Elissa, my favorite Lebanese pop star was in the CD player. We sung along smiling, turning it down as we came to a checkpoint. Strange, we thought, we had gone through many checkpoints on our 3-day journey, but never one in the middle of a freeway. Most were on rural roads entering and exiting small towns. Additionally, before this one none had checked our passports or inquired about our destination. Usually we just got waived through, two white girls in a Toyota Yaris with a huge “Budget” sticker in the back windshield. Sign #1.
We continued with Elissa towards Beirut remarking that the traffic was unusually light. It wasn’t Friday (the holy day for Muslims). It wasn’t Sunday (the holy day for Christians). It wasn’t a government holiday as far as we knew. I also hadn’t seen many minibuses – only private cars zipping between lanes racing to their destinations. Sign #2.
We discussed. If something were wrong in Beirut the soldiers at the checkpoint would have told us, no? Should we stop and check the Internet? Would the Canadian Embassy on the outskirts of town be open? Our instincts were kicking in. Something was going on.
As we drove farther we counted the tanks. There were more than before…markedly more. Maybe 9 times as many with guns pointed direct at oncoming traffic. Soldiers loitered looking official in what turned out to be the quiet before the storm. We detoured to find Internet, but our brief search was futile. With other cars still heading towards the city center we decided to stop wasting time and get back to our hotel where we could collect more information. If something was wrong, time was of the essence.As we turned off the freeway towards our hotel, we saw a massive military mobilization. The nearby overpass had been blocked above and below and tires lay strewn across the road (these would later be burned in protest). Three large trucks were parked carrying upwards of 90 soldiers in brown fatigues only two blocks from our hotel. We parked.
Our hotel was an inviting place. The doors were always open welcoming guests into a small lobby where people gathered to share tales of the day and get advice from the friendly family that ran the place. As we ascended the stairs reality struck. The door was closed. This was serious. When we pushed the door open some turned to see who we were. Others remained glued to the television awaiting news from outside. I knew the answer before I asked. “What is going on?”
It was 6:00pm. We needed a plan. Take the rental back (not to the airport as it was on lock down, no one could enter) and leave immediately OR wait until morning to head for the Syrian border. We consulted with the other tourists that had been around all day. One had just arrived and was sticking around in hopes that people would still be going salsa dancing. Others seemed lost, glued to the Internet or hiding out in their rooms watching BBC World or CNN International. We only had one more planned day in Beirut. It was supposed to be a relaxed day on the Mediterranean beachside. Tempting, but self-preservation won out. I called my mother. “We’re okay. We’re leaving. I’ll call you from Damascus tomorrow. This call is expensive.”
The North Beirut Budget rental office was supposed to be closed but due to the forced closure of the airport location, it had remained open a little later than usual. 7:00pm – the man was sliding the chain link gate closed as we pulled up. He slid it open again and checked our car in. We said we were heading for Syria. He called a cab - $100 to the border, what??? No. We could do better with a share taxi. The man at Budget kindly offered to drive us to the bus station where we’d hopefully find others heading the same way. We threw our bags in the back of the Budget vehicle and kindly declined stopping for a beer in route. At the station we found a share taxi for $15 each. We just had to wait for the car to fill up – three more people. We moved our bags into the trunk of our escape vehicle – a ghetto-licious white Cadillac with maroon velvet seats.
Soon a Syrian family arrived and joined the car. We packed the three of them plus baby in the back and Heather and I sat front and center with the driver. Goodbye Beirut. I thought about Rein, the yoga instructor, Yosef, the law professor, Ahmed, our VIP sugardaddy, Mohamad and Bassem, who had taken us to the south, the brothers who ran our hotlel. Heather and I could grab our backpacks, hop in a white Caddy and pull a family Von Trapp (leave), but what could they do? My heart sank for these people who had touched my life and a country on the possible brink of another long and painful civil war. I felt as though I was abandoning them – using my privilege, my birthright. But there was noting I could do. My sympathy was not going to stop bullets, bombs and burning tires. I had to go.
The dark roads to the border were still relatively quiet. Families were inside awaiting news on the next development. Checkpoints waved us through. We arrived at the border around 10:15pm and stamped out of Lebanon with a new challenge: getting back into Syria.
