Night Running in Beirut

Though the Hizballah-led opposition protest movement is losing momentum, it's still not business as usual in Lebanon. A tense cloud hangs over the country, that's some combination of threatening, frustrating, and surreal.

I went for a run the other night from my apartment in East Beirut down through the opposition campground in Centre Ville on my way towards the Corniche, the boulevard that runs along the Mediterranean and which is the most pleasant part of the city for pedestrians. On my way past various army checkpoints and a cluster of Shi'ite country boys laughing at the Christians who cross themselves when they pass a church, I spotted the massage therapist from my gym. (Yes, I see a massage therapist for various nerd-related injuries like the stiff neck I get from hunching over this laptop.) He was standing not far from the main Hizballah compound, which isn't entirely surprising because he's told me that he supports the Resistance even though he isn't an Islamist or part of Hizballah. ("It's like the Mel Gibson movie 'The Patriot,'" he said. "I'm a patriot.") And with legitimate reason: Israeli bombs both destroyed his home in the southern suburbs of Beirut this past summer and killed his girlfriend. But this evening, I was surprised by his reaction when I went over to him to apologize for missing our last appointment. "I can't give you a massage now," he said. "The military is watching me."

Ok-ay, I thought, time for me to keep moving. Whatever the strapping, six-and-a-half-foot fellow was doing at night in the protest zone, I didn't want too know, at least not there and then.

The evening's weird drama wasn't over, however. As I was returning home along a darkened stretch of the Corniche, I turned a corner and found myself facing a foot patrol of Lebanese Army Green Berets, who should have seen me coming since I carry a small light. Some of them started shouting "Halt!" and pointing their Vietnam vintage M-16 rifles at me, which is more than a little intimidating considering that the Lebanese security forces don't have such a good record with accidental firearm discharges. I froze and put my hands in the air, when the other half of the patrol started laughing at me to slow down. Though I'd hardly been moving at a special forces pace, I got the message: no more night running in Beirut until this situation sorts itself out.

By Andrew Lee Butters/Beirut