I’M thinking about Lebanon but it’s a more personal reflection than political, although the two are inextricably linked. Since hearing about Israel’s murder of Shaikh Nasrallah, I’ve been filled with memories of my 2009 trip there, starting with meeting the men at the Hezbollah camp-cum-stall my friend Shaan and I walked into. Upon hearing we were from Pakistan, we were treated like long-lost friends — we experienced this everywhere we went on our two-week trip where we travelled the length and breadth of this country. We heard iterations of ‘Pakistan? You understand what it’s like to live through war and instability.’

The men at the Hezbollah stall were no different. They talked about Pakistan with sympathy — our corrupt politicians, our greedy elite, our army that wanted to retain its power, our client-like status with the imperialists, our hapless citizens. “But we have Hezbollah to protect our borders,” they said. There was no talk of religion or sect or heaven or hell.

I have written about this before so pardon me for repeating how we left that afternoon armed (no pun intended) with gifts — Hezbollah memorabilia if you will. I worried I would look like a Hezbollah fighter if screened at Karachi airport. Friends commented “terrorism supporters” on pictures of us dressed in Hezbollah T-shirts.

I also remember that day very well for another reason: it was the first day of Ramazan. We had stopped at a cafe en route to Baalbek to have some breakfast. We asked the staff for the dining section — thinking perhaps they had not set up the curtains to cordon off the area for non-fasters. The staff pointed to the entire restaurant. “Anywhere,” said one man. Nothing slowed in Lebanon because of the month of fasting, at least when we were there.

Another day on our trip to find Rashdieh refugee camp — not for disaster tourism; I wanted to attempt some reporting — which houses Palestinian refugees, we took a wrong turn and ended up close to the border with Israel. Don’t ask; this is pre-Google maps. Because we were not bound by a set itinerary, we were quite nonplussed about getting lost. We’d already learned that between our/ their broken Arabic and French and English, we a) found our way back to Beirut; and b) we enjoyed our conversations with strangers. Our new friends pointed us in the direction of Israel, so we flipped them the bird and headed home.

The men at the Hezbollah stall talked about Pakistan with sympathy.

That is what Beirut felt like in just a few days of being there. When we went to a certain hotel on my father’s insistence as he had dined there with my mother on our first posting abroad when I was a mere baby in the 1970s, the man at the piano bar dedicated song after song to “our guests from Pakistan”.

I have numerous such anecdotes to share but I’m thinking of three people as I write this. An elderly owner of the bookshop where I went every morning to buy the Daily Star before heading to a coffee shop to read it. (Team Newspapers Forever.) He would tell me which columnist to read, ask my opinion the following day, and because I wasn’t so well versed in Lebanese politics, he would make me sit and explain and I found so many similarities with Pakistan — that is, the complex relations between stakeholders.

I’m thinking of a young jewellery designer I met in a fancier part of the city whose mother was in the shop that day. We talked about the violence tearing, and then also creating, political dynasties, ZAB for us, Rafic Hariri for them. And finally, I’m thinking of feminist writer Joumana Had-

­dad; I visited her at a newspaper office and chatted about her activism, about how a small action can lead to a big shift, even if it’s in attitude. She said she did not want to leave because who will be left to fight? These three individuals had nothing in common save one thing: all of them had been affected by war and there was clarity on who the aggressor was. Israel then, Israel now, Israel always.

I wonder what they’re thinking as Lebanon holds centre stage. Once again the Western media’s lens points their way using adjectives we’re all too familiar with: ‘terrorist’ for Hezbollah, ‘resilient’ for its people. It is not resilient to live in the face of so many blows coming at you from so many places; it is not a compliment, it is a reminder that you have no choice but to get up and carry on. It doesn’t get easier trying to survive this crazy world with crazy men in charge. And fewer resistance leaders shielding you from the madness. No one should have to be brave or resilient but they have no choice if they want to survive.

The writer is a journalism instructor.

X: LedeingLady

Published in Dawn, October 6th, 2024