When you Google “Lebanon images”, the first results you will stumble upon are cedar trees.  Cedars are Lebanon’s national symbol, they are the center of the flag and emblazoned on every conceivable tourist tchotchke from t-shirts to key-chains.  The cedar tree seems to cross party and religious lines.   You’re as likely to see this symbol in Hezbollah strongholds, as you are chic Christian neighborhoods. I’m convinced that the cluster of cedar trees most likely to come up in Lebanon Google searches is one near a small village called Jej.  We see this in real life, every time we visit our best friends in Lebanon, the Abbouds.

David met Gaby Abboud when he started visiting Beirut in 2001 to do a documentary about Hezbollah for the PBS series, Frontline.  Now to be clear, Gaby has nothing to do with Hezbollah, he’s a Christian and a firm supporter of the Christian leader General Michel Aoun.   However Aoun did forge a political alliance of sorts with Hezbollah.  Aoun leads a political party as well as a coalition of parties called the ”Change and Reform” bloc.   He famously agreed on a controversial “Memorandum of Understanding” with Hezbollah a few years ago. It was the first time a Christian party formed any kind of political alliance with Hezbollah.

David calls Gaby his Lebanese brother and our most relaxing times in Lebanon are typically with Gaby and his family.  Once when my kids were little, David was traveling in Beirut. It was not long after 9/11 and the U.S. State Department issued a stern warning to all Americans advising them to leave Lebanon immediately.  At that time, a proselytizing missionary had been killed. While I knew my husband was hardly the proselytizing type, I called him on the crackly cell phone wires.  David listened to my entreaties and responded with, “Don’t worry. I’m with Gaby.” He put Gaby on the phone who calmed me down with, “Danica, That’s ridiculous.  We’re sitting in a Starbucks. The sun is shining and besides, If anything crazy happens, he’ll come stay with us.”  That’s all I needed to hear and David stayed another 10 days.

Gaby has two homes in Lebanon.  One is in Jounieh, the fashionable Christian suburb overlooking the Mediterranean and an old family home in Jej.  Jej, perched high in the mountains, is my favorite spot in all of Lebanon. To get to Jej, you drive East out of Beirut and basically straight up the side of the mountains with the help of winding roads likely to induce carsickness in the vulnerable. The scenery gets more and more beautiful the further you get from Beirut and the drenching hot summer airs cool the higher you get.  You drive by tiny villages nesting on the edge of mountains with terraced farmland somehow carved out of the rocks.  Along the way, we often stop at the monastery of Saint Charbel, one the key figures in the Maronite Catholic faith, the predominant Christian group in Lebanon.  Charbel’s face is as frequently seen in Christian neighborhoods as the Ayatollah Khomeini’s stern visage is seen in others. Christians originally came to the mountains, to places like Jej, to defend themselves against attacks from the majority Muslim population.  They survived by holding the high ground.

Jej is hardly a tourist destination.  It’s a tiny village in the mountains.  There are all of two little stores and a large church. Gaby’s house is the largest in town and sits on a hillside.  The day we visit Jej on this trip, it’s unusually cold.  We arrive at Gaby’s house and he has a fire going in the fireplace.   Remember this is June in the Middle East so we’ve all shown up wearing thin blouses and capris in anticipation of a sunny hike. Gaby runs upstairs and comes down with a pile of polo shirts and passes them out among his chilly guests.  In between bursts of rain, there’s a fierce wind, which dashes our hopes of sitting outside on the patio. Gaby has an older American friend who is perched near the fire smoking a hookah. Whenever Gaby entertains, he invites a large collection of fascinating friends. Today, he has the former US Ambassador to Lebanon, Vincent Battle, and some friends from Biblos, Beirut and the states.  Gaby’s sister, Lamia, whom we know from Massachusetts is here, so she’s got an eye on meal preparations while Gaby cracks open the champagne.  I’ve had the best meals I’ve ever had in Lebanon in this house.

Marie is in the kitchen preparing the lunch. She’s Lamia and Gaby’s cook from childhood. As an elderly Lebanese woman, Maria is the exception to the household help rule. Nearly every home we visit in Lebanon (whether, Sunni or Christian) is staffed by a Filipina maid. We’ve become accustomed to being served our Turkish coffee by petite Filipina women in starched uniforms with aprons.  Maria stands all of 4 feet 10 and is as Lebanese as they come.  She commands the kitchen like a general alternately frying French fries and fashioning grape leaves into a towering structure.   She hands meat kabobs off to two male helpers who are manning the grill. We’ve seen this grill in other homes in Lebanon.  Every meal in Lebanon features some sort of grilled meat or fish, yet there’s not a Weber in sight. The typical Lebanese grill is a rudimentary metal affair with twigs in a metal bin with a crude device that allows meat or fish to be flipped.  How the Lebanese manage to produce as large a quantity of grilled fish and kebabs on something so tiny I’ll never know.  I try to take a picture and Marie shoos me out of the kitchen with a scowl.

We munch on carrot sticks and pistachios (standard Lebanese pre-appetizers) when a movement is made to take a hike. There’s a momentary burst of sunlight so we all climb into our vans and cars for a dash up the mountain.  The roads are tiny and winding and I’m reminded of Gaby’s friend Zeina. Zeina drives a  Porsche and I foolishly asked her if she’d been to Porsche driving school.  My friends in the States who drive Porsches all rave about it.  Zeina just threw back her head and laughed when I asked this question.  “ Yes, I know about this but I don’t need Porsche driving school! I learned how to drive during the war. Can you imagine driving up these roads trying to miss the bombs?  That was my driving school!”