The border guard said that with my American passport I’d have to wait 3 hours for approval from Damascus. Just like before, this was expected, but with an ETA of 3:00am in Damascus, the annoyance factor was escalated. He said that maybe it would be shorter, but our Cadillac and family could not wait. The guard assured us that another taxi would be available to take us. Worse case scenario, we figured, we could sleep on the cold barren floor of the 24-hour border facility.
It’s unclear if the God’s were smiling on us or if suspicious forces were at play, but my visa got processing in record time: 1 hour and 30 minutes. No taxis were outside, but the guards found us a ride with an Armenian Syrian who seemed friendly enough. With few options and the border guards with all of our information as well as his, we accepted.
We drove to the first customs checkpoint. Passport photos matched the passengers. “Who’s bags are those?”
“The American’s,” our driver replied.
“Go.”
We pulled up to the next stop where they checked our car registration. The soldiers pointed at me.
“American,” it was clarified by our driver. I wondered why he wasn’t saying anything about the Canadian in the back seat. We were waved on.
On the road to Damascus, we had successfully left Lebanon. I very selfishly hoped that if war was inevitable that fighting would break sooner rather than later making our epic tale of flight that much more dramatic and confirming our good decision-making rather than proving us to have overreacted. I felt a little guilty for this, but hey, if it was going to happen anyway…
As my moral fabric was stretched by my conflicting feelings and thoughts, I was soon distracted by a wee detour. We pulled up next to a small shack-like house on the side of the road. Pictures of Hezbollah leaders were displayed prominently in the front windows. Our ride got out and walked inside. It is unclear what transpired in the house, but it sent my mind racing. Could this all be an elaborate setup and Heather and I were soon to be en route to a Hezbollah safe house in Syria where we would be used as trivial pawns in the politics of a pending war that’s implications went far beyond Lebanon’s borders? My fears were not quelled when a man accompanied our driver back out to the car and words containing “American” were exchanged.
I grew tenser and tenser as early morning calls and texts (maybe 1am at this point) kept coming in on the phone. Coded conversations activated my survival instincts and I began looking for a way to secure my safety.
“Are you Christian?” I asked pointing to the picture of Jesus Christ saved as the wallpaper on his phone. I got a puzzled look. He didn’t understand. “Christian?” I crossed myself as I had seen on my few experiences at mass or watching mobster flicks. “Enta (You)?”
“Aywa, yes, yes.”
“Me too! Me too!” I said hoping to invoke some sort of guilt and or sympathy that might prevent my “captor” from delivering me into the hands of Hezbollah.
The calls kept coming in and as we neared Damascus he began slowing down as we passed cars stopped on the side of the freeway. He looked inside trying to see if it was whomever he had been conversing with over the cellular network. My hands were shaking as he began to ruffle through some things and grabbed a Red Label box from the back as he drove. Heather seemed calm in the back listening to her iPod. She remained so as we pulled to the side of the road and came to a stop behind a car with a man leaning against the driver side door. Our driver was fiddling with the box which based on the way he was handling it, did not contain whiskey as the outside would suggest. I offered to hold it for him in an attempt to provide helpful and see if it was a gun that he would use to escort us into the hands of Hezbollah. He, of course, didn’t want to hand it over and soon opened his door and exited.
Our lights still on shown on the two men like spotlights along the surprisingly busy highway. Our driver handed over the Red Label box. The other man, slightly portly and in his late 30’s, reached into the pockets of his khaki pants and pulled out a wad of Syrian currency. He counted off more bills than I could keep track of and handed it to our driver. The deal was done, and we were not part of it.
Our driver came back and let us know that “his friend” was going all the way towards our hotel if we wanted a ride. I was still shaking and we declined and requested he take us to the turnoff where we could get a cab. He agreed and we drove a few more miles to a turnoff where he flagged us a cab, negotiated us a good rate and sent us on our way.
Turned out that we had been accessories to help smooth the journey for this well-meaning smuggler. It was a win/win of sorts. Relieved and exhausted by the day, we checked into our hotel and awoke the next morning to news of bombs and bullets in Beirut. God had given me the adventure I was after…and then some.
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