by David Bailey
My parents joined the Presbyterian mission to Beirut in the late
60’s when I was one. They had been in Egypt and were headed to Beirut.
In the interim we went to Switzerland where I’m told I took a bite out
of a crystal water glass and later fell and rolled down an alp. So
begins my adventure.
The First Evacuation
We left Beirut in the middle of the night at the height of the civil
war. I was 10 years old. I remember the three-family caravan to the
airport with a Lebanese army armored car leading the way. It was a long
night, the preface to a long trip. We drifted from Oklahoma to
California, then finally took root in western Pennsylvania and spent
two happy years in small town America. What little I know of Americana
I learned in those two years.
Back to Beirut
We finally returned to Beirut in the late 70’s where I had some
really happy middle and high school years amidst the rubble of a nation
struggling to get on its feet. These were my golden years, filled with
exotic memories – snorkeling in the Mediterranean; playing basketball
outside the school and running inside to avoid shrapnel showers; school
trips to Cairo, Amman, Athens, and Damascus; sipping my first beer
(Heineken); braving my first kiss; building my stray bullet collection
from slugs recovered off of building rooftops; and generally doing the
mischievous kinds of things that a teen might do in a war-torn country.
But all in all it was a grand and wonderful place to be a boy. With the
moderate Mediterranean weather, we never had ‘snow days’ – but we did
have several ‘war days’ and learned to cope in the zany times. When
fighting would erupt during the day while we were already at school, I
remember we would all calmly walk down to the basement and chat and
wait for it to pass – about as exciting as a fire drill.
ACS
I attended the American Community School of Beirut; once a thriving
boarding school for families of oil workers in the Gulf, it had become
a kind of United Nations for teens and we loved it. In attendance were
all the kids from foreign embassies, University professors and of
course, all the missionary kids. You had to recognize curse words in at
least four languages if you wanted to cope. We had Friday night dances,
and spring carnivals and art shows and lots of sports - basketball
teams and soccer teams and tennis teams and softball teams - and with
such a small student body, everyone pretty much played everything. The
day we tied the US Marines in a softball game was a tough pill to
swallow for those guys. Eric, my best friend and son of Lutheran
missionaries and I started what we called the helping hand club: we
would sell popcorn at the games and hand the money to random street
beggars around town. Mission made simple. The memories are abundant.
There was the day Eric and I decided that flinging burning tar
around at each other - behind a gas station - was a good idea. The
second-degree burn on my leg taught me otherwise. There was the morning
a stray bullet came through my bedroom window; I slept right though it.
There was that time when Dad and I took a detour through the port and
found ourselves stopped by car thieves masquerading as a Syrian army
check point. Fortunately, our VW wagon was sufficiently beat up that
they decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. It was one of the few times I
ever remember my dad looking scared (the other was when we were camping
in the Shenandoah and a bear came to visit my tent.). There were car
bombs & stray sniping and funerals and weddings and movies and
every other thread you can imagine in the tapestry of war life. The old
US embassy that was blown up was just a few buildings down from ours –
we lost all our windows and doors but at the time, it really didn’t
seem all that weird or shocking. Just another day. People came from all
over the city to check on the Baileys. Glass was cleaned up, doors were
re-hung – and life went on. People went to work. Fruit vendors went
back to the street. Students went to school. Bakers baked. Churches and
Mosques kept their doors open. Everybody was in it together. Between
the beauties of the Mediterranean in the shadow of the Sanin Mountains,
the amazing resilient and gracious spirit of the Lebanese people
somehow always outshone the hostilities.
The First Invasion
It was June, 1982, and I woke up as just another teenager on just
another sunny summer day in Beirut. I spent the morning taking the SAT
exams with my classmates. During the testing, we heard a few random
explosions in the distance, but nobody even raised their heads to look
out the window. To survive in Beirut required one to maintain the
illusion of physical safety and emotional stability. In the absence of
either, we learned to pretend we had both. Following the exam, we
headed out to one of our favorite spots: Long Beach. No one ever
bothered to note that it was not really a beach nor was it long.
Rather, it was a kind of poor man’s social club with a pool on a piece
of the rocky scrappy coast at the end of the Corniche, a broad walking
and driving avenue that bordered the city along the coast. Amidst the
sunbathers, the children bobbing in the pool, and the teenagers
scarfing grilled cheese sandwiches, we settled in to get sunburns on
our piece of paradise and talked about the past year. I don’t know who
saw it first, but in the finely developed sixth sense that one acquires
in war, we all sensed the commotion long before anyone saw or heard it.