There is a hike above Gaby’s home that will lead us to the cluster of cedar trees and beyond. It’s the beyond I want to hit.  For deep in the woods, somebody, long ago, built a simple wooden church. You hike along the trail, passing a deep grotto like cave where Gaby and childhood friends nearly met their peril and suddenly, you come across a simple wooden cross-fashioned out of two large limbs of a tree and a simple stone church with a bell.   To get there, you hike a good 30 minutes into the cedars.  It’s about the most beautiful church I have ever seen, and mind you I’ve visited Notre Dame, Chartres and nearly all the great Basilicas in Rome.  Today, as we are about to embark on the trail, the skies open up and it begins to rain.  I think of the word “rain check” and decide I must come back to Jej soon.

Today we are headed to South Lebanon, through the ancient port city of Sidon, with the goal to get to the place they call Fatima Gate. Fatima Gate is at the former border crossing with Israel and Lebanon, closed since 2000.  Sidon is the third largest city in Lebanon, sometimes called the “Mother City of the Phoenicians.”  I recall from our trip two years ago, that we will pass through a number of security check points, usually with David giving us the stern reminder, “Keep you cameras down.  Act normal.” My typical thought in response is, “Yeah right, David, Normal? Normal, like when soldiers at roadblocks in Atlanta peer into my van, take my passport, and ask aseries of unintelligible questions in Arabic, the only words of which I can ever understand are “Americans?” That normal?”

We all pile into our van at 8:45 am with Yamen, my husband’s friend and our Lebanese guide for the day.  David discourages us from having breakfast before we leave as we have plans to stop in Sidon and dine on Manoosheh and Nescafe.  Manoosheh, a traditional Lebanese breakfast dish, are round discs of bread covered with zaatar (thyme, sumac and sesame seeds) and are delicious when eaten with Lebneh, or Lebanese Yogurt. First, we make a pit stop at the local military intelligence barracks.  We’re told to get out the van with David and Yamen reminding us, “No pictures of guys with guns. In fact, leave your cameras and everything behind.”  Yamen takes our passports while we are left waiting outside with a guard sporting a Lebanese Army beret and a machine gun.   This street scene is hardly Beirut, there is no familiar Starbucks or H&M nearby.  We’re basically on a busy street standing outside a military barracks with sand bags and the guy with the machine gun as our only street partner.  In the 2006 war, this is the kind of place that would make a perfect target for the Israelis.  I’m thinking we kind of stand out, waiting at the curb in our floppy hats and sunglasses.  Indeed, families in well-worn Mercedes slow down and can’t resist the temptation to stare and give a little hoot of the horn when they pass.  We do try to act “normal” and chat about inane subjects.  Dee compliments Lynn on her outfit, a kaftan top and simple slacks.  Thea and I agree, it’s the perfect travel outfit and then pass the time reviewing a complete historical play-by-play of Lynn’s outfits on the trip.  The car exhaust, heat and waiting on a street corner are starting to get to me when Lynn grabs my arm and shouts, “Look, look, look!”  There, walking out of the barracks, is a middle-aged bleached blonde wearing high heels, designer sunglasses and dressy beige slacks.  She disappears around the corner and we’re left to wonder about the mystery woman until Yamen emerges looking glum. We completely forget to ask about the blonde as Yamen describes the current situation. By current, he means yesterday.  Turns out, that nine people (3 of them soldiers) were killed in violent clashes around the city of Tripoli in Northern Lebanon.  Turns out some Alawites (a Muslim sect who hail from the same background as Syrian President, Basher al-Assad) were continuing to fuel a long-running feud with the local Sunnis.  Dozens took to Tripoli’s Nour Square and it all erupted into violence. Even though the violence was in the North and the shooting had nothing to do with Americans, all the officials at this security checkpoint are focused on Tripoli and no doubt cautious about travel of any kind.  Yamen’s favorite contact is nowhere to be found and the official just shakes his head when Yamen tells him we’re nine Americans traveling in a van to the Israeli border. Yamen and David suggest we get in the van and advise us that while our chances to get to Fatima Gate don’t look good, we should hang around the South and see if our passes comes through.

I’m reminded of a Canadian filmmaker friend of ours named Michael Rubbo.  Michael’s an acclaimed documentary director who in the mid-1970’s made a film called “Waiting for Fidel.”  In the film, you follow his escapades when he flies to Cuba for an important meeting with Fidel Castro. His plan is to cover this meeting and create a grand documentary about the leader.  Michael does indeed go to Cuba and he meets with all sorts of official characters who talk to him about the impending visit with the boss, but the tête-à-tête with Fidel never materializes. We had a waiting for Fidel kind of day.

