Beirut: Seven Days in a Small War

(9 of 11)

From a hotel window in East Beirut, the western zone is almost entirely visible. It sparkles noiselessly in the clear night. Two images of the city recur. One is of a strange statue in the heart of West Beirut: that of a Lebanese politician. The statue is charcoal in color, about twelve feet tall, standing on a pedestal in a public circle with nothing interesting around it. The politician wears goggle-like glasses and a business suit. He looks both oracular and cartoonish, the presiding deity of the middle class.

The other image was caught this morning, in the council room of the Grand Mufti of Lebanon. Like parks and schools, this room too has been turned over to refugees. At 9 a.m. three young women lay sleeping on benches beneath an inscription from the Koran. They did not know they were observed. They looked serene and beautiful. One of them, with long black hair, stirred softly in her sleep, making a quiet sigh. Through the room's high windows, the sun touched her. Awakened by the light, she stretched and smiled.

Sunday, July 4

Time to decide who is right in this war. The Israelis, the Time to decide who is right in this war. The Israelis, the Palestinians and the Lebanese, to be sure; all of them are right. And their supporters are right, of course: those who pull for one side, two or three. And the soldiers are right too; and the politicians and the poets. All are right. The dismembered are right, as are the paralyzed and the mad. The apartment houses and the stadiums are right. The bombmakers, the jets, the noise and silence. History and the future, both right. The dead are certainly right.

So it is settled, then, and not a moment too soon. The car is ready to head south by 4 in the morning. It takes the long way around by the Damascus Road, passing an institute for the deaf along the way. The institute was shelled. What is it like not to be able to hear the shell that falls on you? In the back seat of the car sit two Israeli soldiers, making muted conversation. Dan is the official escort. Eli goes along for the ride. He will meet up with other troops farther south.

Eli is a historian by trade, when he is not functioning as a chicken farmer on a kibbutz. He took his Ph.D. at the Sorbonne, and teaches Jewish history at Tel Aviv University. No, he does not think that this is his nation's last war: "We are always among enemies." Eli is 40, but his full beard makes him look older. He is tall and heavy in the shoulders, a powerful soldier. A major now, he has fought for Israel in three wars. His son was close to tears when the father went off to this one. Eli is not sure that this war was necessary, but he will fight it. Among the prophets, he most admires Amos, for the combination of faith and realism.

Later in the day, Dan will find Eli in despair. Eli will reach unconsciously into his breast pocket and pick out a playing card, the nine of hearts. Several days earlier he took it away from one of his men, in order to prevent card playing on duty. The soldier from whom he took it was new to battle, quite young, and scared. He made an error of judgment the next day, and was killed. Eli had forgotten about the card.

As the car rolls south, Israeli trucks roll north. One has a feeling that a push is on. The car reaches Sidon by 8:30 a.m. So much is destroyed here. Yet there was always destruction in