Worcester Resident & WoGAN member 's Personal Report from Lebanon : IMC Worcester

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Update from Lebanon, July 16th as bombing continues
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My father has just changed our tickets to fly out of Amman, Jordan on Sunday, if we can get their in time. We hope to leave Lebanon today via the northern road, through Syria. The Israelis have destroyed the Aley-Damascus road and the only way out of the country now remains through the north. They have destroyed 18 bridges at this point, and Israel's chief of staff, Dan Haltuz, says no targets are immune. Israel maintains that it will continue shelling targets in Beirut and there’s no guarantee the northern road will be open tomorrow. Although Hizballah threatened to bomb Haifa, they have yet to do so.

My friends in Beirut say there are few cars on the streets today. People are conserving gas; yesterday afternoon lines of cars went around the block at every gas station. Shelves are empty at supermarkets. My cousin Naila watched people fight over loaves of bread. One woman, she says, took every case of soda off the shelf and put it in her shopping cart. Meena is in Dhour el-Shoeir and may leave also through the north. Andrew is at the bus station trying to catch a taxi through Syria. George and Jarrod are planning to go up to George’s village in Khoura.

I spoke with my friend Fadi in Bourj el-Barajneh this morning. His film screening this evening is cancelled. I figured, I say, and ask about things in the camp. “We’re used to hearing things like this,” he says. “It’s normal here. People are going about their lives.” He advises me to hang tight for a couple days and the whole thing should blow over. Meena says the people at the evangelical center where she is staying in Dhour el-Shoueir are similarly optimistic. People cling to these fragile rules. Israel will not bomb Christians. Israel cannot get away with bombing areas where lots of foreigners are living. Israel will only bomb infrastructure and Hizballah strongholds. Sentiments in the country range widely. Some are defiant, saying, “We’re accustomed to bombing. We’re not scared of Israel. The Lebanese resistance will protect us.” Hizballah is also known as the Lebanese resistance. Shi’ah will typically ally themselves with Hizballah. There are those who ally themselves with the Christian, Sunni and Druze March 14 coalition, who called for Syria to leave Lebanon and pro-Syrian President Emil Lahoud to step down. The coalition has been calling for the disarmament of Hizballah. Yesterday, Prime Minister Fouad Sinioura decried the attacks and called for restraint. Most wait with baited breath, assuring each other that in two days the whole thing will blow over. I encourage you to read more online on the Lebanese English newspaper, The Daily Star. http://www.dailystar.com.lb or the Israeli Ha’aretz. http://www.haaretz.com. I wrote the following last night before bed.

Its midnight in Rabieh, a northern suburb of Beirut and all is quiet. The lights of merchant ships glow in the Mediterranean, barely a mile away from my cousin’s apartment, as the crow flies. The ships are anchored at equal distances from one another along the coast; Israel has imposed an air, land and sea blockade. Occasionally a car drives by. After Israeli forces announced they would shell Dahieh, a southern suburb of Beirut, I decided I would prefer to spend the evening outside of the city. After work, my cousin Naila drove us to her house.

Thursday morning, in Ras-Beirut, the Muslim part of the city which is home to many foreigners, life went on semi-normally. Classes continued at the Lebanese American University and the American University in Beirut. Stores were open and cars passed through, though at about half normal traffic. We spent the day reading the paper and watching the infuriating coverage of the early morning Israeli attacks on CNN. Their bias is unbelievable. “In retaliation for the kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers, Israel bombs Lebanon’s airport.” Not a single quote from Lebanese Prime Minister Fouad Sinoura decrying the attacks of Hizballah and calling for restraint, as was mentioned in all the morning papers and on all the Arabic networks. No mention of the broad-based March 14 coalition of Christians, Sunni Muslims, and Druze, calling for the disarmament of Hizballah and emphasizing the difference between the actions of Hizballah and the Lebanese state. Until 11AM our time, no mention of Lebanese civilian casualties.