Indeed have a great meal in Sidon and a few of us trample over to the Sidon Sea Castle, a grand structure on the sea, built by the Crusaders in the 1200’s.  The rest of us wander into the souk (market) and buy olive oil soaps and bags of herbs that smell delicious but we have no idea what they are used for. While we are waiting, David suggests we drive in the direction of the next security checkpoint and visit Beaufort Castle.  It’s a rocky, muted landscape dotted with portraits of martyrs and murals painted on every available surface.  Comic-style drawings of Israeli soldiers, the Star of David and the Israel flag feature prominently in many of the murals, never in a positive light, usually Israeli soliders getting attacked or a tank squashed by a missile. This entire area was repeatedly bombed by Israel during the 2006 war with Hezbollah.  McMansions dot the landscape.  The whole area seems to be in a constant state of buildingand rebuilding.  “That’s the way it is in Lebanon,” Yamen explains, “When something gets bombed, we don’t want to leave it. We have to rebuild right away.”  When we arrive at Beaufort Castle, David reminds us to stay on the beaten track, not to wander off looking at flora and fauna for the entire region is still flooded with Israeli cluster bombs.

Like the Sidon Sea Castle, Beaufort, was built by the crusaders.  It’s been a strategic outpost for whichever invading army controlled the country.  Over time, the place has been manned and occupied by the Marmalukes, the Ottomans, the French, the PLO, the Israeli Defense Forces and Hezbollah.  Last time we were here, we saw the Hezbollah flag, this time there is no flag at all. They call these places “ruins” for a reason as there are more stones piled in a heap than there are stones in the castle.

Today, there are workmen wandering about carrying stones from one place to another. A sign tells us about the “Rehabilitation and Restoration Project of the Castle” and explains in detail exactly how much money is coming from Kuwait and the United States for this purpose. I love reading these signs translated from Arabic/French into English. This one reads, “Following South Lebanon Liberation, the Director Generale of Antiquities prepared a complete file for the rehabilitation and restoration of the castle in the framework of a preliminary global study…… and “among other things, the CDR is responsible for the update of tender documents.”  There are no signs telling us the history of the castle, so we wander about among the ruins. The view is extraordinary and it’s obvious why this is such a strategic outpost. It’s on very high ground and you can see all the way to Israel from here.  Mendez, one of our travel partners, and I wander up pathways hoping to get to the tippy top of the castle.  There are no signs, just rubble, so we stumble into dead-ends.  I find an empty shell casing and pocket it as a memento. Mendez spots a hand-made wooden ladder and starts to climb.  I tell him that I think he can get up but we debate how we’ll get back down and decide we’ve reached the highest safe point.  By the time, we make it back down, everybody is waiting in the van.  David is shouting “Yallah,” Arabic for let’s go.  Yamen tries one more time to phone the Military officials but gets no answer.  Our visit to Fatima’s gate will have to be delayed until next time we’re in Lebanon.  As they say in Arabic, Insha’Allah, God Willing.

Note:  My friend, Lynn Douglass came to Bierut with us on a whim.  We met a year ago, in East Hampton at a mutual friend’s 50th birthday.  On the drive back from the Hamptons to Brooklyn, we cemented our friendship.  So when I called a few months later to ask if she wanted to come to Beirut, she gamely chirped, “I’m in!”  Like me, Lynn has a basic grasp of the political turmoil in the region.  We both dutifully poured through the articles and book David assigned as pre-reading material.  However, when the talk continues into the third or fourth hour with intense debates about the  layered contradictory Middle Eastern policies, both our eyes start to glaze over. That’s when Lynn starts to take a mental picture of all the little details. Frequently, on this trip, she’s pointed out something completely quirky, and quips, “For the blog!”  She’s my extra eyes and ears on this journey (not to mention my giggle partner) and since I missed the visit to Hezballah TV, Lynn has contributed this blog post.

Every day David gives us a briefing.  He turns around from the front seat of our van and tells a story or gives instructions like, “Don’t take pictures of anyone with a gun.” When he tells us to carry our passport, it’s usually a military intelligence or Hezballah day.  Today we are going to meet the General Manager of the Hezbollah television station, Al-Manar . The women in our group are told not to shake hands.  David reminds us to ask permission before shooting our pocketsize digital cams and to keep our passports on us at all times.  I am wearing my white cargo pants; I stash my passport in my left leg pocket and my camera in the right.  It seems each day I’m digging through a big sack to find things.  I feel liberated in my passport- packed cargo pants.

We drive through a Christian neighborhood to Al-Manar headquarters. We pass BMW’s and big billboards. My favorite shows a flat belly in a bikini that says, “Two pieces make a masterpiece.”  As we progress, the street scenes change.  Instead of midriffs on billboards, we start to see covered heads, rusty cars and posters of “martyrs” on telephone poles.  I look up and see a tangled and chaotic web of communication wires.  Our van stops and I hop out to find two men from Al-Manar waiting for us.  All the men shake hands –- when it’s my turn to get a greeting, this network exec places his hand over his heart.  I copy him and am relieved I got it right.  We head through a metal detector and then up to a conference room.

We are led to an office with a u-shaped conference table that completely engulfs the room.  I can see the stiff shoulders and serious expressions of my fellow travelers reflected in the glass top of the conference table.  David and Abdallah Kassir, the head of the Al-Maner sit at the head of the table.  Kassir wears a brown suit with thin purple stripes and a purple checked shirt.  He has elegant hands with silver rings and manicured nails.  I notice that one of the execs who led us into the room has a really long pinky fingernail. I’m later told it’s a sign of status.  A woman in a mauve long coatdress and lighter purple hijab brings us tea in thin crystal cups with saucers.  Later she brings in tall glasses of fresh orange and carrot juice on a tray; each glass has a bent yellow, red or green straw.  The colors are bright and happy and out of place in this relatively somber environment.  Sipping my orange juice, I am reminded that we are all sitting in front of someone my country considers a member of a terrorist organization.

