It was only a few minutes before landing when a group of female passengers on the flight from Paris to Beirut rang out the cries of “Bhebbak ya Lubnan” – “I love you, oh Lebanon”. A knowing hum went through the cabin.
Written during Lebanon’s brutal 15-year civil war, the song was a balm for the small country in its many moments of instability, an ode to its resilience. “My parents sang it during their war, and now I sing it for ours,” said Salma Abdo, a 38-year-old who was returning home to her family for the summer.
“They asked me what had happened to the land of the strongholds; in its soil are planted fire and gunpowder,” sang the women on the packed flight. “Whatever you are, I adore you; even in your madness I love you.”
The Lebanese are accustomed to conflict and hardened by years of civil war and sporadic violence. But this year’s uncertainty is taking its toll on even the hardiest locals, whose mood fluctuates between panic and resignation.
The country’s famous bars and beach clubs are as bustling as ever, but many expats have cancelled their ritual summer holidays, fearing that the conflict between Hezbollah fighters and Israel, which has gripped the south of the country, is escalating into a full-blown war.
More than 90,000 people have been displaced from border areas, where the heaviest fighting has been taking place since October 8. On October 8, Iran-backed Hezbollah began firing into northern Israel in “solidarity” with Hamas, sparking sustained hostilities that have left nearly 100 civilians and more than 340 Hezbollah fighters dead in Lebanon. Hezbollah’s attacks on northern Israel have now killed more than two dozen soldiers and civilians and displaced about 60,000 people, according to Israeli government figures and a Financial Times count.
The undeterred holidaymakers join a bubble of hardy locals in increasingly expensive nightclubs, restaurants and concert halls, seemingly moving on without regard for the hostilities nearby. “Next week is my cousin’s wedding and I’m not going to miss it whether there’s a war or not. I refuse to stay away any longer, I refuse to let Israel win,” said Abdo, an expat who decided to make the trip.
For Lebanon’s pleasure-seekers, the main memories of the war, which is being fought just 60 miles south of Beirut, are the disrupted GPS signals, the deafening Israeli sonic booms and the “emergency bags” that many have packed on their doorsteps in case of emergencies.
Such dissonances are typical of the Lebanese psyche, where tragedy and jubilation often exist side by side. But these hedonistic dichotomies are fuelling resentment in the south, where those who have suffered the worst from the effects of war are struggling to survive.
“I understand that people want to relax, but we are sitting here without electricity, without running water, our houses are destroyed, our land is scorched,” says Mustafa al-Sayyed, father of eleven children. When the first bombs fell on his border village of Beit Lif in mid-October, he and his family moved to a government-run emergency shelter in the southern city of Tyre.
“The people and the state have completely abandoned us,” says Sayyed, a tobacco farmer who has lost a year’s income because of the conflict. Although he receives $200 a month from Hezbollah, he runs up debts of $400 a month just to feed his family. Rations are limited at the technical school in Tyre, where several hundred people are seeking refuge, with only one or two families living in each classroom.
“For them there is no war. For us there is only war,” said Sayyed.
Like much of Lebanon, Tyre relies on tourism. Locals boast that its crystal-clear waters and white-sand beaches are the most beautiful in the country. The city’s beach clubs opened for the season on June 1, but they struggle to pay the rent. Tourists are wary of getting too close to the fighting.
“People are afraid because our beaches are a front-row view of the war,” says Amal Wazni, who runs the B-12 beach club. “When the border areas are hit, we can see the smoke rising from here. But people don’t understand that we are completely safe in Tyre – there is no war inside the city walls.”
Now in its second year of operating B-12, Wazni’s regulars are Lebanese expatriates. Since many of them called ahead to reserve their seats, she hired additional staff and made some improvements to the space.
But only half of their 110 beds are occupied now. “Those who come are mainly locals and southerners who need a mental break from the war and understand that we are safe here.”
As she spoke, smoke rose in the distance from an Israeli attack on a border village. “In the first few days of the season, people ran for cover at every sonic boom. And now? People are sleeping through it,” Wazni said. “What can I say, we can get used to anything – we Lebanese love life.”
The decline in tourism has hurt the city economically. Fishermen complain that their daily catch only brings in a pittance, and restaurants are trying to boost business by offering deep discounts. A Lebanese yacht rental company is even taking bookings for escape routes to Cyprus in case war breaks out and the airport is closed.
But until then, life in this country of contradictions goes on as usual. Last week, Iraqi pop singer Kadim Al Sahir serenaded an audience of 8,000 in a waterfront bar in downtown Beirut, with tickets costing up to $500.
Many of them were transported back to a time before the war, before economic crisis and political sclerosis once again hit Lebanon. For 120 minutes, the crowd sang with him “and we forgot everything,” said a woman in the audience. “And they say war is coming?”
