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LEBANON WAR

'I don't give a damn about this war!': The Beirutis between anger and denial

From almost empty cafe terraces to hair salons in decline, who are these inhabitants of the capital who are not accepting their new reality in the midst of conflict?

'I don't give a damn about this war!': The Beirutis between anger and denial

In a cafe in Gemmayzeh, a few diehards don't break their habits. (Credit Carla Henoud)

"But yes, everything is fine boys, take care of your studies." With the phone glued to her ear, Nicole* reassured her two children, both in London to continue their studies.

Large cigar in hand and sunglasses on her nose, this former gallery owner absorbed the last rays of sunshine of a busy day. On the terrace of a cafe in Mar Mikhael preparing to close shop, the mother did not seem worried about the messages she received by the hundreds from abroad.

"My friends tell me I'm crazy, that I should join my sons in England or take refuge in Cyprus," she chuckled. "I laugh because I know that this conflict is not mine, it is the one that an entity I do not recognize inflicted on us!" continued the 50-year-old out loud in front of the raised eyebrows of bewildered baristas.

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A former member of the Kataeb Party “which still resembled Bashir” and which she left at the end of the 1990s, Nicole, although having distanced herself from politics, still assumes a close affiliation with the March 14 movement.

“I am not associated with any party. In times of crisis, it’s different … You have to cling to an ideology and mine is above all anti-Hezbollah,” she said, who turned around to make sure that no one was listening before launching into a community pamphlet: “We tried to coexist and this is what happened. We were ashamed to say it: They have their Lebanon and we have ours. So let me tell you that I don’t give a damn about this war,” she whispered as she takes another sip of her cold cappuccino.

Behind the mini-bar, Jad seems more concerned. With visible dark circles and a veiled look, the 25-year-old waiter finds himself obliged to take charge of the schedule of a resigned colleague who no longer dares to go to Beirut since the assassination of Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah on Sept. 27.

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"She has been completely terrified since then. The night of the explosion that killed the Sayyed, she was completely paralyzed by fear," he explained. "I still went out for a drink at my girlfriend's house with the promise not to turn on the television so as not to go crazy. I have to hold on, I have to stay standing. Even if it means being in total denial."

Desire for normality

A few colorful buildings away, a handful of teenagers roam Gouraud Street, about ten meters from the city center.

“Shops and restaurants have started to reopen. Almost everything was closed last week,” said Jason, describing the metal shutters that have locked Gemmayze in an almost forced mourning.

“Despite the sadness, it seems like life has resumed its course,” he stated, following his French lesson via Zoom with his classmates from an old-fashioned bistro overlooking Martyrs Square, where dozens of displaced people have settled down to sleep under the stars.

In Beirut, between stress and denial. (Credit: Carla Henoud)

In this street, which is usually crowded during happy hour, there is a wary calm in the taverns announcing their closing times "at 6:30 p.m. at the latest," as Fadi*, the owner of a restaurant-pub that he opened a little over a year ago, explained, "just before Oct. 7, like a stroke of bad luck."

Like him, restaurateurs and shopkeepers no longer linger in their premises, which are usually full once night falls.

"We're fed up, we're exhausted," he said. "Young people are just asking to live, but we're forced to leave, to crowd in front of Western embassies to beg for a visa and start over in Rome or Madrid. I refuse this reality," he stated as his wife called out to him to go home "before the start of the Israeli strikes on the southern suburbs," which keep the inhabitants of the capital and its surroundings awake every night.

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"I'll leave you, Wednesday is poker night," Fadi announced with a smile, preferring to stay "well away" from the "anxiety-inducing" news bulletins flooding local television channels until dawn.

Old reflexes

Far from the ambient panic that has taken hold of a large part of the population and her own home in the wealthy neighborhoods, Gisele*, as usual, collects her newspapers and sets up shop in the bakery run by her sister in Achrafieh since 1987.

"We've known others, what do you think?" she said. "The only difference is that I only buy the dailies to do crosswords now!"

Also holding a French passport, Gisele, with her yellow handbag and false eyelashes, refused the idea of ​​being repatriated to Paris.

"I won't budge an inch! After the civil war, after 2006, nothing scares me anymore. Even if I turn a deaf ear, I sometimes hear the enemy's bombs in the evening. No matter, I turn on my fan and turn up the volume on the television," Gisele confessed. "All my neighbors watch France 3 TV movies from my apartment."

In a hair salon in the capital that only opens three times a week. (Credit: Carla Henoud)

But while the oldest are resisting and the school, university and cultural sectors are adapting their programs as best they can according to the evolution of the security situation in Beirut, several emblematic institutions of the city have had to give in to external pressure.

"I never thought I would open only three times a week," said Wissam, owner of a beauty salon in Hamra. "My father, Abou Ali, also a hairdresser for his ladies in his time, constantly and humorously told me that the only industry not affected by the war was the beauty industry."

"It's my wife who forbids me from opening every day, she wants to go and live with her parents in Tripoli. I explain to her that I can't abandon my clientele, I'm inundated with requests for blow-drys," he stated as he was called by a regular who was late to a friend's birthday party at the Albergo hotel.

"This is not our first war and it probably won't be our last. We will continue as long as we can, between Israeli bombs, tear gas bombs and hair bombs."

This article originally appeared in French in L'Orient-Le Jour.

"But yes, everything is fine boys, take care of your studies." With the phone glued to her ear, Nicole* reassured her two children, both in London to continue their studies. Large cigar in hand and sunglasses on her nose, this former gallery owner absorbed the last rays of sunshine of a busy day. On the terrace of a cafe in Mar Mikhael preparing to close shop, the mother did not seem worried...