At around 10AM, Jarrod and George call us to come down to Hamra Street. We walk around the corner to Jolie and Athena’s apartment. Jolie is African-American and studied at the American University of Beirut. She’s been living in Lebanon for five years and vows to return to the US at the end of summer. Athena is Lebanese-Cypriot. Her parents call her once an hour from Cyprus. Tina, a German woman, sits on the couch. She is visibly agitated; her Lebanese friends convinced her (against the advice of her Damascus hotel) to travel to Beirut by taxi the previous night at 8PM. “What does a land, air, and sea blockade mean?” we ponder. “Are they going to bomb the Damascus road as well to block all exits of the country?” Israel claims they are trying to prevent weapons from getting to Hizballah, but they have created a near complete economic blockade of the country. Uri Avery, a well-known political commentator who often writes columns for Ha’aretz, the Israeli newspaper, submitted a column last week explaining that the recent Israeli incursion into Gaza had been planned for months and was merely executed on the pretext of the soldier kidnappings. Nasrullah, the Secretary-General of Hizballah, says the operations to kidnap the Israelis soldiers had been months in the planning. Similarly, the Israeli attacks on Lebanon appear designed with a broader goal in mind, arguably to strengthen support in Lebanon for the disarmament of Hizballah. However, the Israeli attacks on Lebanon can also radicalize moderates and build support for Hizballah.

Israeli Prime Minister Olmert’s vows to set Lebanon back 20 years give us all chills. “The country’s come such a long way,” says George. “The war didn’t end that long ago.” “I just can’t believe that they say they’re going to attack the tourist industry,” says Athena. “That’s the major way that Lebanon makes money.” We watch in disbelief at the threats of Israeli officials on CNN. George mentions Olmert’s quote from earlier in the day: “If I were a foreign investor in Lebanon, I would pull out now.” “They’re trying to crush the economy,” he says. We sit silently, waiting for the Bush-Merkel joint press conference from Germany to begin.

I pull my phone charger from my purse and search the room for a free outlet. Cell phones are plugged into chargers in every visible outlet. Israel will target electrical grids. Finally I find one in the corner of the dining room. My sister has walked up to LAU to find out the news on Arabic classes. I check my phone for occasional text messages. Jolie comes in from lunch. “Fairouz sang last night, but cancelled tonight. Oh no, I bet that means no Sean Paul,” she says. “Oh my God. If he’s here already, he’s gonna be so pissed,” she jokes. Sean Paul was supposed to play in the Baalbek Festival on June 17. Every summer, musicians from all over the world perform on a stage erected on the ruins of the Roman temple in Baalbek. The program this summer promises opera, ballet, the Broadway show, “Stomp!” among other things. Inshallah. God willing. This morning Israeli forces bombed a mosque, electrical grids and other targets in the Bekaa Valley where Baalbek is located.

Wednesday morning seems worlds away. I went as usual to the Bourj el-Barajneh refugee camp in the southern suburbs of Beirut. I greeted my class of 20 six- and seven-year olds: “Sabah el-kheir.” Good morning. “Sabah el-nour,” they replied in chorus. The rooms are so small and filled with furniture that I can only teach five or six children a movement at a time. Zayneb, who coordinates the summer program, keeps promising the roof should be ready for our classes soon. Arby, who teaches the capoeira actual class in Hamra might be willing to continue a class in Bourj after I leave. Ahmed and Adel, who assist with the summer programs, are interested in the prospect of a capoeira class for adults. Anthony, a Canadian volunteer, arrives. “Sorry, I’m late,” he says. “It was difficult getting here with the street celebrations.” “Celebrations? I heard about a demonstration.” I say. Dima, a Palestianian-Canadian working on an independent media series for Canadian radio had given us a flyer for a sit-in in Martyr’s Square on Wednesday in solidarity against the Israeli invasion of Gaza. “Haven’t you been watching the news?” said Ahmed. “Hizballah kidnapped two Israeli soldiers and Israel is bombing the south.”

Ahmed walks me out of the camp and I catch the number 5 bus to Shatila. The staff is watching the news on Al-Manar, the Hizballah-run network. The television alternates among images of Shi’ites celebrating in the streets of the Beirut’s southern suburbs, Israeli troops crossing Lebanon’s southern border, and victims of the attacks in Gaza. As the day drew on, a feeling of anxiety grew over the likely retribution Lebanon would face. By the afternoon on Wednesday, Israeli jets had bombed north of Sidon, no more than 20 miles south of Beirut. Typically skirmishes between Hizballah and Israeli forces are confined to the Sheba’a Farms, at Lebanon’s southern border with Israel. The Farms are contested territory which has been occupied by Israel since 1967. Israel occupied much of Southern Lebanon until April 2002 when Hizballah forced them out.

