S C E N E (XXIII)  

مطار رفيق الحريري الدولي 

BEIRUT, RAFIC HARIRI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, 2024-ce 

*** 

Nestled along the azure shores of the Mediterranean Sea, Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport stands as a bustling hub of activity, welcoming travelers from around the globe to the vibrant city of Beirut and the enchanting landscapes of Lebanon.  It is named after the popular Sunni President the Syrians allegedly murdered. It is usually one of the very first things to be blown apart in an Israeli invasion. That’s has not happened since 2006 but has happened enough times to make it predictable. Why there isn’t more international outcry, oh wait there is, and the United States ignores it. Although Israel is capable of some independent foreign policy prerogatives; telling is the concept of the 5 Eyes + I; the U.S., U.K., Australia, New Zealand, and Canada sharing signals intelligence in collaboration with Israel. Is Israel a Jewish Military Colony of the United States? Are its interests ever separate from its major donor? Most assume not. The correct analysis is hard to make. Are Jews such a useful part of America, they get such influence as to prop up their colony? Or is it much more complicated; where the worth of the colony is that of outlying multi-ethnic Middle East intelligence base? What they do with their Palestinians is far more humane than what Lebanon does with theirs. As you approach the airport, the gleaming terminal buildings rise from the coastal plain like modern-day palaces, their sleek glass facades reflecting the brilliance of the departing sun. Palm trees sway gently in the breeze, adding a touch of tropical elegance to the bustling scene. 

Inside the terminal, a symphony of sounds and sights unfolds, as travelers from all walks of life converge upon this crossroads of the Middle East. The air is alive with the hum of conversation in a myriad of languages, mingling with the clatter of luggage wheels and the chime of departure announcements. At this moment, the traffic is youth home for the holidays. Thousands studying in Europe and America defying the travel warnings out of familial love and patriotism. Dropping into English but mostly using French to talk about Bourgeoise nothing. But that is subjective. Passengers move with purpose through the cavernous halls, their eyes alight with the excitement of adventure and rediscovery. Families bid tearful hellos to loved ones, while a small cadre of business travelers rush to catch their next flight, briefcases in hand. Yet amidst the hustle and bustle, there is a sense of warmth and hospitality that permeates the air. Airport staff greet travelers with genuine smiles and friendly welcomes, offering assistance and guidance to ensure a smooth journey. And an even smoother welcome home. The background noise; that no airline is flying into the country besides national carrier Middle East Airways. The background noise, like Israel might invade soon. It’s all kept in the background behind a terrific enthusiasm to be back in Lebanon. 

As you make your way through the terminal, you cannot help but be captivated by the diverse array of shops and restaurants that line the concourses. From high-end boutiques displaying the latest in fashion and luxury goods to cozy cafes serving up fragrant Lebanese coffee and delectable pastries, there is something for everyone to enjoy. But the most enchanting aspect of Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport is its panoramic views of the Mediterranean Sea. As you gaze out through the expansive windows, you are treated to breathtaking vistas of sparkling blue waters stretching out to the horizon, dotted with sailboats and fishing vessels. 

As the sun sets over the sea, casting a golden glow over the terminal, you can’t help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at the beauty of this magical place. And as you board your flight, bidding farewell to Paris and London, you carry with you memories of a country that is not just a gateway to the Middle East, but a destination in its own right—a place where the spirit of hospitality and the allure of adventure come together to create an unforgettable experience. And in the background the disconnection that is four hours south is the front.  

*** 

Middle East Airways carrier touches down in Beirut around 8 pm. The airport is like a vast illuminated shopping mall; everything is shiny and new. It doesn’t take me more than half an hour to get through customs, collect my only other bag, and try to find Ali who is holding my name on a sign. There he is. Well, that was all really easy. This airport is almost empty. 

Ali the Shiite cab driver picked up the Jew from the airport and brought him to the Biophilia Lofts, which were not exactly the most bang for one’s buck possible in Beirut. A City well known for hundreds of glamorous hotels; this was not that. Ali gives him a Ceder cigarette and declares “we will be friends forever!” There’s something in the air. That something is called dread. 

