Following the tragedy of the country had turned me into an insomniac, the kind who finds a book so mesmerising that he cannot close the pages and put out the light. On and on he reads, into the early hours. Just one more chapter. Then, still reading, he looks up and sees to his surprise the dawn peeping through the curtains. I had been reading all night and and now I had thrown open the curtains and here I was in the dawn, looking across the green fields and mountains of Israel.

Robert Fisk, Pity the Nation: Lebanon at War

My time in Lebanon felt much like this, I became obsessed by reading about the country’s recent history. My final night I sat up until the small hours, devouring the final chapters of Pity the Nation.

When I woke in the morning, throwing open the curtains revealed the Mediterranean stretching out. Behind me rose the snow-covered mountains of the Mount Lebanon Range. In between, a strange mix of Palestinian refugee camps, huge commercial investment, pockmarked buildings and hip bars.

This is a country I want to come back to.

Bcharré (بشري) The bus from Tripoli to Bcharré rose from sea-level, snaking its way up the winding mountain road. As the altitude increased, snow started to cover the road, and the bus was slipping increasingly sideways at each hairpin turn. The driver took great pleasure turning around to me to declare that he was crazy. “Majnoon”, in Arabic. I took the opinion that I’m sure he didn’t want to die, taking us all with him, and so immersed myself back in my book. (Yup, Fisk.) I had wanted to come up to Bcharré to hike a little in the Qadisha Valley, famed to be some of the best in Lebanon. The snow put an end to that idea. My back-up plan was to visit the museum of Khalil Gibran — a Lebanese poet — but it was closed. A day instead trudging around in the snow, trying to remind myself that I was, in fact, in Lebanon. Arabic script and snow seemed like an odd mix. It took me until I got back to Beirut to feel my feet again. I hadn’t planned on snow when packing for the Middle East.

Bcharré (بشري)

The bus from Tripoli to Bcharré rose from sea-level, snaking its way up the winding mountain road. As the altitude increased, snow started to cover the road, and the bus was slipping increasingly sideways at each hairpin turn. The driver took great pleasure turning around to me to declare that he was crazy. “Majnoon”, in Arabic. I took the opinion that I’m sure he didn’t want to die, taking us all with him, and so immersed myself back in my book. (Yup, Fisk.)

I had wanted to come up to Bcharré to hike a little in the Qadisha Valley, famed to be some of the best in Lebanon. The snow put an end to that idea. My back-up plan was to visit the museum of Khalil Gibran — a Lebanese poet — but it was closed. A day instead trudging around in the snow, trying to remind myself that I was, in fact, in Lebanon. Arabic script and snow seemed like an odd mix.

It took me until I got back to Beirut to feel my feet again. I hadn’t planned on snow when packing for the Middle East.

Tripoli Nope, not Gaddafi’s capital, this coastal city is the Mecca of Middle Eastern sweets. Baklava & other halawiyat galore.

Tripoli

Nope, not Gaddafi’s capital, this coastal city is the Mecca of Middle Eastern sweets. Baklava & other halawiyat galore.

Al Baas Camp, Tyre Unlike the camp I had seen in Beirut yesterday, the roads leading into the Al-Baas Palestinian camp were blocked by large concrete blocks, and on the principal roads, Lebanese army. I couldn’t help wonder if the scooters that nipped past were keeping tabs on me here. The prevalence of Fatah in Sabra & Chatila was contrasted here by that of Hamas. Speaking with one guy in the street, he told me he was Hamas, but that his cousin who stood next to him, was affiliated with Fatah. “Is this a problem?” I asked. “Not here” was the reply. In Palestine, yes. Later on, drinking tea in a family home, several framed photographs hung on the wall. One depicted my host in his Palestinian army unit, each of the men in red berets yielding Kalashnikovs. Another showed a famous Palestinian general, and another, Yassar Arafat. The opposite wall held family photographs. There was a photograph of him shaking hands with his brother, but a barbed-wire fence separated them. He stood in south Lebanon, his brother in Israel, although he referred to it as “Palestine”. This was the first time they’d seen each other in years, but their meeting was marred by metal. His son had graduated as an engineer, but the opportunities for Palestinians here are somewhat more constrained than their Syrian counterparts. He had a job, which is difficult enough to find — there is heavy discrimination — but no chance of a contract, and therefore no job security. “Just the pay-check at the end of the month”, he said.

Al Baas Camp, Tyre

Unlike the camp I had seen in Beirut yesterday, the roads leading into the Al-Baas Palestinian camp were blocked by large concrete blocks, and on the principal roads, Lebanese army. I couldn’t help wonder if the scooters that nipped past were keeping tabs on me here.

The prevalence of Fatah in Sabra & Chatila was contrasted here by that of Hamas. Speaking with one guy in the street, he told me he was Hamas, but that his cousin who stood next to him, was affiliated with Fatah. “Is this a problem?” I asked. “Not here” was the reply. In Palestine, yes.

Later on, drinking tea in a family home, several framed photographs hung on the wall. One depicted my host in his Palestinian army unit, each of the men in red berets yielding Kalashnikovs. Another showed a famous Palestinian general, and another, Yassar Arafat.

The opposite wall held family photographs. There was a photograph of him shaking hands with his brother, but a barbed-wire fence separated them. He stood in south Lebanon, his brother in Israel, although he referred to it as “Palestine”. This was the first time they’d seen each other in years, but their meeting was marred by metal.

His son had graduated as an engineer, but the opportunities for Palestinians here are somewhat more constrained than their Syrian counterparts. He had a job, which is difficult enough to find — there is heavy discrimination — but no chance of a contract, and therefore no job security. “Just the pay-check at the end of the month”, he said.