First Night In Lebanon Oleg Daugovish   © Copyright 2025 by Oleg Daugovish

Photo by Vitaly Gariev on Unsplash

“Will it stop one day?” I asked Dad. He shook his head. 

Now, twenty-five years later, I stand clutching my suitcase in the Beirut airport, squinting at a crowd in the dim-lit terminal. Two hands above heads hold a sign with my name on it. 

A short-haired fellow with a “World Vision Lebanon” badge, a USAID partner, answers my “Hello.” 

“Welcome. You must be tired. Long flight, yes?” 

“Yes, thank you for picking me up.” I decide to use simple sentences.  

“I take you to hotel now and my colleague take you after breakfast tomorrow, ok?” 

“Yes, that will work well.”  

We step into the Mediterranean evening and the familiar smell of the sea comforts my jetlagged brain. 

As the dusty car dives into a maze of the city streets my comfort dispels. We zig-zag, climb up and speed down. I almost catch air as if on a rollercoaster.  The sunset illuminates the view of a war zone. Broken houses stare with empty eyeholes for windows; their doorways are open like a mouth of the guy in the Scream painting. I keep mine shut. After a thrill ride, we stop at a tall white building that appears intact.  

The race-car driver and I walk on the marbled floor through an empty foyer.  A jingle of a bell brings a man in a black suit.  

“May I see your passport?” He flattens it and presses down with a lid of a copy machine, as if making a panini sandwich. He scribbles something for a minute and hands me the key card.  

“Your room is on floor four.” The man points to an elevator door in the corner.  

The short-haired guy hands me a bag. “Materials for your orientation. Good night.”  

I wish both men the same and elevate myself to the fourth floor.  

I sit down on a bed covered with a crimson blanket and click on a TV remote. I reach into the orientation bag and pull out a map.   

Do they think I don’t know geography because I arrived from the US?  

A woman appears on the screen, camera moves back and forth between her dancing belly and singing face with heavy mascara. The song in Arabic seems never-ending. I look at the map and slide my finger from one Mediterranean country to another. Turkey, Cyprus, Syria, Lebanon, Palestine, Egypt.  I thought there was also Israel.  Maybe I’m too tired even for reading maps.  

I turn off the song on TV and lie down, but can’t fall asleep.  I know what can help me relax - yoga. I get down on the floor and rest in child’s pose.  Slow inhale. 

Loud voices in the street break the still of the night. 

I move to a down-dog.  

A dry cough of machine gun fire rattles outside. 

I hold a plank pose and step into a warrior one.  

Several people are yelling and screaming. 

I slither into a cobra, away from the window. 

Long, competing rounds of rapid fire ensue.  

I lie in a corpse pose.  

It gets quiet and I can hear air moving through the back of my throat.  

I wake up when a ray of sunlight sneaks through a window and lands on my face.  

I’m glad it is not a grenade. 

I venture downstairs in hope of breakfast and peace.  

 A bald man with mustache shows me to the table and brings a croissant and a bowl of fruit.  

“Café?”  

“Oui s'il vous plait.” I respond with a French phrase that I know.  

His mustache stretches with a smile.  

It looks like I’m the only guest in this hotel; I’m sure they want to keep me alive. 

As I eat, a woman with chestnut-colored hair enters the room. She has a familiar badge of the World Vision.  

“Bonjour!” sounds more like a question when she speaks. 

“Bonjour, comment ça va?” I exhaust my French vocabulary. 

“Parles français?” her voice warms. 

“No, sorry.”  

“I’m Dina, we are glad you were able to come. Is this your first time in Lebanon?” 

I nod. 

“We can go to the office after breakfast and discuss the project plan. Did you get good rest at night?’ 

“Well, yes, except for the shouting and gunfire outside.” I try to sound upbeat. 

Dina lowers her eyebrows in confusion. Then, she talks in French to a man with mustache and laughs. 

“There was a birthday celebration and a party; shooting guns in the air is a kind of local tradition.”  

When Dina and I climb into the car, a different short-haired guy and a woman with black ponytail in the front seat say “Hello”.  At every bump in the road, they glance at me to make sure I don’t catapult through the window.  I want to ask why Israel isn’t on a map, but stay quiet. Maybe on a different day.