We each introduce ourselves. When I tell Kassir I’m from Brooklyn, I notice he scribbles something down.  I later learn that it’s the kids from Brooklyn who are the most fanatic in the Israeli settlements.  Maybe I should have been more vague and said I’m from New York City.  Kassir gives what feels like a typical spiel about the evils of Israel and how butter wouldn’t melt in the mouth of Hezballah and how we all have to listen to each other.  David is master at leading the post-spiel discussion. He opens it up to all of us for questions and then David turns Kassir’s own comments into a zinger of a question by agreeing how we must all listen to each other – despite what our own leaders say — so “Would you have lunch with an Israeli?”  Kassir squirms and looks thoughtful and says, “Yes with a Jew, not with an Israeli.” I’m feeling momentarily heartened because Kassir is wearing a purple shirt and there’s something about his purple shirt that makes him not so scary.

The very first network documentary my husband ever worked on was a film about Sabra and Shatilla for ABC News.  Sabra and Shatilla is a Palestinian refugee camp in Beirut.  The film was broadcast in 1983 and even then, the images on the screen were shocking.  The actual massacre took place in a few brief days in September of 1982.  During that time Israel controlled the entry to the city of Beirut.  As the story goes, the Israelis stood by as Christian Phlangists  went on a slaughtering spree.   The numbers of the dead are still in debate, with estimates fluctuating between 700 to 800 (which is what the IDF or Israeli Forces reported) to the thousands claimed by the Palestinians. One thing you can’t debate, is you would not want to be trapped in Sabra and Shatilla if gunmen were on the loose.  The place is a messy and chaotic web of buildings with narrow alleyways and electrical wires jury rigged and haphazardly strewn like webs from bulging electrical boxes.

We explain to my daughter, Thea, just how the Palestinians got here and why they’ve been living in Lebanon since 1948.  It’s a history lesson that she knows but still seems to baffle her when we pull up to this depressing neighborhood West of Beirut. She wonders out loud if this region would have simply found something else to fight about were it not for the “Palestinian problem.”   David explains that the Palestinians are a pawn in a bigger game and nowhere is this more evident than in Sabra and Shatillah.

Note to fellow travelers to Beirut.  You don’t want to just show up at the gates of Sabra and Shatilla and wander in.  Our visit has been vetted and approved by the head honcho of the camp, a fairly good-looking Palestinian with a John Edwards haircut named  Kassam Aina. We meet him at his office at the entryway to the camp and he welcomes us by sitting at his desk, lighting a cigarette and telling us about the problems in the camp (houses without ventilation, no health services, etc, etc…). According to Kassam, over 30,000 Palestinians live in the camp, a fact that seems inconceivable because this jumbled web of buildings is all of a few city blocks wide.  Portraits of Arafat and Mahkmoud Abbas flank his desk.  Kassam offers us a tour of the camp.  The place is positively choking with dust and little kids darting between mopeds and pulleys hoisting bags of cement perilously high up on top of buildings with a structural basis that is suspect at best.  There is one drab cement courtyard, which Kassam explains is the only playground in the entire camp.  Kids kick an old soccer ball around and when it bounds onto a nearby roof, a young boy climbs Spider Man style to the top to retrieve it.  We wander around the camp with Kassam and his two “road dogs,” we call Fric and Frac, both sporting identical buzz haircuts with bleached strawberry blonde hair.  We come to one alley and Fric, who is missing one eye, tells us this is where he was shot. He lifts up his shirt and shows us a deep scar up and down his belly. Thea snaps a picture.

We’re all dizzy from the close quarters, noise and dust and Dee says she’d like a cup of coffee.  Lynn eyes me and says, “This is the last place I’d go for a cappuccino”  Kassam is all too happy to comply so we stop at a stand in the makeshift market and get what may be the best cup of coffee we’ve had in Lebanon.  We don’t exactly fit in here, so little kids dart around us and stare. The brave say ‘Hallo!” giggle and dart down the nearest narrow pathway.

When we visited Sabra and Shatilla two years ago, we were offered a brief glimpse into the home of a Palestinian refugee woman.  Her entire home was 10 feet by 12 feet at best, all concrete, with a small shelf for a Bunsen burner and a few pots and pans.  This time Kassam offers up another home for viewing which he says is the finest home in all of Sabra and Shatilla.  Greeting us at the doorway is a little girl named Angelie, wearing a smocked pink dress and, in a complete contrast to the other kids in the camp, this cutie is clean as a whistle.  Her young mother proudly shows us about her residence, a three-room affair with gold and maroon draped curtains and a giant flat screen TV in the living room. To say these folks are upwardly mobile is an understatement.  As is tradition, I take off my shoes and sit on the living room couch.  There isn’t enough room for our merry band of travelers to enter, so just Kassam, Lynn, Mary and I enter while the others wait in the alley.   Angelie, the little girl climbs up onto my lap and I chat with her father while her mother scurries into the kitchen to boil water for coffee. You cannot enter any home in Lebanon without being offered a beverage or a major snack.  Angelie is a wildly adorable three and a half year-old who quickly gets the cue that I’m completely smitten by little girls.  Her father takes the opportunity to do what we did early in our parenting career.  We called this activity, “Stupid Pet Tricks for Kids.” We used to encourage ours to recite their ABC’s or clap their hands for variations on the peek-a-boo theme.  Angelie’s father proudly leads her in a series of exercises.  “How old are you?” She repeats the question after him every time, forgetting to give the answer, until he prompts, “I am three years old” and so on.  Then he asks, “Where are you from?”  Angelie giggles and hides in her dad’s chest and says, “Where are you from?” then Angelie, suddenly bold, stretches her arms  and says, “I am from Palestinia.”  Kassam tells Angel’s mother we don’t have time for coffee so we say good-bye to this little girl and her father, neither of whom have ever set foot on Palestinia soil, and head to our next Lebanese adventure.