“They were firing guns today. Were you scared?” says Hala, with her perpetually smug expression. She is speaking of the gun fire in celebration of the Hizballah kidnappings. “Why should I be scared?” I reply. “They were firing guns all last week for the World Cup.” Around 3:30PM, my cellphone rings. I’m surprised; I don’t get reception in the clinic. I run to the front door where the signal is strongest. It’s my cousin Naila. “Where have you been? Why don’t you answer? Your mother’s been trying to reach you for hours. Haven’t you been watching the news?” I call my mother; she is in Souk el-Gharb, the village on the Beirut-Damascus road where my parents grew up. She insists that I leave Shatila immediately and that she and my father will come to Beirut to take my sister and me up to the mountains. “Last summer, when Hizballah hit Israel, they bombed the camps. I want you out of Shatila now and tell them you’re not coming tomorrow.” I sigh and assure her I’ll leave soon.

I return to the office to talk to Dr. Rami, the dentist. “Were you glad when Italy won?” he asks. “No,” I sigh. “But I also wasn’t glad when Zidane head butted that Italian player.” “He had every right,” says Rami. “Do you know what Materratzi called him? An Arab terrorist.” I shrug. Rumors have been flying about what exactly Materratzi said to the French star footballer Zinedine Zidane in the final moments of the World Cup Final that prompted Zidane to head butt him. Teams of expert lip readers have been hard at work to unravel the mystery; Zidane claims Materratzi insulted his mother and sister with obscenities.

There’s a dull thud in an apartment nearby; is sounds like a large piece of furniture fell on the floor. Hala goes to the bathroom to rinse the coffeepot. I tell Rami my mother is concerned that I shouldn’t come to the camps on Thursday, that last time Israel shelled the camps. “No,” he says. “They never shell the camps.” I’m getting a little antsy. My sister wants me back at the apartment since it’s her birthday and we’re supposed to get pedicures together. The chatter from the street becomes louder and people are walking back and forth more quickly. “What’s going on out there?” says Rami. Hala’s been gone for a while. “Oh, there’s a patient,” says Rami.

I walk to the examination room at the front of the clinic where four men stand; a couple of them carry automatic rifles. In the sick room stands a man, visibly shaken. His left shoulder and right leg are wounded. “I need you to take off your shirt and pants,” says Hala. “I’d rather have him look at it,” he says, pointing to a man wearing a button-down shirt and dress pants, whom I recognize from Haifa hospital. “I’m the doctor,” says Hala.

My phone rings. It’s my parents again. I have to walk to the front door to answer it. Two different young men are standing by the door, one with an automatic rifle in hand the other packing a handgun. I’m reluctant to speak near them in my weak Arabic accent. “I can’t hear you,” my mother says. “I can’t talk right now,” I say in a loud whisper. “What?” The connection cuts out. I send her a text message and return to the examination room. The patient is lying on the examining table, a curtain drawn around him. There are five of us crowded around the patient: Hala and the doctor from Haifa, a nurse and physician’s assistant, and myself. The patient’s friends walk in and out of the examination room. They wander over to see what is happening to him. Hala tuts and shakes her head. “There’s probably shrapnel inside these wounds. I can’t see. You’re going to have to go to the hospital to have an X-ray and possibly an operation.” She turns to the three young men gathered outside the curtain. “I can’t work like this. Please, leave. There are too many people in here.” The young men walk out.

Rania, a neighbor’s daughter wanders in. She approaches the curtain. The physician’s assistant whispers to her to sit with our belongings in the office so nothing is stolen. “Lara,” Rania says. “Come! Come with me.” I shake my head and turn to watch Hala who is now holding a scalpel blade between her fingers. The patient grimaces and swears under his breath as she cuts away the burnt flesh. “Don’t swear at me,” says Hala. “I’m doing you a favor.” Men walk in and out of the examination room, carrying AK-47s. Hala has given up on kicking them out, and focuses on the stitching. The physician’s assistant cleans the wounds and I step aside to give them space. Three young men walk in and stand by the curtain at the back of the examination room. From the opposite corner of the room I look them up and down. They are all in their twenties and wear T-shirts, jeans, and plastic slippers with or without socks. One man has Chinese characters tattooed down his left arm. Arabic script encircles his right bicep. On the back pocket of his jeans is the print of a female silhouette leaning on a capital letter J. It could be a Bond girl, I think.

