This spring, I visited Faraya, the Lebanese mountain a few hours from what was starting to look like a war in Syria. We tried parking beside a BMW, which was disgorging taut specimens in wintry pleasure gear, but another car beat us to the spot. After three wars in as
The other night in Beirut, notebook in hand, I slowed to watch an old man part his curtains. Inside a building scarred by bullet holes, he worried his hands, standing beside yellow walls and a water-stained desk. I fumbled in my bag, trying to find a pen. A dog barked.
The other day, a Beirut river ran red. Stunned officials said it might be blood. Or a deadly chemical. People could be hurt. The color certainly wasn’t part of some celebration. Everyone was stumped—even scientists at the university—and then, suddenly, the river ran clear. At the same
Before the memorial for the fallen journalist, I stumbled down the hill toward the church, hungover and hungry. Consider the falafel sandwich. At under $2, it was my obvious move. But I was sick and sad, and the kids behind the stove looked like 12-year-olds who should have been in
I leave the house with a bag of knives. My daughter, Loretta, holds my wife’s hand, and the three of us wait to cross a busy street. There’s something unpleasant ahead. “That's poop!” Loretta squeals. “On the sidewalk!” I tell her someone will clean it up.
The reporter is wearing an eye patch. “And who do you work for?” she says, clearing her throat. “I’m retired,” I say. A grizzled tribe of Middle East correspondents has gathered at the Mayflower Hotel’s wood-paneled bar in Beirut. Wine is poured, mugs of beers are guzzled, and
This week we’re debuting a new microfeature series, “Husband, Father, Writer, War,” in which Nathan Deuel recounts what it’s like to be an American citizen, young father, and supportive husband while he and his family settle down in Lebanon.