For all its shortcomings, Long Beach offered a spectacular view of the
Lebanese coastline running south all the way to Tyre. People were on
their feet now, jockeying for a better look. They began to point --
explosions to the south followed by small puffs of white antiaircraft
explosions in the surrounding skies. Then we heard it: the parallel
blasts of the air-to-ground missiles and the ineffective antiaircraft
resistance. The beach crowd watched in wonder like a silent movie in
slow motion. Everyone knew. This was not another round of local
militias battling it out in darkened alleys. This was a more ominous
chapter. Israeli jets were bombing their homeland - our homeland.
Israeli jets, made possible by American dollars…. American Dollars were
bombing… my homeland. All of a sudden I felt conspicuous like never
before: conspicuous, nervous, and…ashamed: probably not unlike how
Saudi Arabians who grew up in America felt on 9-11. Nobody said a word
to me, but then, that day on that beach, I looked like everyone else:
tan, flip flops, and cut-off jean shorts over Adidas swim trunks.
Looking back, we should have known that eventually we’d be singled out.
That came later. In the days that followed, life as we knew it
unraveled. School simply ended. No finals. No prom. No goodbyes.
Tensions heated up quickly. Increased gunfire was heard throughout
the city every night. By that time, there were 64 political parties in
Lebanon and 21 of them had private militias. Beyond that, every
neighborhood had its own armed gang protecting its turf. And still
somehow, life went on. I remained sufficiently distracted by normal
teenage concerns to lack a full appreciation of the politics of the
day. We had no TV – and there was no CNN or internet email news alerts.
We would tune in to the BBC radio to find out what was happening on the
other side of town, though often they just confirmed what we already
knew – like a weatherman telling you it is raining outside. The country
I had come to love so much and call home was being torn to shreds by
internal and external hostilities. It soon became clear that the claims
made by Israel of only securing a safety zone along the border were a
lie. As they pushed farther and farther north, we wrestled with
decisions. For our family, part of our ministry came to be one of
presence: while many Americans fled again and again at the first sign
of trouble, some of us stayed, standing shoulder to shoulder with the
other Lebanese doing their best to get through the hard times. Dad
called for a family vote and we all opted to stay. To know that we
could have left and didn’t was a small point of hope and light for
some. It certainly added to our credibility and enabled us to look
people in the eyes and say “I understand.” I guess that’s kinda what
Jesus did.
But the ministry of presence is not risk-free.
Kidnapped
There were five of us, friends out for lunch together, before the
end of summer would usher us into different corners of the world. While
meandering down Hamra Street in Beirut’s downtown shopping district, we
were joking about someone’s haircut when a voice on the street
commanded us to stop and stand in a line. We turned in unison, like
showgirls on a cabaret stage, to see a rough-looking man in his 30’s,
wearing jeans and a tattered army jacket, pointing a Russian-made AK-47
machinegun at us. We were told to follow him across the street up to
his local office where a platoon of similar looking militants loitered.
It all happened so fast. One moment, we were walking the streets as
friends, and the next, we were pseudo prisoners of war. The
interrogation in Arabic began: name? Who do you work for? Who does your
father work for? Why are you here? How long have you been here? Where
were you going? Are you a spy? Why were you laughing? Don’t you know
there is a war going on? Who does your father work for? At one point, I
inadvertently brushed the hand of one of my interrogators. Furious, he
backhanded me across the face. Somehow, the force and the shock of the
blow finally made me realize how helpless we truly were and at that
moment, I realized in a visceral way that we were in a very bad
situation. Recent stories of foreigners left on the outskirts of town
with a bullet in their heads came to mind.
After an hour, we found ourselves facing an odd blend of confusion
and frustration. Clearly, we had no tactical value to these thugs, yet
the prize of five American young men in captivity seemed too good to
ignore. Calls were made and finally we were led outside and shoved into
a taxi for a ride to another building across town. It couldn’t have
been that long, but the silent tension in the cab felt like forever. It
is fascinating to me that at the time, I remember the only thing I
really resented was being forced to pay the cab driver: the odd ethics
of terrorism. We arrived at our destination and ascended a flight of
steps to a new office – cleaner, brighter, and less crowded than our
former venue. This was clearly a higher echelon. A clean shaven man in
clean clothes looked us over, asked a few questions and made his
conclusion: “They’re just kids.” With those words, we were released. I
held it together walking home through the city but when I finally
arrived at our apartment, I completely broke down in the loving arms of
my mother and our Palestinian maid. They’d known something was wrong
when I was late - something you just didn’t do in those days. When I
stopped sobbing long enough to catch my breath and explain what had
happened, I was overcome with the joy of being alive and reunited.
