Two Journalists Hit the Ground in Beirut
By Jessie Deeter and Anne Sengès
Anne and Jessie were jogging along the corniche when the attacks began. It was around midnight, and the waves were breaking so hard on the jagged rocks a full story below them that they were spilling over onto the concrete under their feet. Usually brightly lit by street lights, the sidewalk was dark and empty. As they splashed through the puddles the women joked about how nice it was to be able to jog freely for once, without having to wade through the usual crowd of small children learning to roller blade, families smoking the narguileh pipe, and the young men and women who stroll slowly along the seaside, trying to catch each other's attention.
They jogged past an empty brand-new McDonalds, famous for its valet parking. The military men they passed with their anti-aircraft guns pointing toward the sea should have tipped them off, but they seemed only a curiosity. This was Beirut, after all. After two weeks Jessie and Anne had grown used to the ubiquitous presence of men in camouflage. Welcome to Beirut, a city whose identity cannot be separated from its military occupation as well as from the constant and quite friendly presence of soldiers guarding the city from some unwelcome visit. That evening they were feeling so good about themselves. They were among the few Americans who were willing to spend some time in the infamous capital of Lebanon, a Beirut remembered by many as the evil place where some 300 marines lost their lives in1983. That night they looked so American, so Californian in their tee shirts and tennis shoes but the few Beirutis they passed did not seem to notice. That night the ambiance was different. Anne told Jessie that the mere fact that the soldiers were still trying to pick up two Americans joggers was a sign that they were safe. She was trying to convince herself that Jessie was right when she suggested they go jogging at midnight.
"Pop…pop…pop pop pop pop," it sounded like fireworks at first, but then Jessie looked over into Hamra, the heart of West Beirut, and saw red balls in the sky. She grabbed Anne's hand and they ran into the one beachside restaurant still open. There was a small cluster of people down there, waiting for the shelling to stop. The two felt ridiculous and scared, ridiculous for jogging at midnight, scared because they had no real idea what the hell was going on.
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