Hala emerges from behind the curtain. She instructs one of the men standing by the examining table to buy tetanus vaccine from the pharmacy across the street. She takes the patient’s information from another and writes a note for the doctors at Haifa hospital. “The other man who was injured when the bombs went off lost his leg,” she says. “He went straight to the hospital.” We walk back to the office. Rami and Rania are sitting in chairs. “There were two explosions,” said Hala. “It’s funny, when we heard that thud I didn’t think anything of it.” I nod. “That was nice work I did,” she explains to Rami. “First I cut off the burnt flesh and then sewed up the wound.”

I look at the television. Sesame Street is on, in Arabic; the characters look a little different, though some are the same. I wait a minute and say, “My parents are concerned. They said the last time Hizballah attacked Israel that Israel bombed the camps.” Both Rami and Hala shake their heads with certainty. “They never hit the camps.” “They’ll hit Hizballah or Hamas,” said Hala. “They hit electricity and water.” I stand up to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, inshallah,.” I say. Hala sends Rania to walk me out of Shatila, although I’ve walked out on my own every day for the past week.

On my way home I buy a watermelon and some petit fours, French cookies, for my sister’s birthday. When I arrive home my parents are less nervous than I expect. They agree that it is not impossible to go out to dinner in downtown as we had planned, but also don’t want us to stay out too late tonight. Lebanese military are stationed at every major intersection. They can be distinguished from the Lebanese police by the color of their camouflage uniforms. Police wear black and white with red berets and military where dark green camo with black berets. Downtown is fairly empty, with twenty people at some restaurants and none at others. We are joined by my uncle Raja and my cousin Naila and Youssef.

After dinner, Mary and I walk to Club Social in Gemmayze. There is an opening of a new tapas bar. Free food and drink from 8-11PM. Our whole crowd is there: George, Jarrod, Andrew, Nicolien, Jolie, Athena, as well as some students from capoeira class in Hamra. We sing happy birthday to Mary and drink lousy free cocktails.

George introduces us to Mr. Lebanon. He wears a collared shirt, unbuttoned nearly to his navel. His hair is styled in an attractive, just-crawled-out-of-bed style. Mary asks him how he became Mr. Lebanon. He replies, “They voted me. Then I went to the Mr. Universe contest. I didn’t win that, but I did get Mr. Photogenic.” Mary asks, “2006?.” “No, 2005.” “Ma’alesh,” That’s OK, Mary says. Neither of us can think of anything to say to Mr. Lebanon, though later we both agree that we should have asked him what it’s like to be “really, really, really, ridiculously good looking.”

We dance to the end of the live salsa band’s set. “You’re awesome,” George tells Mary. “You’re like, ‘Fuck you, Israel. It’s my birthday and I’m going out!’” We laugh. Around 1AM the club is almost empty. Usually Social Club is packed until at least 3AM. We share a cab back to Hamra with Mary’s Arabic program classmates. My plan is to buy a paper and call Olfat, the director of the Women’s Humanitarian Organization before deciding whether to head to Bourj el-Barajneh in the morning. I set my alarm for 8AM and go to sleep.

At 7:45AM I awake. “They bombed the airport. Don’t go to work,” says my mother’s text message. I get up and turn on the news. At 8:15AM I call Olfat’s office. “They just bombed Al-Manar in Haret Hrek,” she says. “Definitely don’t come. Surely no parents will let their children out today. Don’t move around much today. Hopefully this will all blow over.” Haret Hrek. I walk through Haret Hrek on my way to Bourj el-Barajneh.

It’s 2AM on Friday. I’m typing at my computer on Naila’s balcony in Rabieh. There is an occasional light breeze on my cousin’s balcony. It’s pleasant, typing to the chirping of crickets. I’ve always enjoyed sitting on my cousin’s balcony or roof on summer evenings. I hear a bomb explode in the distance. Or was that really a bomb? I can’t tell. A week ago, it would have been fireworks at the end of a soccer game. My parents said the night of the finals the mountainside all the way down to Beirut was lit up with fireworks, celebrating the Italian victory.