Years later, I would experience this feeling again in a different
setting.
The Second Evacuation
Dad pulled the plug and we made plans to leave the next morning. We
weren’t sure where we were going or how long we’d be there – I remember
mom telling me to pack my most special things and I felt a deep
confused sorrow at the realization that I might not be back. We headed
out early to travel before the snipers woke up. We stopped to pick up
Eric who was on his way to college, safely crossed the Green line into
East Beirut and headed for an Inn in the mountains. After a few days,
Dad worried because we couldn't’ really afford to stay – yet had
nowhere to go. As providence would have it, America sent in the USS
Nashville troopship as a ‘last call’ evacuation for all Americans still
in the country and our family caught the overnight ride to Cyprus. I
remember the long hot chaotic hours in the sun on the dock waiting for
the paperwork and processing. Then finally we crammed onto a landing
craft and sailed out into the belly of the troopship. It was an odd mix
of emotions: a delicate blend of relief at making it out safely and
guilt for the people and places we were leaving behind. As we
approached, I remember being overwhelmed by the size of the vessel and
by the crowd of marines on deck taking pictures of us while we took
pictures of them. It’s funny how we fascinated each other that way and
were to quick to photograph an event most of us wanted to forget. I
stayed up all night talking to Marines who astounded me by calling me
“Sir.” One of them pulled out a guitar and we sat up another few hours
playing cards and swapping songs. For all the times I’d been disgraced
by the policies and actions of my country, this was one moment when I
could not have been prouder to be an American – or, at the least, proud
of those Marines. I hope one day they know that. We sailed to Cyprus
and retreated to a mountain campsite to rest and regroup and I tackled
my songwriting with renewed energy, trying to capture some of the
madness. It seems odd to me now how dark some of those words were, but
then the situation was pretty grim. From Cyprus, I went on to boarding
school in Germany where I finished my high school education. That’s
another story.
While I was tucked away in the Black Forest, things got worse back
home. Mom took my sister to America for college in America, but dad had
returned to Beirut. Kidnappings of westerners intensified. The leaders
of our local neighborhood militia went to our door to tell dad they
would provide an armed escort for him anytime he needed to go anywhere.
Yes, we were Americans, but we had lived there as long as anyone and we
were family. Presence matters.
I flew back to Beirut for Christmas in 1982 and visited the bombed
out remnants of the once grand Martyr’s square; it felt like pictures
of Berlin in WW2. I returned again the following year, only this time
the airport was closed so I took a nearly empty passenger ship from
Larnaca into Beirut; there weren’t many people anxious to enter Lebanon
and I only spotted one other westerner, who turned out to be the son of
Malcolm Kerr, the then president of the American University of Beirut.
A week later, I attended a party in Mr. Kerr’s home and shortly
thereafter, he was assassinated. It all seems like a fog now. I left
Beirut in January 1984, again doubting I would ever return. I went on
to college, got married, started a family, and climbed the corporate
ladder.
The First Homecoming
In 1996 I was diagnosed with a brain tumor and told I had a year to
live. So I did what any frustrated musician with months to live would
do and left corporate America to become a full time performing
songwriter. Two years later, in the fall of 1998, the time was right
and with my wife’s faithful blessing, I planned a trip back to Beirut.
I secured a room at the seminary where my father spent so much of his
life teaching and molding. I performed at a Christian coffeehouse
outreach to the University. I also was hosted by my friend and mentor
who works for Youth for Christ Lebanon and played for an Armenian
college and a Muslim high school. The gigs were amazing and I was
stunned by the power of simple songs to reach across language and
culture barriers. I guess it helped that I was not seen as strictly a
foreigner. More like a prodigal son. On my first day I walked out of
the seminary and was greeted by a rush of sensory overdose – the
smells, the sounds, the feel of the city was unchanged. I walked the
streets for hours and hours. Down to the Corniche, down to my building
in A’in M’resseh, past where the embassy once stood, over to my school.
