'Life on hold' in Lebanon

By Kim Ghattas
BBC News, Beirut

People across Lebanon feel engulfed in the war

Driving back from Baalbek in the eastern Bekaa valley this week, I could tell our driver was getting nervous as we made our way up the sinuous mountain roads towards Beirut.

Burnt out shells of trucks and vans lay by the side of the road - the Israelis have been hitting large vehicles across Lebanon, especially in this area, claiming they were transporting weapons for Hezbollah.

But what made the driver most jumpy were the breaking news bulletins that interrupted the regular programming on the radio every five or 10 minutes.

First a jingle, with a fast paced beat, mixed in with a woman's voice that says: "The latest information from our newsroom."

An air raid had just taken place in the Bekaa valley. We were kept well-informed and on our nerves.

That jingle is a sound that reminds all Lebanese of the civil war.

During the fighting from 1975 to 1990, many people's lives were saved by the tireless anchors, who gleaned information from reporters in the field, and then told listeners which areas to avoid because of heavy bombardment or which intersections had snipers on them.

'Resilient and resourceful'

Listening to the radio then, was reassuring and unnerving at the same time.

Some areas of Beirut have been virtually flattened by Israeli strikes

Now, again, the Lebanese tune in - and they feel like they are back in the war.

In Beirut, you can still find a few restaurants open here and there, you can still order a pizza at home and the supermarkets are still relatively well-stocked.

But supplies will run out soon, the streets are mostly deserted, at night city lights are off in many neighbourhoods - fuel is running out and a local power company is imposing strict rationing.

The Lebanese are resilient and resourceful and they know how to survive in a war.

They know what foods to stock up on. They know they need candles and lots of matches stored in an accessible spot in the house in case the city power goes off and the privately-run neighbourhood-run generators stop running as well.

Different war

They know all that but they do not really want to have to do it, again because they have done all it before, too many times.

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This war is also very different. During the 1980s, if the fighting was raging in Beirut, you could go north for shelter.

If the airport was closed you could leave by boat. If the mountains were aflame you could go to the coast.

Now, even though southern Lebanon is bearing the brunt of the shelling and the suffering, the whole country feels engulfed in the violence, and the Lebanese are starting to feel trapped, not only inside the country, but inside their own regions, with roads and bridges destroyed everywhere.

And when the Israelis hit four bridges north of Beirut, in the Christian heartland, any sense that the Christian areas were still safer, was shattered.

Rage

For those who are not members of Hezbollah, who do not subscribe to the ideology of the Party of God and who do not have blind faith in the group's leadership, this war is heartbreaking.

They are furious at Hezbollah for dragging Lebanon into this destructive war.

But they are also raging against Israel for imposing this collective punishment on the country.

Seeing Lebanon's infrastructure destroyed over the course of the last three weeks has been painful.

After the civil war ended in 1990, the Lebanese did an amazing job rebuilding their country, despite political assassinations and the occasional Israeli air strikes.

The summer looked promising, the economy was booming and the Lebanese joie de vivre was everywhere, but perhaps it blinded them to the real problems bubbling under the surface.

'Life on hold'

Over coffee one afternoon, Jonny, the owner of my favourite restaurant in Beirut, told me he was now waiting to see what the outcome of the fighting would be before deciding whether it was time to leave Lebanon again.

After years in New York, he had returned to Lebanon in the mid-1990s, when the future looked promising again.

He had faith in the country and like many around him, he wanted to believe that despite Lebanon's messy politics, it would all be fine.

That illusion came crashing down on 12 July, when Hezbollah captured two Israeli soldiers.

The restaurant owner told me he needed to see a final, comprehensive solution to decide whether to stay - for him it means disarming Hezbollah.

But everybody here has their own vision of how the conflict should be resolved.

One of my friends, an industrial designer, runs a factory with some 60 employees. All his raw material is imported.

The Israeli sea, land and air blockade means his machines are now idle, but his employees still need to be paid. He can afford to pay them another month before having to make painful decisions.

But he also said it did not really matter any more whether there was going to be a ceasefire or not, his spirit had been broken, his energy sapped.

The Lebanese have always been optimists, always ready to pick up the pieces and start again, and while they are still clinging to the hope, that somehow things will work out, it is a difficult exercise this time and - for now - life here is on hold.