Beirut, a city that has been bombed so many times it ought to have its own loyalty card, is once again bracing for the sound of incoming death from above. The Israeli Defence Forces, those chaps who never met a Geneva Convention they couldn't politely ignore, have ordered airstrikes on the southern suburbs, the Hezbollah-stronghold where the vibe is permanently set to 'smouldering rubble.'
This comes after the usual exchange of pleasantries: a Hezbollah rocket here, an Israeli retaliation there, a diplomatic cable that reads like a death threat written in lavender-scented ink. The situation, as per the pundits on the 24-hour news cycles, is 'escalating,' which is journalese for 'we are all about to die in a regional conflagration that will make the Syrian civil war look like a scuffle at a bus stop.'
But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's talk about the absurdity of it all. Here we have a country, Israel, which was founded on the principle of 'never again,' now enthusiastically bombing a city that has already been bombed into the Stone Age by its own country's civil war. The hypocrisy is so thick you could spread it on a bagel, if you could find a bagel that hasn't been turned to ash.
And Hezbollah, that merry band of freedom fighters/terrorists depending on which cable news channel you watch, is firing rockets with the accuracy of a drunk man throwing darts in a hurricane. Their stated goal: the destruction of Israel. Their actual goal: to look tough at the next leadership meeting while the people of Lebanon pay the price in blood and twisted metal.
Meanwhile, the great powers, the United States and Iran, are playing a game of geopolitical chess with real lives as pawns. The US sends more bombs, more 'defensive' systems, more sternly worded press releases. Iran sends more rockets, more cash, more 'advisors' who look suspiciously like soldiers. And the people of Beirut, the ones with actual dreams and jobs and children, are told to 'seek shelter' in a city that has no shelters.
I remember my last trip to Beirut, before the last war, when the old city still had a pulse. The cafes were full of men playing backgammon and arguing about politics. The air smelled of jasmine and diesel. The women wore their scars like jewellery. Now, the scars are just more scars, and the jasmine is buried under concrete.
The absurdity reaches its zenith when you consider the timing. This escalation, this 'threat of wider war,' comes at a moment when the world is already a tinderbox. Ukraine is bleeding. Sudan is burning. Climate change is making entire countries uninhabitable. But no, let's all focus on this tiny strip of land that has been the cause of so much misery for so long. It's almost as if we enjoy the tragedy.
In the end, what is there to say? The bombs will fall. The children will cry. The politicians will make speeches about 'right to defend ourselves' and 'resistance.' The newspapers will print their stories. And then, after enough death, the ceasefire will come, and we will all pretend that this time it's different. It never is.
I file this report from a bar in London, where the gin is flowing and the headlines are screaming. I pour myself another, a toast to Beirut. May your ghosts be kind and your future kinder. But I suspect, like my glass, it will be empty soon enough.