No visit to Beirut is complete without paying homage to the leader of the Druze, Walid Jumblatt.  While Jumblatt may not be a household name in the States, here he’s a big macher.  He’s certainly well known to the Obama administration as Hilary Clinton’s right hand, Jeffrey Feltman, just paid him a visit to get advice on the Syrian situation.

If anyone knows the Syrians it’s Walid. His father, Kamal, was killed by them in 1977.  He was driving along the winding roads near his country home in the Chouf when his car was ambushed.  Back then, in a move that stunned the region,Walid met with the Syrians two weeks after his father died.

Remember the American presidential election of 2004 when we were entertained by images of John Kerry on a wind surfer in the George Bush ads?  We had a strong visual image of Kerry as a “flip flop politician.” Walid is Lebanon’s John Kerry except he changes direction on a heck of a lot more important stuff than a wind-surfer. He’s known to change alliances according to whichever way the wind is blowing. Whether he flips or flops, it appears the Americans are quite fond of him.  In their meager courtyard, the U.S. Embassy, has on display “antique olive tree,” a gift from Walid Jumblatt. I saw no other gifts from any of Lebanon’s many religious or political constituencies.

While Walid may have a reputation for changing his political alliances, he’s certainly firm in his commitment to his favorite breed of dogs, shar peis. When we visited Walid two years ago, we met a full posse of wrinkled pups.  On this trip. Walid again agrees to see us at his large gated home in the fashionable Clemenceau neighborhood of Beirut and we are greeted by his overly friendly pup, Oscar. Oscar takes an immediate like to Wils, a young college student who is traveling with us.  Wils is a brainy kid, headed to Dartmouth, and while he probably has a series of questions to ask Jumblatt, Oscar keeps him occupied with constant tail wagging and slobbering.

Our conversation mostly centers around Syria, it’s certainly the “topic du jour,” and Walid has just returned from a meeting with President Bashir Assad.  The Assads have been in power for a long time (as have the Jumblatts).  Walid reminds us that “history repeats itself” and then goes into great detail about the Alawites and the Salafists. (These are two Muslim sects, one Sunni and one Shia.)  I’m completely lost but grateful that Oscar is giving his full attention to Wilson and not me.

Hollyhocks in Baalbeck

Baalbek is where one of the greatest Roman ruins in the world, Heliopolis, is located. Baalbek is in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley, near the Syrian border on the main road from Beirut to Damascus. Much of the Bekaa is now a Hezbollah stronghold, particularly Baalbek which is where Hezbollah was first trained by Ayatollah Khomeini’s Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Baalbek has long been one of the great tourist destinations of the world. The first hotel ever built in the Middle East, the Palmyra, was built in this town about two hours drive from downtown Beirut. It’s now an aging relic with dusty velvet furniture and faded, patched plaster walls. When we visit, we are shown the room, #32, where Charles de Gaulle once stayed. I’m most fascinated by the Jean Cocteau prints on the wall. Cocteau was a frequent visitor and his whimsical drawings are framed, hanging by a nail in the lobby. I guess they don’t have to worry about art theft in Baalbek. At the top of the hotel, you can look over the ancient ruins with the largest remaining Roman columns in the world and see mountains on both sides of the valley: over one set is the Mediterranean and over the other, Syria. Hikmet, my husband’s Bekaa Valley buddy, suggests we look towards the hills in the opposite direction. “This was a training camp for Hezbollah and many others: IRA, PLO, Japanese Red Army, Baader-Meinhhof.  All of them! Sometimes all these men are staying together in the hotel and they all get along!” The Palmyra once saw the likes of Nina Simone and Kaiser Wilhelm and now it’s a hostel of sorts for students and the odd fighter who comes for training in the hills. We secure a guide at the entrance to Baalbek named Khaled (I’ve changed his name for reasons you’ll see below). He speaks highly accented English and looks like something straight out of an Inspector Clouseau movie. I can’t understand a thing he says, even though he emphasizes every point with the tap of his white cane and a laminated copy of what Baalbek looked like back in the day. I do gather that Heliopolis, the City of the Sun, was built to worship three Gods, sun, wine and love, and decide that’s all I need to know and wander off to take photos and enjoy the scenery. It’s a shame that the word awesome is overused because this place is fucking awesome. Baalback is the most gigantic complex of Roman temples ever built. Six columns from the Temple of Jupiter still remain and these are immensely tall, reaching toward the sky and all six topped with an intricate carved headdress of marble or some stone that they brought by boat from Egypt. Hollyhocks and euphoria grow wild out of the ruins and I snap as many pictures of these wayward plants as I do the grand structures. My daughter, Thea, and a handsome American student who is attending AUB (American University of Beirut), bound to the top of one ruin and raise their arms and shout. We all snap photo after photo. There are very few tourists here today, just the odd small group clutching guidebooks and speaking French. I wander off to the main Temple of Jupiter, which seems nearly empty until I spot a woman in full black hijab and dress, making a circular tour, chanting in prayer with a black vinyl purse slung over her shoulder. She appears to walk a certain number of steps, stop and then take it up again. I follow behind her for a while, taking in the sickly sweet smell of her perfume. Perhaps it’s a particularly pungent scent sold in the local Hezbollah souvenir shops called “Perfume of the Martyrs,” martyrs meaning Hezbollah fighters who died fighting against Israel. I know the aroma because my husband, thinking it was part of his journalistic reporting duties, once brought back a vial and his office stank of it until I finally made him throw it out. Khaled and the group catch up with me and our guide is on a bit of a rampage with his white cane and historical tidbits. He alternately barks, “Look up! Pleeze! Come see this!” followed by long strung-on sentences filled with historical information and facts such as, “You see now, Lion! Why you ask?” Later, David’s friend, Hikmet, apologizes, “I really did not want you to have this guide. You know. He has a problem with heroin. He lived in France for a long time and then he came back here because of this problem, but you know he is very smart, very smart about history.” This may explain Khaled’s banging with his cane and weaving up the stairs at the entrance to the Bacchus temple. We come to the end of our tour where a huge stage is being set up. Baalbek has a long history of great performances from Ella Fitzgerald to Sting. I meet a few students carrying props who, in French explain, they are setting up for a “spectacle.” There is something about the way the French say “spec-tack-lah” that makes it so inviting and I momentarily wish I could stay in Baalbek until Saturday to see what these indy looking college students have planned. Khaled barks, “Come! See! How beautiful there! Look Cleopatra! Hurry now!” and I rejoin the group to finish our tour. We have a full day yet in front of us, with lunch at Hikmet’s and a cocktail party on the roof in Beirut at a boite called Coop d’Etat with David’s friend Nick. Sun, wine and love indeed.

