomer. Walking through the area between Mohandesin, Midan Lubnan and Sudan Street, a friend and I got completely lost among the narrow alleyways. Here, men stood ironing on the street (an Egyptian take on dry cleaning), goats and horses scratched around in the dirt, traditionally dressed women shopped for food and clothes and men sat playing dominoes and backgammon or prayed inside open-doored mosques. Asking for help to find the way back, we were helped by a number of people giving directions, many not really knowing the way themselves even though we hadn't come far. One overweight man of about 20 years walked with us for over 20 minutes taking us to the address we had given him, purely out of good will. He took us to the address we gave, but the wrong one - for some reason there are two roads with the same name and three buildings all with the same address just in this one district.

We also visited the more touristy Khan el-Khalili market. The taxi ride across town in the interminably busy traffic was itself another mesmerising glimpse of the average Cairo day. The millions went about their business amongst the dirty underpasses, dusty brown rectangular apartment slabs and towering Ottoman minarets, all to the drone of the incessant honking of car horns. Walking around the market, we received constant attention from hawkers and sellers trying to bring us into their shops. Their tactics range from shouting the unimaginative 'Excuse me' or 'Where are you from?' to holding up an item and saying 'Do you know the price?' (easy way out: just answer 'yes'), to using humour. One shop owner called out 'Excuse me, can I try to hustle you please?'. Another: 'Hello, would you like to try to get some?' while pointing to a rack of galabiyas, the traditional Egyptian male outfit still worn by many.

Attitudes towards Western women, from the men in this market at least, are awful and surely some form of education is needed. From mild verbal abuse to shameless physical harassment, the frequency as well the nature of the attention inevitably takes its toll on long-term foreign visitors. As we walked through the market, a man of around my age muttered 'sharmuta' (whore), about the most insulting thing you can say to a woman in Arabic. When we stopped and remonstrated with him in his own language his cockiness disappeared and he looked away.

The medieval Saladin Citadel lies at the top of a hill overlooking the otherwise flat landscape of the city. Here, we visited the magnificent Muhammed 'Ali mosque, an imposing collection of domes and minarets, the interior a breathtaking example of Ottoman architecure. The mosque was added to the citadel in the mid-19th century. Now it is mainly frequented by tourists, Egyptian and foreign, although there were also people praying inside. We then walked across the citadel to the military museum, complete with its rough English translations, excellent range of Ottoman and Muhammad 'Ali-era artefacts and glossing over of conflicts that didn't go so well. Outside the museum are a number of British, American, Russian and other tanks and aircraft used during the '67 war with Israel, Suez Crisis and Second World War.

The best thing about the citadel, though, was the view. The metropolitan expanse of Cairo stretched away as far as the eye can see, with only the many minarets and few skyscrapers breaking up the brown concrete monotony, a fitting image to the impossible vastness of the city. Cairo, of course, was witness to a revolution a little over a year ago. The post-revolutionary road has been bumpy and no new president is yet in place. Despite many Cairenes apparently being worse off since Hosni Mubarak was ousted on 25 January 2011, and demonstrations against the decision making of the interim military government still common on Tahrir Square, there is an impression that people are calm about what the final outcome will be. Seeing them up close and their city in all its enormousness in a single frame, it's difficult not to be in awe.

The Pyramids at Giza

In September 1991 I was taught history in school for the first time. The class of fresh new middle school children was to learn about Ancient Egypt. The teacher, a tall South African called Ms. Fraser, who had frizzy blonde hair and always wore a polo shirt with the collar turned up, introduced a class of excited kids to a fantastical world of pharaohs, hieroglyphics, hidden tombs, buried treasure, spirits and mystery. We learnt how to write our names using pictures. We were told of the mystical and enormous triangular structures built by this ancient civilisation, so big and strong they still stood today.

So began an unhealthy obsession with travelling, history and visiting relics of ancient civilisations. During my recent Egyptian sojourn, I had the privelege of seeing the pyramids, arguably the most famous archaeological wonder in the world, with my own eyes. We took a taxi to Giza, now part of Cairo's urban spread. The city ends as suddenly as the desert begins, giant monoliths springing out of nowhere beyond the modern buildings.

The taxi driver dropped us off about half a mile from the entrance. An unavoidable aspect of any visit to the pyramids is Egypt's take on the tourist industry. This means dealing with constant attention from camel and horse drivers, souvenir sellers and plain scam artists. The latter approached us as we walked towards the ticket booth, claiming that way was for 'cars only' and that we should instead follow him down a side street. I didn't know whether to laugh or be irritated by the sheer audacity of his patter. After buying our tickets for the pitiful price of 30 Egyptian Guinea (around £3.50), we passed through the low-key entrance and security check. Walking up the ramp behind the building onto the plateau, we were confronted by a man wearing the all-white tourist police uniform who yelled at us for not having a 'horse ticket', ordering us to go back. A group of Egyptians in normal clothes milled around nearby. One came over and told us to ignore the 'crazy man', which we did and walked past. The 'helper' then proceeded to try to sell us a horse ride, the apparent end game of a bizarre sales technique. 