At 3AM my laptop battery is nearly spent. I resolve to stop when it dies. The sound of planes overhead is undeniable. The breeze feels colder. I shiver and move inside. There is an explosion in the distance; it’s undeniable this time. I should sleep, I decide. I can’t think clearly enough to write. I go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My cousin’s son Bechara is sleeping peacefully; in his room where my sister and I are staying you can’t hear the planes or the bombs. I’ve left my cell phone somewhere and go into the salon to look for it. There is a silhouette on the balcony. It is Nahia, in her nightdress. Nahia is the widow of my great uncle George. Like my grandparents, he insisted on staying in Souk el-Gharb during the war in Lebanon, even when Israeli forces occupied the hotel above their house. From the hotel they would shell the Druze village below and then advise the residents of Souk el-Gharb over loudspeakers to take cover from the imminent retaliation. One day shelling began while George was driving someone home. He had a heart attack on the road and died. It was only after that my grandparents agreed to leave Lebanon.

“Ya allah,” Nahia says. “Haram. The people will all be sleeping in their beds. They’re hitting Dahieh.” The Israelis announced that they would hit Dahieh this evening and Hizballah said that in retaliation they would hit Haifa. I shake my head. The planes sound close. We walk up to the roof. Dahieh is visible – flames rise and fall. The Israeli planes strike again. We hear bombs explode and the flames glow higher. The lights on the street below go out. “We still remember the war,” says Nahia. I shiver again. I wonder whether some of the people I work with in the camps might live in Dahieh. It’s not far from the airport. I can’t remember in what area Hala’s house is located. Her sister Souad took me there last year, and I had no idea where I was, but we weren’t far from Beirut. Ground artillery fire back, their missiles glimmer as they take a diagonal path into the haze which still hangs over Beirut. The explosions come three seconds later.

Planes sound still closer. Al-Jazeera says Israelis have hit a bridge near Bourj el-Barajneh. The glowing we see in the distance is a fuel dump which burns all night. Nahia makes coffee for herself and my uncle Raja who is now up. I shut down my laptop and begin to walk downstairs to bed. “I don’t think you’re going to work today.” It’s our family’s running joke. “Of course not,” I say. “On Fridays they go on field trips.”

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Update from Lebanon just before renewed conflict
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I've been in Lebanon for two weeks now and decided it was time for a brief update on my travels, now that I have arranged my schedule to be at least somewhat regular. Unfortunately, I the medical travel packs (containing 70lbs of medicines) I brought with me from MAP International were held up in customs. Three of our four checked items were delayed (including a suitcase containing a computer). When I tried to bring them through customs a couple days later, the officials opened the boxes and insisted that Ministry of Health approval is required for all medicines brought into the country. Everyone I speak with says that they would not allow the Palestinian Red Crescent to bring medicines into the country. Last week I met with Caritas Lebanon, a branch of the French-based international social services organization, which will hopefully agree to help me bring in the medical supplies. However, if any of you have any ideas, please share them. I will keep you all updated on the status of the medicines, which are currently being held in the customs building at Beirut International Airport.

It’s been 510 days since Rafik Hariri, the prime minister of Lebanon, was assassinated. So remind the billboards in key locations in the city, counting the days it’s been that Lebanese are waiting for al-haqeeqa, the truth about who assassinated Hariri. Meanwhile, Beirut looks the same as always, the time I spent here strung together like a single six-month summer spread over four years. There are a few changes. There are traffic cops who stop people for running red lights, or so I hear. Though they do so only occasionally, when they do the officer immediately seizes the car and the drivers’ license and registration. The individual must go to the police station the following day to pay their ticket and retrieve the vehicle. So my aunt Norma says. The Lebanese flags from last year’s “Cedar Revolution” are nowhere to be found, replaced by German or Brazilian and an occasional Argentine, Italian or Dutch flag, depending on which team the owner favors to win the World Cup.