I went to my 2nd grade classroom where I had had a crush on a girl
named Amanda. I walked through the courtyard where we had the final
sports awards banquet. I crossed the alley to the high school
courtyard, found my old locker and approached the gymnasium where I
broke my hand on the basketball court. I stopped everywhere to eat:
shwarma, mana’eesh, c’aack, LaHmabajin. Anything and everything I could
remember. Comfort foods. Finally I walked up what we called the stinky
stairs, wandered up Jean D’arc, past the building where the Baptists
used to meet on up to Hamra street. I stopped at Wimpy’s and every
other sidewalk café and drank copious cups of coffee just as an excuse
to sit and watch life go by. I was surprised and delighted to find how
much Arabic language came back to me. Shopkeepers were amused and
curious at the American bandana-clad man with the perfect accent. In a
small jewelers’ shop I was invited to sit while the owner sent out for
tea. It was an odd juxtaposition of perspectives. I noted that there
were no tanks, no guns, and no garbage on the streets. He noted that
yes, that was true, but there was also no money since the Americans
wiped out the drug trafficking that once funded the militias of the
civil war. I refrained from noting that we were unable to do that in
our own country. Further down Hamra Street, I walked towards the
building where we were taken captive. I felt totally safe back on my
streets so the wave of deep dark fear that hit me when I spotted the
entrance came as a huge surprise. I wanted to take a picture of the
building and retreated to a distant curb to do so. As I raised the
camera, my eye spotted what I was sure was a man in the darkened
entrance looking right back at me. I will never know if he existed or
if the ghosts finally paid me a visit, but I stuffed the camera in my
pocket and walked away as fast as I could. That was spooky. Undaunted,
I continued on my urban trek past the movie theatres where we watched
Rocky and Star Trek, past the pinball joints where we mastered Galaxia,
on to the nut shop, the flower shop, the toy store, several bakeries,
and through the university campus, saddened to see that the softball
field was now a parking lot. There was a Hard Rock Café, a McDonalds, a
Howard Johnsons and several other establishments that stuck out to me
like a sore thumb. I realized, though, that while I mourned the
tarnishing of what I held to be the purely Lebanese culture by such
Western businesses, the Lebanese people welcomed them as commercial
investments and, more importantly, as tangible signs of hope that they
had emerged from the dark years, ready to prosper and once again take
their rightful place as the Paris of the Middle East. The rubble of the
grand Martyr’s square was now cleared and in its place a flattened
expanse ready for rebuilding. I saw the artist’s rendition model for
the reconstruction and was inspired.
And yes, everything looked smaller, except the Sea and the
mountains. Unchanged, they watched with alternating joy and sorrow the
chapters this land of the cedars had endured. At a final goodbye dinner
with my Armenian friends I commented on what an amazing trip it had
been. John saw the glint in my eye and responded that “it’s one thing
to visit Beirut; it’s totally different to live here. Life is still
very hard.” It was the most prophetic comment of the week.
Years later, I celebrated from a distance at the resurgence of national pride and the emancipation from Syrian occupation.
DejaVu.
August, 2006. It’s been eight years since my last visit and 24 years
since I was evacuated. I don’t recall the first news report: Fighting
in the south of Lebanon. Hardly news. There was fighting in the south
when I visited and Beirut was thriving. But then came small reports
about Israeli jets dropping bombs. That got my attention in a kind of
dread-in-my-soul way. At the risk of calling the emperor naked, it
seems clear to me that dropping bombs on Beirut has nothing to do with
securing the border. But what do I know. It feels like Dejavu all over
again – except this time, King Bush is giving the green light wink and
a nod; despite the protests of the entire planet. We got our citizens
out safely – on none other than the USS Nashville. I wonder how many
teenagers were entertained by brave marines doing their job. I guess it
is true that those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. It’s
almost like we learned nothing in 24 years. Israel and her enemies
continue to kill each other, innocent Lebanese continue to die And
America continues to be ineffective; we’ve hardly set a good example
for anyone: We were attacked by zealots living in Afghanistan. In
response we decimated Iraq, serving only to empower the radicals.
Israel and Hezbollah are doing the same – and suicide bombers are not
the only way to practice terrorism. 500-pound bombs dropped from the
sky do a marvelous job of that as well. When Jesus said “Love your
enemies,” I wonder if he was joking. I mourn the deaths on both sides.
I mourn the shattered lives of those left behind. I mourn my city in
ruins. I mourn the lack of vision and wisdom from our leaders. I pray
for peace the only way I know how: humbly, on my knees. Oh – and I
survived that deadly brain tumor; deep down, I know hope is a powerful
thing.
The Second Homecoming
This week I fly to Larnaca, Cyprus for a family wedding. I both
welcome and fear the ghosts I know are waiting and trust that
witnessing the joy of new love will model that there is a better, more
excellent way.
Amen.