It’s not every day that your average tourist itinerary includes a stop at the Musee de Mleeta, affectionately known as the Hezbollah Museum, but my husband, David Lewis, has arranged for us to have a guided tour.  It’s a foggy day when we arrive on the top of a mountain 40 kilometers from the Israel border.  My daughter, Thea, is wearing a cute little black sundress. We know scarves are not required as headdress, but we debate whether it’s wise to enter with an attractive 18 year-old in a mini-dress. David reminds us that they’ll have no problem allowing her entry, but she may get a few good long stares.  Thea lets out an “ewww.” Our travel mate, Mary, offers an oversized striped overlay blouse and we have a solution.

We have called ahead and the Mleeta museum is happy to provide us a personalized guided tour but they will not accept entrance fees from Americans. Zeina, our Lebanese guide will pay so David and Zeina do the hand-off in the parking lot like they’re acting out a bad drug movie.

Like many museums, this tour starts off with a movie. Our guide leads us into an elaborate screening room. The windows are covered with heavy gold drapes with tassels at the bottom. The film starts off with a bang.  I think: “Leni Riefenstahl move over.”  If you could imagine “Patton” combined with a “Chariots of Fire” soundtrack and lots of bearded guys in war scenes, you have the Hezbollah museum film covered. I don’t know all the characters in the film but do recognize Hassan Nasrallah and Abbas Mussawi. Mussawi is a dude who was famously killed by an Israeli missile shot from an Apache helicopter while riding in his car with his wife and young son. The last time we came to Lebanon, my husband took me to his mausoleum where we got to see the burnt shell of the car and elaborate displays of what he and family were wearing when he was killed, his Koran, etc….  “Don’t say I never take you anyplace nice,” my husband reminded me on the last trip.  Same is true and more this time because when I say “museum” and “Hezbollah” you are probably thinking some large Soviet style concrete structure. Think again.  This place is more like the Georgia Aquarium and the Coca-Cola museum rolled into one.  Beds of deep red roses and huge flag posts flank the wide well-groomed pathway up the hillside to a series of modern buildings, gardens and sculptures on the top of this mountain, which for years was a main Hezbollah outpost.  Before it’s multi-million dollar makeover, this was filled with Hezbollah’s underground bunkers, training operations and who-knows-what.  Now you can walk into the bunkers and see all the weapons Hezbollah captured in their battles with Israeli troops.

After the film, our guide, Mohammed, takes us to the sculpture garden.  The garden is a huge circular affair featuring a wide array of Israeli equipment, helmets, tanks, barbed wire and cannons, all creatively laid-out as “art” of a sort.  Mohammed proudly points out the mockup Merkava tank at the center which has its gun barrel curled into a tidy knot,  “The Israelis were so proud of their Merkava because it’s so big and supposedly indestructible but we destroyed lots of them.”   There’s an area of the garden that highlights cluster bombs and Mohammed bows his head and says, “I regret to inform you that the Americans are still manufacturing them in violation of international law.”  We know all about cluster bombs because the last time we came to Lebanon we traveled South to the border and got the stern lecture not to go wandering off any path in the woods, lest we stumble upon a small rock which is actually a bomb waiting to go off.  The hillsides in southern Lebanon were filled with them after the 2006 war.  We’re trying to figure out the circular design of the sculpture garden when Mohammed offers up, “It’s designed to look like a tornado…  Do you see?  And the enemy is at the center of the tornado.”  As in the film, our guide rarely uses the word Israel or Israelis, preferring “Zionists” or “the Enemy.”