Soccer matches parse our evenings. My cousin Christian says it’s a welcome break from politics. The Lebanese are flag-obsessed and the past few months, car windows have sported flags of political leaders, Geagea, the Lebanese Forces Leader or Prime Minister Fouad Sinioura, political parties and sectarian groups. The atmosphere in the country remains somewhat tense, although the last political assassination was in November, when Gibran Tueni, a Member of Parliament and owner of the Lebanese daily newspaper Al-Nahar was killed in a bombing. However, in the evenings the streets of downtown Beirut are filled with people eating in the sidewalk cafes, smoking argileh, (Lebanese for water pipe) and watching soccer matches on the projection screens. Speakers blare with the commentators’ voices and crowds gather around the ropes which bound the cafes from the street to watch the final moments of every match. “Goal!” screams the commentator. The whole street cheers. Brazil has scored its third goal against Ghana. For two hours following any match, the streets are clogged with celebrating fans, waving flags out car windows. A Hummer passes, with young men hanging out the windows; the driver holds a soccer ball in his lap. Honking, firecrackers, and occasional gunshots continue until 2AM.

Our first night in Beirut we met the young American ex-pat crowd at a barbecue my housemate Mac organized. There are seven of us in the apartment. Mac is an anthropologist studying basketball in Lebanon. Meena is a student of international relations at Columbia in New York on an internship to study conflict resolution. Andrew, an evolutionary botanist. He says he’s here to study the relationship between people and animals and the environment. Jarrod and George were married in Boston and have lived in Beirut for two years and will soon be returning to Boston; George is originally Lebanese and works as a freelance photographer. Jarrod completed his Master’s thesis on gender identity in the Lebanese gay community. At the barbecue, I’m reminded of the grating phenomenon, it seems everyone is researching something in Beirut. At every introduction, “What are you studying?” as though academic credentials were the visa to Beirut’s ex-pat culture. Beirut is a place where one can nearly avoid the culture shock of living in outside of the West, aside from the crazy driving and the tap water. From within a bubble of English and AC, they speak with authority about the natives. The Lebanese are generous. The Lebanese are obsessed with food. The Lebanese talk about Lebanon as though it’s the only place in the world. “The Lebanese…”

Nicolien is a Dutch anthropologist researching the habits of the wealthy in Lebanon. We chat about Crystal (pronounced Creestal, like in French), the most obvious example, where the wealthy unabashedly vie each evening for the spotlight, which is literally shone on the table of the customer who has purchased the most thousand-dollar bottles of champagne at the end of the evening, while his name is announced on the loudspeaker. I explain that I find myself horrified by the way the Lebanese flaunt their wealth, without creativity. She replies, “It’s not so Lebanese. Look at American hip-hop culture, for example.” And I say, “but there’s something particularly Lebanese about the way they spend their money.” Here I go, “the Lebanese…” But it’s true. Some of the rules: Own a BMW. Hire a Sri-Lankan, Filipino or Ethiopian live-in maid. Get plastic surgery. Feign a French accent and occasionally forget Arabic words. Send your children to American or French schools. Buy Aishti, CK, Armani, Dior. Get a “golden” cell number (Pay more just to have a “good” number). Always reserve at clubs and buy a bottle of vodka and invite nearby beautiful women, ideally foreigners, to drink with you. If possible, own a nightclub and sit at the same table every night looking bored.

In the US, consumerist culture just feels bizarre and alien – in Lebanon I feel personally responsible. As we watched the passengers on our Lebanon flight trickle in through the gate at Heathrow airport, the palpable air of glee filled me with dread. Looking across at a teenager in distressed Diesel jeans and a crisp CK top, I said to my sister, “I think we’re underdressed.” She replied, “Who are these people? You know, I think what’s so upsetting is that they all look like me!” I laugh out loud. We’re about to board a plane with our extended family, except instead of being surrounded by Aunt Matildas with her five chins and a pimply eight-year old son, we have Tante Nazik with five facelifts and seven year olds with freshly-waxed brows.

The war in Lebanon left little of the country untouched; it is nearly impossible for one to commute anywhere without laying eyes on a building damaged during the war. However, the contrast between Ras Beirut, where our apartment is located, and the Palestinian refugee camps along the road to the airport is remarkable. As one drives along the airport road, trash lots obscure Shatila, the camp made famous by the massacre of civilians praying in a mosque during the Israeli invasion of Beirut. Palestinians live in concrete buildings, built one on top of the other, a maze of narrow passages between. The walls of the gray buildings are stained black from the air pollution and some are riddled with bullet holes, as much fighting took place in the camps during the war in Lebanon. The roofs of the buildings are corrugated metal; tarps or curtains cover windows as inhabitants can rarely afford glass. Over the passageways between the buildings hang a canopy of multicolored electrical wires, which split electricity taken from public electrical wires near the camps. In some places, the wires hang low, and every year children are injured by fallen wires. The camps completely lack green space and what little open space exists is frequently used as lots for cars or trash. Children kicking a soccer ball in one of the few roads passing through the camp move aside to let a car to pass. Men sit outside the small shops which line the road watching the children juggle the soccer ball, which is worn with use and looks ready to pop. There isn’t space for a game, or even to properly pass the ball.

