October 11, 2011
Wandering aimlessly through the city, gazing at people, veiled women, Romani, traffic, and honking horns. Spectacular skyscrapers. Keep walking… you really have to court this Beirut to be loved by her, but she’s a tough one to win over.
In the evening, I go out with a Lebanese friend, Nadim Tarazi. We talk about comics and politics, the perfect conversation. Who is Nadim Tarazi? He was the bookseller of the only comic bookstore in Beirut for many years, an expert in children’s publishing, and founder of the Maison du Livre in Beirut in 2002, an association for the promotion of books and reading.
The Maison du Livre organizes local exhibitions, participates in international fairs, publishes a critical magazine on children’s literature, and is involved in professional training in the book sector. It also offers continuing education and has launched a professional master’s program at Saint-Joseph University in Beirut. An interesting figure, to say the least. I met him by chance one evening in Bologna thanks to a mutual friend, and from there came the exhibition I curated with Elettra for Komikazen, “Cedars in Comics: Artists from Lebanon.” (“Cedri a fumetti: disegnatori dal Libano”)
Before heading back, we take a night stroll along the Corniche.
October 12, 2011
Today I was supposed to go to Tony and Karma’s to make a print, but last night Nadim suggested we drive to Tyre. For me, the trip outweighs any hesitation, the choice is made.
At eleven, he arrives, and we slip into the snake-like traffic.
For a Westerner, the journey can be traumatic; a one-hour trip feels as exhausting as a twelve-hour one. We pass through Saida, which is enormous, and the smog penetrates my brain. I’m mesmerized by what I see, unable to speak or even take photos. I spot the blue helmets on their armored vehicles—something I hadn’t seen since my trip to Sarajevo in 2000. Road signs point towards “Palestine.” As we approach Tyre, the border is near, and everything turns green: green flags, Islam… The city of Tyre was involved in the 1975 Lebanese Civil War and later occupied by the Israelis, during which Hezbollah, the radical armed resistance group, began to organize.
We head to “Zone 3” (Al-Bass), where there is an impressive necropolis, a triumphal arch, and the largest and best-preserved Roman hippodrome in the world.
We drive through Tyre, the usual chaos, but we don’t stop. We head towards the sea, and beneath a Christian cemetery, there’s a shack that’s called a restaurant. The sea is rough, with towering waves, and it’s forbidden to go near the shore due to the strong undertow. We set up a table, and I ask the waiter for tea. He gives me a strange look. Nadim explains that no one drinks tea before lunch here. Strange characters are eating and playing cards, while a blonde foreigner, sitting alone in her swimsuit, catches the attention of the men.
We eat freshly cooked fish, and it’s delicious. I take a photo to make Elettra jealous. I make a drawing, and for a moment, it feels like I’m in Portugal.
Nadim takes me to see the large beaches and the hotel where he often stays during the summer.
Then we leave, this time I take photos and videos. I ask if he can take me to see Sabra and Shatila (Ṣabrā and Shātīlā). I only see the entrance… it’s enough for me.
| “On the morning of Saturday, September 18, a rumor quickly spread among the foreign journalists: massacre. I led the group towards the Sabra camp. No sign of life, no movement. Very strange, since just four days earlier, the camp had been bustling with people. Then we discovered the reason. The traumatizing stench of death was everywhere. Women, children, the elderly, and the young lay under the scorching sun. The Israeli-Palestinian war had already resulted in thousands of deaths in Beirut. But somehow, the cold-blooded killing of these people seemed far worse.” |
Around 8 PM, I go to Randa Mirza‘s exhibition “Beirutopia.” Same typical faces you’d see at an opening… I’m bored. Then we head to dinner.
October 13, 2011
I wake up late and join the others to prepare the books for the opening. At Tony and Karma’s house, they’re not there, and I’m stitching the booklets by hand. Everything is made in a handcrafted way. Around 5 PM, I head out—the city is calling to me.
I walk through a beautiful area called Achrafieh, along Rue Sursock, named after Nicolas Sursock, a member of one of Beirut’s most important and wealthy families in the early 20th century. Everything is captivating, evoking images of Beirut before the Civil War. I walk all the way to Le Bristol Hotel, where a demonstration is taking place with orange flags from Aoun’s Christian Patriotic Movement, blocking the streets. I constantly feel like I’m being watched, no matter where I go… In the evening, I have dinner at “Le Chef,” a traditional restaurant, and then spend my last night at the hotel.
October 14, 2011
Today is the day of the inauguration. It’s noon, and Riccardo comes to pick up the luggage. Vito and I walk to Safi Gardens in the Gemmayzeh district. Safi Gardens is a strange place; I feel like I’m surrounded by people fleeing their countries, voluntary exiles, social recluses.
We set up the exhibition; it’s just us Italians. The exhibit turns out well. At 6:30 PM, the inauguration begins. I’m still in my negative mood, as if my life has been one continuous inauguration—perhaps it’s time to put an end to it, but I think that’s impossible. A lot of people arrive, including Italians and other artists from Beirut. Many hours pass. I sleep at Riccardo’s house, and I wake up to the screams of a madman… An article was published in the Beirut newspaper www.al-akhbar.com/node/25029
October 15, 2011
Beirut is a mosaic of concrete, with a constant noise from construction sites, an endless line of noisy cars, and the smell of war in the air. Evil affects everyone, and pain runs in the blood of the people.