We gaze upon the sculpture garden while groups of “Gulfies” and their young children scamper up the circular pathway to the “tornado”.  “Gulfies” are rich families from the Gulf countries like Dubai who come to Lebanon for vacation.  We see them at all the major tourist sites.  Two days ago we visited the Jeitta Grotto, which is in line to be listed as one of the wonders of the world. The grotto was also filled with women in fashionable burkas and husbands in polo shirts with hordes of little children between them.  After the tornado, Mohammed takes us on a pathway into the woods and reminds us to keep an eye on the trees.  According to Mohammed, every tree has war written all over it and indeed we see shelled trees with burnt limbs.  There are also life-like mannequins dressed to look just like Hezbollah fighters properly accessorized with AK 47’s.  We visit the bunker where Mussawi allegedly prayed with fighters and to “Make me a martyr”.  He got his wish courtesy of that Apache gunship.

The culmination of our romp through the woods is a visit to the cave and tunnel system Hezbollah forces carefully dug out by hand through solid rock to house fighters.   I’m a bit claustrophobic, so the notion of wandering into a narrow dugout to see the Hezbollah kitchen and war room is not my idea of fun.  David grabs my arm and gently reminds me, “The guide told us we have to stay together.”  I try to nod towards the two darting-eye, no-smile guards at the entry and David just gives me that stern look which I know I won’t argue my way out of.  The cave is an elaborate affair with tunnels leading deep under the mountain.  We do finally see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel and Mohammed turns around and says, “There’s only one word to say when you step outside,” and indeed, we all say it, “Wow.”  We exit onto the most amazing view of the hills of Southern Lebanon. Despite the fog, we can see for miles.  Dee, our travel mate looks at Mohammed and asks, “Where is Israel from here?”  Our chatty guide looks momentarily blank, lets out a breath and says, “Israel is nowhere.”

Disclaimer: I am only reporting on my experiences at Mleeta.  The comments and opinions expressed by the guide and/or the film are simply what I witnessed.  My visit to the Hezbollah museum in no way is an endorsement of Hezbollah or their activities.  We understood very clearly that what we were hearing was propaganda but it’s part of understanding all the viewpoints that make up this complex country.

Under the guise of “when in Rome, do as the Romans,” on our first full day in Beirut, my travel partner Mary and I decide to go to church.  There’s a large Greek Orthodox Church down the street from the Albergo Hotel, so we meet early in the lobby to head to 7 a.m. mass.  Truth?  We don’t actually know it’s a Greek Orthodox Church and are left to ponder what we’ve got ourselves into.  When the priest, chanting Arabic, heads down the aisle, with a large brass orb, spewing water left and right, I genuflect politely.  Mary, who has a lot more experience with this kind of thing than I do because she’s a bonafide “P.K.” (Preacher’s Kid) suppresses a giggle.  When I go to a church different from my own, I typically just follow the crowd.  It’s usually easy to gather when I’m supposed to get up, or kneel or pray.  Granted this service is in Arabic, but frankly, Mary and I are completely baffled.  The sparse congregation looks as ancient as the building itself and they cross, bow, kneel and pray willy-nilly.  Mary and I opt to follow the lead of the nun seated in the pew in front of us.  The challenge is that this nun’s behavior seems to be as random as her church mates.  Mary and I get up, sit down, kneel and finally opt to sit in the pew quietly glancing left and right occasionally to see what others are doing.

I’ m not sure if it’s boredom, hunger or just a sense of adventure, but when when communion is offered, I join in the line and eagerly accept a stale wafer.  I get no “Body of Christ” from this Arabic speaking priest but do get a long, curious stare.  Later when we describe the scene to David’s Lebanese friend Gabriel, he explains, “Ah, you were at a Greek Orthodox church,” and then adds a guffaw as if to say, “What did you expect?”  Gabriel is Maronite, which is the main Christian group on Lebanon.  You know how they call Episcopalians ”Catholic light?” Well, I call Maronites “Catholic heavy.”   They hold their masses in Syriac-Aramaic, the same language spoken by Jesus.

There hasn’t been a census in Lebanon since 1936, but it’s estimated that roughly 24% of Lebanon’s population is Christian with Maronites leading the pack. The Maronite religion was founded in the 5^th century by a hermit called Maroun.  I’m not exactly sure what qualified him as a saint after his death, but do know he was really good at finding and converting lost souls. Next Sunday, Mary and I will wander down to St. George, which is the big Maronite Church in downtown Beirut.  They have a Facebook page  so we’ll see what they do with these lost souls.

The Rafik Hariri International Airport is a happening place.  Not just because it’s named after this famous slain Sunni Prime Minister who was car-bombed on Valentine’s Day a few years ago — his death a fact you can’t escape anywhere within Lebanon because his face is on every other poster in this country – but because everybody is always coming home to this country.