“Nestled within the bustling metropolis of Achrafieh, East Beirut, amidst the concrete jungle and bustling streets, lies a hidden gem: Biophilia Lofts. Here, amidst the chaos of city life, a sanctuary of serenity awaits, where nature and urban living converge in perfect harmony.” That is what the internet description says.  

We take the M-51 Freeway North cutting through the Shiite South of the City. As you approach these Biophilia Lofts, you are greeted by a striking facade, adorned with living greenery cascading down the sides of the building like a verdant waterfall. The air is alive with the sounds of birdsong and the gentle rustle of leaves, a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city beyond, downhill, moving back to the West. “Step inside, and you are transported into a world of natural beauty and modern elegance. The interior spaces are bathed in soft, natural light, filtering in through floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views of the city skyline and the shimmering waters of the Mediterranean Sea beyond.” Absolutely, none of that is true. “Each loft is a masterpiece of design, blending sleek, contemporary architecture with elements of biophilic design. Living green walls breathe life into the space, while natural materials such as wood and stone create a sense of warmth and tranquility.” If they say so. 

“But it is not just the aesthetics that set Biophilia Lofts apart; it is the ethos that underpins every aspect of the development. Here, sustainability is not just a buzzword; it is a way of life. Solar panels line the rooftop, providing clean, renewable energy to power the building, while rainwater harvesting systems ensure that every drop is put to effective use.” But the most unique feature of Biophilia Lofts is its rooftop garden oasis. Here, residents can escape the hustle and bustle of the city below and reconnect with nature in a lush, green paradise. Stroll along winding pathways lined with native plants and flowers or unwind in a shaded alcove beneath the canopy of a towering tree. Bathe in the moonlight! As the sun sets over Beirut and the West, city lights begin to twinkle in the distance, first a fast highway, then parkways up hills. “There is a sense of peace and tranquility that washes over Biophilia Lofts. Here, amidst the chaos of urban life, residents find solace in the embrace of nature, and a new way of living takes root—one that is in harmony with the world around us.” 

Ali does not say very much, because he does not actually speak Angliski. I ride shotgun, we smoke some Cedar dark blues and listen to Fayrouz on the radio, how pleasant. “We are now friends perhaps for life,” he tells me! 

*** 

The hotel is a series of still being renovated lofts in an old warehouse. It is like renting a very small studio for $250 a night and it came with absolutely nothing except a lot of privacy and some boutique soap. There is no concierge or any security. You can just walk inside and walk upstairs. The elevator at least had a pass card. But the stairs certainly did not. And how much privacy anyway does your money buy in a place like this? There is no actual address on the building. It’s a warehouse-looking building on the corner of Alexander Pharmacy near the Spinney Supermarket. No actual building number, no door man, no locking front door. No door on the front door really. It honestly was like someone created bohemian loft studios in a broken-down old warehouse; that’s supposedly in the “good part of town”. Achrafieh is the highpoint of the city in East Beirut. Had he not paid $875 up front moving the whole show over to Smallville seemed totally logical. This place didn’t come with any fucking thing besides whispering Ferns hanging above the bed. Was this a slip away to fuck, or did he just have to worst room in the whole place? No, it was a place to slip away for sure. The room isn’t bad at all. It’s clean, the door locks, the bed is comfortable, what more does one need? 

“Well, it’s the high point of the city! Christian Achrafieh! There’s holiday energy in the air, in the distance one can hear what is perhaps Christmas caroling in French.”  

There is now another Ali, “the night manager”; spindly aged by war, he helps me with my bag. He sizes up the Jew. There is a general manager named Jennyfer who lives down the hall, aloof and slightly bizarre in her looks and movements. Maybe he makes them all nervous. He barely sees her face for 1 minute during check in. So much for the allegedly famous Lebanese hospitality thus so far. 

“Tonight, you’re the only guest in the hotel,” Miss Jennyfer tells him, “But tomorrow we have a totally full house! Welcome to Beirut for the holidays.” 

The safehouse has one elevator you need a key to operate, the doors are clunky, and the Jew must take a few practice runs to get the key in. There’s a light skinned African maid, maybe Eritrean. The room is clean and upscale; it has “biophilia-like elements”. The Ferns really do whisper at you all night. What are they trying to say? They say, “move your ass over to Smallville or Royal Tulip!” This place has weird voodoo.” 

