Beirut, I lo(athe)ve you

I was born in the wrong era. I long for the pearl of the Mediterranean that was once Beirut. I miss her blinding lights, the warm summer nights, the immaculate architecture and walking in the rain along her cerulean shores. All were once upon a time the makings of a fairy tale city.

Beirut: Not too shabby, but is this all we can aspire to?

These days I dread going to Beirut, at least during the day. I hate having to face the heartbreakingly unorganized city that operates solely by the Darwinian theory of survival of the fittest.

Despite this, I try to make it a habit to seek out the old Beirut whenever I can. My explorations lead me to a qahwa with an identity crisis. It is clearly a coffee shop, but tries to pass itself as a modern eatery. I frequent that place with my friend at the wee small hours after it transforms back to its humble existence.

There, the blinding lights I saw are no longer the shiny lure of Beirut; no, they are the fake xenon headlights of depravity and sleazy mufflers on wheels zooming down the streets, trying to impress unfortunate girls who have to witness this pathetic spectacle.

As I sat at my table, trying to hold on to the golden memories of yesteryear and a cup of bitter black coffee, I began to wonder, both to myself and my friend:

“What happened to her cultural heritage, to her intellectual and artistic genius, to her simple yet beautiful visage? Who is the wrong-doer here? What caused this awful transformation, turning the mother of Lady Europa of Tyr into an insecure, soulless harlot? It’s entirely our fault. We stood by and did nothing when our city was infested with all this corruption, turning her into an impassive concrete jungle –”

Suddenly, my monologue was boorishly interrupted by a passing car playing loud dubstep. I then turned to my friend and said “welcome to Beirut.”

 — 

This post is a part of a memoir writing class I’m currently taking at AUB. It was partly inspired by Zena el Khalil’s Beirut, I love you.