The 130 km drive up from
Beirut to Arsal, a despondent Lebanese village on the north eastern front with
Syria, was a trip mired in fear and extreme vigilance all masked beneath a “been there, done that” façade.
My efforts to shake the
uneasiness translated differently though: driving fast, very fast as to get
there, get the job done and get out.
This was a mission unlike
any I had ever done before, setting off to a volatile area unescorted by
mainstream press vehicles or dare I say, a political cover.
We were three journalists -and
I was the only one with Arabic language skills- making our way through a ‘foreign’
Lebanon; one away from the glamorous, pseudo bourgeoisie life style sold in
Beirut.
Here we were alone, with only the shirts on our backs and
the pens in our hands, in the face of a troubled area hardly decipherable save
through emblems and posters hoisted alongside the roads.
“This is the Shiite town,” I would say in a bid to set my
passengers at ease knowing that I was familiar with the area. “The posters of
the different Ayatollahs’ point it out”.
Then there was silence, and the pro-Iranian emblems were no
more. A checkpoint at the foot of a steep hill leading the way to Arsal was the
only thing setting us apart from our destination. We went through and ascended
up the hill onto a different reality; a reality as harsh as the climate illustrated
in desert like, tundra mountains: dry, rugged and colorless.
We had arrived. Here we were in
bat country where the posters
of Saad Hariri alongside his slain father former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri
reign high, an indication that we were now in the Sunni side of the border village.
We called our contact whom I will call Safa for her own
protection.
“Meet me at the cemetery,” was all she said, a landmark of
the town whose resident may be all too familiar and maybe even comfortable with
death; a trait shared with the rest of the Bekaa.
We made our way through the narrow, overcrowded, car frenzy
to the cemetery where we picked up Safa and two of her female companions.
Hesitantly, they boarded our silver jeep, and coyly greeted us in a friendly
manner, and then off we went to a nearby school now turned into a make-shift
Syrian refugee camp.
Arsal is not a happy place. There is nothing remotely
touristy about it. On the contrary, it is a town long forgotten and deprived by
the Lebanese authorities. The public
school is located right by the cemetery where we had met Safa and the two
girls; a passage they walk every day to and fro.
The images of women, children and elderly folks scattered
across the cold, rag shrouded cement hallways stares you straight in the eye.
This is no place for eye shifting, you look straight back at the people you
pass and bow your head, hand on chest in respect as you stutter a hard, yet
confident “salam” for fear of losing your guise.
And then we entered the room that separates us, the Beirut
driven journalists, from the women we spoke to. The door to a darkly lit,
small, former classroom where women and children sleep, up to 15 at a time was
not all that stood between us. It was choice they lacked and freedom to change.
We take off our shoes and enter, sit in a lotus position as
one of the other girls brews tea; a sign that we were welcome in their “home”.
And the stories poured, child brides, some as young as 15
who were forced out of their former lives, out of their schools and into early
marriage and subsequent motherhood.
“I wish all of this would disappear, that I would wake up
one morning and continue my old life where it had stopped,” one of the girls
said.
17 year old Nur has a small round face, and brown almond
eyes. She carries her 2 year old toddler on her arms and breaks down in tears
half way through her story. She explains that she can never return to school,
nor can she ever lead a “normal” life with some sort of independence. She continues that she now shares a room with
her in-laws and that her husband had died in clashes across the border in
neighboring Qusayr where battles rage between Syrian rebels, regime forces and
Hezbollah.
“I just wanted to continue my studies,” she said with tears
gushing from eyes void of hope, creating lines down a weary face covered in dirt.
We then headed to another camp, where old stables are now
what these refugees call home. The kids excited to see a camera posed for a
picture, lest they be forgotten.
The stories of the women we met all share the same terror.
Forced marriage, education deprivation, displacement,
rape, kidnapping, harassment,
bullying en-masse, marginalization, pedophilia, domestic violence and most of
all hopelessness. You can read the full account of these women in more detail
in
Ms. Sulome Anderson’s piece.
The horrors endured by these women who feel dispossessed of
almost all sorts of a support system come at the hand of not only their
circumstances and direct family, but by their Lebanese hosts. Arsalian men who feel they can overpower women
left to fend for themselves in the absence of their husbands, fathers and brothers
who were either killed or remain preoccupied in
Syria’s ongoing quagmire now
stretching into its third year. To make
matters worse, the social fabric of the desolate area is so intrinsically
intertwined in primeval notions of adverse patriarchy that a chance for escape
seems slim.
We pack our things and leave Arsal, expressing a sigh of
relief as we exit the town back to the ‘familiar’ Lebanon, leaving memories of
a forsaken village tarnished after having garnered media attention following
the killing of two
Lebanese Armed Forces personnel in February and three again
today.
And off down
Lamartine hill we descended en route to Beirut.
A sight of lush green and clouds only a poet can put down in words. Beauty and
peace…luxuries these girls will never know.
Article & Photos by:
Nadine Mazloum is
currently the editor for LBCI Online English News. She received her
Honors in Communication Arts (Media Production) from The University of
Western Sydney in 2008.