The road to Fatima Gate

I didn’t feel crazy to be there. That feeling passed after twenty four hours. There weren’t tanks in the streets. It wasn’t a war zone. There were, however, far fewer people out in public than usual. Restaurants, cafés, and bars that were usually packed were more than half empty. No one had any idea what might happen next. Most thought it wise to stay home and out of the way.

Beirut had a serious case of the jitters, and I didn’t have to interview anybody to know that. I heard about it constantly even while minding my own business. A taxi driver, in one of the most anguished and heartbroken voices I have ever heard in my life, told me why it was his dream to live in America. “I hate this country,” he said, physically depressed and hunched over the wheel. “Christians kill each other. Muslims kill each other. Oh my God.”

The young man next to me at the bar was named Claude. Obviously, then, he was a Christian. It’s rude to ask a Lebanese person which sect they belong to, but names, accents, and birthplaces often give it away.

“We are getting close to the war,” he said and sipped from his martini. “That’s why the government is asking us all to come out and return to the nightlife. It pushes the war away.”