Miss Jennyfer mentions something about payment later in the week because she doesn’t have the cashpoint machine which reads foreign credit cards. She doesn’t look him in the eyes. She might be a pretty and a partly bleached blonde, but the interaction doesn’t go on that long to form any real opinions. It happens so fast Sebastian would be unable to say what she did or didn’t come across like. And it doesn’t matter if he’s paying for the room not the adjacent experiences. 

I unpack my two bags. Another man named Ali, a third one, shows him how to smoke out the hotel window. Opens it up for him. This Ali also has war or prison tattoos on his arms including the Zulfaqar split sword of the Shi’a.  

I can see right into his neighbors’ apartments across the street when he pulls away the black out curtain. Nothing about the Christian quarter looks very modern besides the supermarket. The supermarket Spinneys looks just like any Western modern supermarket. The rest of it, on first impression looks like a Christian foot hold, dare he use the word “Ghetto”.  I pass out on the big, comfortable king-sized bed. I see I have a missed call from Bashir and another from his Vice President Yaelle D’Arrigo. But sleep is the cousin of rest, or death. In my dreams, I fuck her to the beat of fireworks going off. In real life, I would never dare to even ask her out on a date. Just an operationally focused coffee. 

*** 

ADONAEV  

“I wake up in Biophilia lofts on the fourth floor to the rustling of the Ferns directly above me. This place is neither particularly bohemian nor truly fancy. But I am paying 4 stars to sleep here. $250 a night is hardly a deal. You can stay at most hotels in East Beirut for $100. The Muslim West Beirut, Ras Beirut a lot less in general, except that is where all the really 5 star looking hotels seem to be. But he is not here to fuck around this time.” 

The Ferns are whispering that I could have selected a far better safe house. The Ferns never lie. Marty would be upset by the whole damn thing. Marty would be telling me I really am about to blow my foot off on this little undertaking. Or get forced disappeared. Marty never likes my travel plans. Never approves of anything that involves any level of trusting an Arab with anything. He’d disapproved of the Syria job in 2017, barely made it out alive on that, and he disapproved of this even more. 

“In Syria at least you knew who your enemies were.” Knew every other pothole was a mine. At least there you kept your dick in your pants, and didn’t walk anywhere you hadn’t seen another man walk. Beirut is different. She will lure you in and take you alive.’ 

October 7th had made all the Jews a little fucking crazy, perhaps more blood thirsty than we ever usually are. The State of Israel has one real mandate, and that mandate isn’t really a “Jewish State”; it’s a state that can protect Jews and the ball was dropped. Like it had never been dropped before. 

I have a text message from Yaelle, my “Vice President in New York”. She is saying something about “Night of the North ”; an event they’re all going to be speaking at; an ambulance driver unity type club night. Being organized by Lt. David Cook, who may or may not mean us well. Who may or may not have his own agenda for helping us out. But everything about New York Grad has melted away and all that is left; the goal of the mission; the objectives for being here. Moving cautiously step by step. With no back up really to speak of. 

“Absolutely no one is coming to get you if they don’t even know where you are,” Yaelle had told him, “Please keep your geotracker on all the time.” But it doesn’t work anywhere and there isn’t Wi-Fi.  

I wonder how many weeks it will take for them to implode the whole otriad in my absence. I trust that Yaelle is a tough cookie, and some people helping her are smart. Like my girlfriend Karessa Abe, “the General Secretary”. But I don’t think I really trust “my Treasurer” Big Mike Combs or know why Lt. Cook is really helping us. I think everyone in the ambulance service is bit crazy. Individualistic; primarily tribal. I am unable to play well with others for long periods of time. Whether fighting amongst themselves counts, the group is held together with duct tape. Big Mike Combs hasn’t done one useful or helpful thing in a year and he’s right under Yaelle in the chain of command. More than a year! And others in leadership are the same. Just plain doing nothing without my special brand of leadership pushing, dragging them all along. Dragging us forward. And they often resent me for it. Yet la lucha goes on. Just barely it goes on. I decided to take this “job” because I have come to care very little about my life in New York Grad. I have decided to take this “job” because I would, and can, lay down my life for change. That makes me a zealot, not an operator. It makes me of course not a tourist. It changes one’s perspective on acceptable risks. You might just say you move completely differently and take far more risks. In that you don’t perceive them, or think you are immune from them. Or think you will come back.  