This aside, we were not seriously hassled, only having to continually politely decline offers of camel rides and postcards. The former are offered for a ridiculously low price which inevitably goes up without explanation once you are sitting on the camel and cannot get down. Souvenirs are sold in the same way - offered for next to nothing to get your attention before the initial price is conveniently forgotten about.

None of this should, and indeed it does not, take away from the utterly mindblowing and magnificent spectacle that the pyramids, as well as the Sphinx, are. Thought to be between 3,000-5,000 years old, they were originally covered in limestone, evidence of which can be seen on the tip of the second-largest Pyramid of Khafre. They were therefore once completely white. The pyramids contain up to 2.3 million blocks weighing 2 and a half tonnes each. Despite theories that aliens did it or that the Ancient Egyptians had 'massive, massive whips', the commonly held concensus seems to be that a highly organised workforce was responsible for this incomprensible feat of engineering and construction, a theory backed up by a worker's village currently being excavated at the site.

All the fascinating facts and theories in the world cannot substitute for the astonishing sight of the pyramids themselves. They are mindboggling to look at, their combination of size and aesthetic geometric quality unlike anything else. I wandered gobsmacked through the exposed desert sunshine for two hours, unable to take my eyes off them. I imagine my 9-year-old self would have reacted in much the same way.

How to Lengthen Your Mind

I recently received a mail from a friend who visited Lebanon in February, partly in a professional capacity. Her stay in the country involved visiting the majority of its Palestinian refugee camps in order to collect data on social conditions within them. Since returning home she has written an article on the living conditions within the camps. Harrowing and heartrending, the article paints a bitter picture of the hard life endured by many in Lebanon.

I have still not visited any of the camps. Many have open access, and I would like to go in order to understand them better, but would rather be invited than traipse up with my camera and sunglasses. I am therefore still waiting but hope to write later about my own impressions - superficial and lacking in understanding though they inevitably, at least to some extent, will turn out to be.

In the meantime I will focus on something entirely different, which may provide some context in future, and which, for better or worse, plays a huge role in my lifestyle here - Beirut's nightlife. A number of the city's neighbourhoods have good bars. The two main destinations, Hamra and Gemmayzeh, which are somehow appropriately on different sides of the city so that one is in the Muslim half and one in the Christian half, both compare favourably in their own right with other big cities I know well, such as Cardiff or Aarhus, for entertainment value. You can go out and do something every night of the week, be it drinking in a bar, clubbing, attending the theatre or going to a concert. The crowds vary from place to place. Rich teenagers in Downtown's superclubs, bohemians in Gemmayzeh's indie bars, students in Hamra, lonely souls in all-night boozers all over town. Foreigners form a decent proportion of the clientele but are a clear minority. Concert venues range from intimate to stadium-size, hosting experimental jazz, Polish folk, Arabic pop. Cat Stevens and Bob Marley's band The Wailers have both played here recently. Red Hot Chili Peppers come to town in September.

In the midst of this plethora of places to go and endless nights on the town, one particular event stands out for me as the most unique and memorable. PC Party is a monthly event which takes place in different venues such as former hotels or theatres. Each month there is a new theme and in the days leading up to the Saturday the event takes place, the organisers use hanging drapes, masses of cotton wool, lighted flooring and whatever else is needed to transform the venue into an over-the-top tribute to angels, Viennese balls, or whatever theme has been chosen. Partygoers are asked to go along with the theme by conforming to a dress code - wear something white, bring a mask, be fabulous.

PC Party is the biggest gay-friendly event in Lebanon. In a country where homosexuality is illegal and even hetero public displays of affection are frowned upon, gay people don't get as much opportunity to be themselves and be open about themselves. The PC night is a big monthly event that takes a lot of organisation and has attendances in the thousands, about half of them gay by my estimation. The style of the party leaves nothing to the imagination, with its drag queens, dancers on stilts, topless men and posturing. The organisers must need a certain amount of influence to be able to run something like this, to put it tactfully. Said without tact - I'm sure they pay a sizeable bribe to someone.

In my last blog I alluded to my irritation at the attitudes of men towards the opposite sex. There is none of that here. Straight or gay, everyone is friendly, easy going, happy to be there. Finally, once you have paid the cover charge of approximately £20, the bar is an open free-for-all. This is a recipe for disaster for those of us who cannot shake our English/Danish binge-drinking ways, but the Lebanese keep it respectable and no-one gets aggressive or violent. You may wake up with a hangover the size of the moon, but you'll have a stupendously funny night and you and your friends will come to no harm.

Lebanese Arabic has an expression which translates to 'lengthen your mind'. It does not mean the same thing as the English 'open minded', but is used when you want someone to relax.

PC Party's facebook page