بيروت مدينتي

My City, Beirut

By Nour ElZein

Beirut is a dense urban environment and is the only place I have ever known. I lived across one of the major road arteries of the city, which allowed people to get to where they needed to go. People across the country would drive through, and from where I lived I could see the cab driver in his rundown vintage Mercedes honking at potential customers next to the businessman driving his Ferrari to Downtown Beirut. As I step outside my home and walk to my car, I say hello to the local barber ‘Abu Khalil’ standing next to his large flowering Jasmine vine with a gentle smile, immediately brightening up my day. I gesture, no thanks, to a street vendor trying to sell me one of his infamous plates of beans as I step over the murky water seeping out of a broken pipe. Car honks fill the street, creating a symphony with the motorbikes beeping as traffic builds up.

As I attempt to walk the streets of Beirut, I remember that it is an amalgam of different styles that range from modern skyscrapers to traditional two-story houses and end up realizing the inconsistent morphology across its neighborhood blocks. Beirut is a fascinating, haphazard city with all its various layers, but its captivating character tends to conceal many of its flaws. The city lacks basic infrastructure, essential housing utilities, adequate public spaces, and pedestrian-friendly streets. It has become an unstable state that people have adapted to, working around its quirks, which to this day I still am trying to figure out. From the collapse of the national currency to the scarcity of electricity, people have been struggling to get by, some more than others. The economic gap among the population has increased tremendously with inflation—some people who can pay for the generator sleep peacefully with air-conditioning, while others struggle in the humidity and try to capture a cool breeze by lying underneath the window. 

Beirut was developed in different stages, and the struggles it has faced in the past have trickled into the present chaos that locals must deal with daily. The injustice the community faces due to a corrupt public system seems to be a problem that may never be resolved. The banking system restricts access to savings and has kept people in never-ending lines when the counter opens. Only those working with international companies can get by with their access to foreign currency. It is easy to notice the favoritism within public institutions when someone cuts in line and says hello to an old friend, helping him get through quickly. The majority of public employees are on strike most of the year because they are not paid enough and cannot keep up with the inflation rates. There is also the intolerable smell of sewage across the seaside promenade as it is poured into the sea due to the lack of proper infrastructure that can handle the entire city’s output. I wonder how long this messy situation will last for. For a long time, the country has been challenged with social, political, economic, and environmental issues. The government does not quickly resolve these public issues, yet people have raised their voices against the injustice they face, especially after the explosion on August 4th that greatly affected most of the neighborhoods in Beirut. Not only did this unexpected incident destroy people’s homes, but it also disrupted their sanity. Hundreds of thousands were displaced and wounded, and all were left scarred. It is not a day people in Lebanon like to remember — it was a moment that pushed many people to leave Lebanon. Those who no longer wanted to keep living in an unstable environment emigrated to places considered “at least livable.” 

The struggles I kept witnessing all around became difficult, and at points I felt useless. A few moments I now reflect on helped me to keep going. Beirut may not be the most ideal place for some if I only think about its day-to-day issues, so I decided to stop listening to the chaos and put myself in situations where I can feel refreshed. I made unexpected friendly acquaintances when driving by the Ring Bridge every day to get to work. Three young boys would always wave hello with the utmost excitement. They would always pass by, tapping on the windows of cars waiting at the stoplight, trying to sell tissue boxes, water bottles, and sometimes flowers. Day by day I became a familiar face to them; we started having conversations and I realized they did not want money, all they wanted was food. Passing by these kids one morning with a bag of quickly wrapped sandwiches, I saw their faces brighten up with the largest smiles I had seen. They even noticed when I did not go to work, and asked where I was. I admire these innocent connections more than anything, and genuinely hope they are doing well.

For days when I was not driving across the Ring Bridge, I decided to become part of the runner community along Ain Mreisseh. We always met early mornings, and I never appreciated watching sunrises more than when I met up with my running team. I used to think Beirut’s running community was crazy for running at 6 a.m. Knowing Beirut and its hilly topography, it does not come across as one of the easiest running tracks. But I uncovered completely new places when I started running around Beirut. My favorite moment from that season was starting one early sunny Sunday morning on the Corniche; Beirut is calm, quiet, and peaceful. The scorching summer sun rises, and people set up plastic chairs under the lined palm trees all along the promenade. They wait as cars pass by, run across the street to the “Uncle Deek” pit stop, and sip on a cup of espresso. Some of them wave, saying صباحو <Sabaho>1 and الله يعطيكن العافية <Allah yaateekon el aafye>,2 encouraging us to keep going. They start to talk about the weekly news as they light up their cigarettes and contemplate the dark blue Mediterranean. Anyone passing by can listen to their traditional Fairouz playlist on their vintage radio, creating their little haven. We witness the sea with a beautiful soft ripple, and a cool breeze floats by while we finish our track. I could not help myself from stopping to take a photo right by the fishermen’s long poles, set up directly before the new lighthouse on Manara. 

All those living in Beirut realize they face significant daily struggles. However, the welcoming and heartfelt environment brought by loved ones, sense of place, and familiar faces are the peace of mind for most people who still want to live in Beirut. I cannot but miss the spring day when walking over to my grandmother’s home, as I walk up the stairs, I stop to admire the blooming jasmine vine that arches over the largest gardenia plant I have seen. When they bloom together, I am instantly triggered to pick off a few dainty jasmine and gardenia flowers to bring to my grandmother. She opens her front door, I put the flowers in the palm of her hand while she relentlessly smothers me with love. She pulls them up to her nose and she always responds with ماشاء الله شو حلوين شكرا حبيبتي <Mashallah shu helween, shukran habibti>.3 I will forever be fond of simple moments and memories. The gentle smile from my neighbor, the friendly Sabaho at 6 a.m., the warmth of my family home, and the sound of my friends laughing in our Café Younes catchups make me forget how the city has broken my heart, and I always seem to recall these small genuine memories that make me feel at peace. I can never let go of my love for Beirut.

I drive through the infamous pitch-black tunnel back home, but I know things will not change for a while. I have become blinded by Beirut through its spaces that feel like home.

  1. <Sabaho> means “Good morning”
  2. <Allah yaateekon el aafye> means “God give you strength”
  3. <Mashallah shu helween, shukran habibti> means “God blass how beautiful, thank you, my love”

Nour ElZein (she/her) is a passionate designer + planner dedicated to creating community-centric environments through nature-based approaches, fostering connection and sustainability.