Palestinians in Lebanon are denied the right to own or inherit property. They cannot work legally in most professions; especially better paying ones, such as medicine or engineering. There are only 100 work permits available to Palestinians in the entire country of Lebanon. Most people live off remittances sent from family abroad, or by working as day laborers in construction or agriculture. Some may find an individual to let them use working papers in exchange for ninety percent of the salary earned, explained Dr. Khalil at the Haifa Hospital. Others are lucky enough to find employment in a business or organization within the camps, such as Dr. Hala Abdul Rahman, a pediatrician at the Palestinian Red Crescent Clinic in Shatila.

I was able to bring in other items, such as the computer, which was a donation from Tecschange to the Women’s Humanitarian Organization in the Bourj el-Barajneh refugee camp and some pediatric stethoscopes and other medical supplies to the Haifa Hospital in Bourj el Barajneh. I am teaching capoeira, a Brazilian martial art, to children in the summer program run by the Women’s Humanitarian Organization. The organization was started fourteen years ago by Olfat Mahmood, a Palestinian woman who grew up in Lebanon. The organization fills gaps in the services UNRWA provides, namely daycare, tutoring, summer programs, and community health programs for the elderly, among other things. It employs Palestinian women living in the camps to run the programs. My hope is to train some adults as well and hopefully generate enough interest to create a sustainable group. Capoeira requires little space, which is nice, because there is a serious lack of open space in the camps. I will likely also teach nutrition workshops to children and women in the camps.

In the mornings I teach capoiera in Bourj el-Barajneh and in the afternoons I shadow Dr. Hala in the Palestinian Red Crescent clinic in the Shatila refugee camp. On Tuesdays I follow doctors at the Haifa Hospital in the Bourj el-Barajneh refugee camp on rounds and go to Shatila in the afternoons. Dr. Khalil, one of the medical directors at the Haifa Hospital, also runs a clinic in Shatila. He occasionally drops in to chat with Dr. Hala on his way to the clinic. They speak to one another in Russian; many of the doctors at the Red Crescent clinic and hospital studied medicine in Russia, where tuition was free. The hospital in Bourj el-Barajneh is open throughout the night, however, residents of Shatila do not have access to medical services after Dr. Khalil’s clinic closes at 9PM. Most of the funding for the Red Crescent clinic the Haifa Hospital comes from the PLO, and all patients must pay small fees for services. As one drives along the airport road, trashlots obscure Shatila, the camp made famous by a massacre in a mosque during the Israeli invasion.

Fairouz, the physician’s assistant, pours us coffee when I arrive at Dr. Hala’s clinic in Shatila. Hala gestures for me to sit in the chair next to her. She has a slight build and her chin-length dark brown hair is always perfectly styled, except that is, when Dr. Rami, the dentist, comes over to mess it up. At 5’2” in heels, Hala poses an intimidating figure. Only three or four patients drop in during the afternoon shift, which lasts from 1-7PM, but the constant arguing of Rami and Fairouz, the elderly physician’s assistant keeps us entertained.

We watch the news on Palestine Television. Everyone in the camp gathers intently around televisions to see the news of the recent Israeli invasion into Gaza. Twenty-nine Palestinians and one Israeli soldier have died in the incursion. Hala shakes her head, “Ya haram,” What a pity, she says at the images of a young girl screaming and sobbing with grief. She falls on the rubble of her former home; her father’s corpse is covered with a thin layer of ashes. The girl’s house was bombed and her family killed. The date of the event scrolls across the bottom of the screen: 12.6.2006. “Shifti?” You see? she says. The images are skillfully edited and play multiple times a day, like an advertisement.

The electricity goes out. “It’s 2 o’ clock,” says Hala. The electricity cuts out every day at 2PM as part of the rolling blackouts Lebanon uses to distribute scarce energy resources to the entire country. Fairouz turns on the generator. Those who can afford fuel power their homes or offices with a generator when the power goes out.