It’s estimated that just 4.5 million people live within Lebanon while 20 million live outside.  On the day of our arrival, it looks like nearly a third are headed home.  There’s a prevalence of well-dressed women with little packages of babies, they are bringing back to show off to grandparents. Dozens of families wait outside the exit, all sporting eager smiles and helium balloons with Welcome Home signs.  The first thing we spot upon stepping outside on the curb is a Krispy Kreme billboard.  “Welcome to Beirut” says David Lewis, my husband, who has arranged this trip.

We’re staying at the Albergo Hotel,in the Achrafieh neighborhood of Beirut.  The Albergo is part of the Relais & Chateaux chain of hotels.  Achrafieh is a chic, Christian neighborhood with trendy restaurants, burger joints and boutiques.   I love this hotel. Every room is unique in layout and design.  Our room has bold striped curtains and rich colored wallpaper with a repeated motif of an ancient looking couple in oriental garb meandering towards a pagoda.  There’s a hand-painted lidded glass jar in the bathroom filled with large crystals of bath salts and a brass spoon to scoop it all into the marble bathtub.

Our first night, we have cocktails on the rooftop bar with Nicholas Noe.   Nick is one of those plucky Americans who come to Lebanon and never leave.  When he’s not running MidEastWire.com and the Beirut Exchange, he’s my husband’s defacto wingman in Beirut.  Nick’s arranged for us to have an audience with Alastair Crooke.

Alastair is former British Intelligence officer who Senator George Mitchell engaged to help in his Middle East peace efforts.  On our first night on the rooftop at the Albergo, Alastair provided our group with a historical overview of the political strife and structure of the region that left our heads spinning.  The sun is about to set, so we head out to dine at Al Balad in downtown Central Beirut to enjoy what’s to be the first of our many extraordinary meals in Lebanon.  Note to self, think I’ll order Alastair’s book, “Resistance: The Essence of the Islamist Revolution”  to try to make sense of it all!

Our visit to KOFAVIV may have been the most emotionally challenging stop on our Haiti tour. Willa explained that KOFAVIV (Commission of Women Victims for Victimes) is a center for young women who have experienced sexual assault in the camps.  When Willa said “young women” I did not imagine that center would have girls as young as 10.

The girls were waiting for us in the courtyard, doing afternoon activities of arts and crafts. The center is hoping to develop some basic products, beaded necklaces or painted frames, that the girls can turn into a trade as a way to earn an income and avoid the transactional sex that is rife in the camps.  The items they are creating now are trinkets, rudimentary, plastic beads strung on pieces of elastic and tie-dyed t-shirts.  Fairwinds Trading is eager to work with KOFAVIV to develop products that both reflect Haiti’s culture and could be marketed to a retailer in the states. It’s clear that funding is needed both for the center and these girls.

Truth?  I am a very white person in a very dark country.  I tend to attract stares in rural areas.  One young girl, we’ll call Lol (names and photos of the girls cannot be revealed in this blog post to protect their identity) kept narrowly circling me, shyly glancing and trying to make eye contact. When I reach out to Lol, she touches my hand and stands next to me, quietly. While I do not speak Creole, I am able to use my rusty French in this former colony.  Most Haitians who have had some level of schooling can communicate with me.  Lol and I chat about her age, her hair and her t-shirt.  She’s wearing a pink shirt with three popsicles appliquéd on the front.  She’s pretty, and all of 11 years with perfectly braided hair.  When I open my arms to hug Lol, she falls into my chest.  I suspect correctly that she needs a mother. . Josie, the organizer of KOFAVIV approaches me and says, “This girl is very sick.  She had trauma after the earthquake and kept trying to go back in and find her Mother.  Now with the assault…”  Indeed, a few minutes later Lol tells me, “My mere is morte.” (Her mother is dead.)

KOFAVIV desperately needs help for girls like Lol. While there are no firm statistics available post-quake, the incidence of rape is frighteningly high in the camps.  News reports describe the camps as “rape epicenters.”  Doctors in tent cities report treating girls as young as two. When the sun goes down in the camp, young girls have no protection from roaming gangs looking for prey.  Imagine a girl like Lol who has no mother to protect her and no way to get food. Some rapists demand sexual favors in exchange for food coupons.  Added to all this risk is the fact that there is simply no tradition of reporting rape to the authorities in Haiti, party because of the stigma and shame, but also because nothing is done about it.  KOFAVIV has actively pursued 459 rape cases last year alone. Of those,only 11 of the perpetrators are in jail and one convicted.  A group called Digital Democracy is working with KOFAVIV to create a database to track the number of rapes in hopes that the accurate reporting of the sheer numbers will instigate action and world attention.

In addition to providing a safe haven for girls like Lol, KOFAVIV provides whistles and flashlights for young girls in the camp.  Girls who have to get up in the middle of the night, have no choice but to go outside to find a lavatory.  It is hoped that the whistles and flashlights might provide some protection.  I don’t know Lol’s full history, but no doubt she has suffered from serious sustained assault. She may be one of the many young orphans in Haiti who are taken in as a domestic helper   KOFAVIV reports that far too many of these scenarios result in forced slavery with young girls indentured to their owners and bandied about as a sexual play toy for all the male members of the family.

For the moment, Lol is safe in KOFAVIV. It’s obvious KOFAVIV and organizations like it, are doing all they can with limited funding to help young women in the camp.  That day, we saw a dozen girls –though KOFAVIV treats many more.  I give Lol one last hug and leave hopeful but far from assured that the thousands of girls like her will find the safety and security to make it through these next months and years.