A girl comes in with a letter for Hala. “What’s this?” she says. The girl looks down and hands her the letter. “Thank you,” Hala says, her eyes on the letter. She puts it on the desk. “What’s your name?” Hala asks. “Aya,” the girl replies. “What grade are you in?” “Second.” “Where are you from?” asks Hala, her hand on Aya’s shoulder. “Lebanon,” says Aya. “Lebanon, not Palestine?” “Lebanon and Palestine,” Aya replies. Hala turns to me. “Shifti?” You see? she says. “What are you doing this summer? Do you go to the beach?” The girl nods. “Who do you like better, Mommy or Daddy?” “Daddy,” says Aya without hesitation. Hala raises her eyebrows. “Daddy? Why Daddy?” “Mommy is always working.” “Who takes you to the beach?” asks Hala. “My aunt does.” Hala smiles. “Ok, habiti. Thank you for the letter.” She gestures for Aya to leave.

Every day we discuss the soccer match of the evening before. In June the camps were filled with Brazilian flags, some hanging three stories from the balconies. Most of Lebanon chose Brazil or Germany as their team, with a lonely Argentine, Italian, or French flag here or there. As teams are eliminated, the flags have been disappearing. “Entih maa min?” Rami asked me last week. Who are you with? “Argentina,” I replied. He shook my hand and told me that was his team as well. Hala was with Brazil. Now the whole staff is with France. “Half the team is Arab,” explains Rami. “Zidane is from Algeria, but he doesn’t speak a word of Arabic. I saw an interview with him on Al-Jazeera.”

At three we eat lunch. Suha brings a tray with the food she prepares for the staff daily. There are plates of spinach and meat pies. The meat pies are mostly bulgur wheat and vegetables, to save money. Anemia is a widespread problem among Palestinians in Lebanon. People cannot afford to buy meat and substitute carbohydrates for protein in traditional recipes. Lentil soup is mostly rice and just enough lentils to color the soup. Kibbeh, traditionally made with ground lamb and bulgur wheat, is often made with potatoes. Even breastfed infants suffer from anemia, which is a sign that their mothers are extremely iron deficient.

As we finish lunch a man enters the clinic with his eight-year-old daughter who is in tears. She is dripping with water and her chin is bleeding. “Come, Lara,” says Hala. She instructs the girl to lay down on the bed and cleans the wound, first with hydrogen peroxide, then rubbing alcohol, and last iodine. The girl cries as her father stands by her side, holding her hand. “What’s your name?” asks Hala. “Nuha,” she answers. “Are you a smart girl?” says Hala. “I can tell you’re a smart girl. What grade are you in?” Nuha doesn’t respond. Tears run down her cheeks. “Don’t cry,” says Hala. “Don’t cry and I won’t hurt you.” Hala puts on latex gloves and takes out a pair of forceps. She opens a sterile package containing a nylon thread and a needle at the end. “We either use silk or nylon. For the face, nylon is better,” she explains to me in English. “Don’t cry. Are you smart? Don’t cry and I won’t hurt you.” She takes the needle with the forceps and holds the girl’s chin with her other hand. “Don’t cry,” she says as she pierces the skin below the wound with the needle and pulls the thread through. I wince as Nuha lets out a whimper. “No anesthesia,” I think to myself. With three stitches, Hala closes the wound on the girl’s chin. “What a smart girl you are,” she says. “What are you doing this summer?” Nuha doesn’t respond. “Were you swimming?” Nuha nods, her hair dripping on the vinyl bed. Hala bandages the wound. “Sun and water are not allowed,” she says, writing a prescription for antibiotic cream. “Come back in a week and I’ll take out the stitches. That will be 15000LL.” $3 per stitch.

Most afternoons we see two patients like this, with deep wounds for which stitches are necessary. Hala offers to teach me to do minor surgery. I laugh. On Wednesday, a seven-year-old girl comes in with a deep knife wound. Her sister flung a knife at her in the midst of a fight. After finishing the ten stitches, three of them internal, Hala says to me, “You could have done that.” I shake my head and resolve to learn acupuncture anesthesia. As the patient leaves the clinic with her uncle, Hala looks down at the logbook. “We made 50000LL today,” she says with pleasure. That’s $33.

Worcester Resident & WoGAN member's Personal Report from Lebanon