           “You’re a local! You are a natural! If you die, you’ll come right back.”  

Now lest you just think the Jew of Beirut is a total mad man, who talks to ghosts, talks to the moon, and talks to possibly dead ex; the Ferns don’t talk as much as hum, and a whole array of dangling Ferns do hang above the bed. It’s part of the so-called “Biophilia Motif”. To put you in touch with nature. The architecture or design that connects you with nature or other living things. I should move my ass to a real hotel over on the Muslim side, thinks the Jew; his handlers all have biases he doesn’t share. Marty hates Iranians and doesn’t trust Arabs. Souheil doesn’t trust Muslims of any stripe. Bashir doesn’t trust Shiites. Marcy trusts everyone in her own naive hippy way. Yaelle doesn’t know a Sunni from a Shiite, doesn’t know the plan. Not even one letter of the plan. What would little Karessa Abe say, “You told me Shi’a are the good guys!”  

I look around the room and see a big glass shower box and a very small TV. An empty mini bar. No ice. Huge black out curtain windows. How did I get here? Why am I doing this again? This is such a bad idea to be flying so far out with no back up. How did I end up thinking this was a good safe house and not just ‘rent out a hotel and hope for the best’.  

ADONAEV 

“But you are going to rent hotels, two more to be precise. With each Lira you spend and each place you show face; you are doing your little part. Tourism, the war kept behind the mountains.” 

“No one cares about your comings and goings here.” The whole city sits in a daze between paralysis and endless party time. No one is expecting you or looking for you. You’re just a tourist, maybe the only tourist here. You are a ghost. 

I’m very-very jet-lagged. That is for sure. I remember not sleeping very well in the Paris safe house, so called safe house, in the gray. Staying up too late talking to that young anarchist Luka about things that don’t really matter in Rojava. He’s at an age where he wants to go fight for the revolution somewhere, anywhere. He’s getting arrested in Parisian Street demonstrations. He probably has to go see the revolution and sit around waiting to kill people before they kill you. Council communism in languages you really don’t speak. He probably has to learn that a revolution is bloody, not magic, not transformative. He must see the light go out from some one’s eyes, choking them to death. With his own hands before he grows out of whatever the left is peddling these days. Anyway, the Jew hadn’t slept in Paris and its fucking with his motivation. 

“Your main target is either the Guest or the Host,” who said that to me? Aren’t I “the guest” capable of hosting? Which handler or adviser said that to me? Yes, who said something crazy like that, say the Ferns all at once as he lies in the bed. Get your shit together Man, get some real sleep! says Yaelle in his head. “You’re a fucking tourist act like a tourist and don’t get into unscripted shit no one needs you to do. Don’t make us look bad.” 

“Take a deep breath and remember the face of G-d”, Bashir once told him. God has no face, he has no hands, he has no actual gender, he is all knowing and all seeing; he is beneficent and merciful and has written a destiny for you, for us all”. Bashir is no zealot; a wife and kid does that to you; even for a Hamas sympathizer he still has too many real-world attachments; such as a wife and newly born son. Yet, the new Palestinian Nelson Mandella will be here in seven days’ time. Whatever he believes in, he also believes in destiny. 

I think it was Marty; it might have been Marcy. Gruff old war weathered Marty. Marty was a retired spook, maybe. Which agency didn’t matter. A cigar smoking Israeli who didn’t even think I should be here in Beirut, not now, not ever. It wasn’t him that put the zealous ideas in my head. With his stories of melting dismembered Fatahniks in bathtubs, or “the impending EMP attack on Tehran”. No night with Marty was over without a threat, or the impending threat to send Iran back to the Neolithic age. 

“The place is one big Jew death trap,” Marty warned him. “Every single conversation could just about get you tortured or killed for what? For nothing.”  

Marty is a slowly dying, proud old man with war stories to offload. Ashkenazim can live for 120 years. His world was the old world. A world where Zionism meant hope and freedom, at least to him. Was he also bitter? No one could tell. He lives well. Clinging to all the things he isn’t allowed to say, ready for the bombs to fall on Tehran. Telling the same old anecdote about “they need to love their kids more than they want to kill our kids.” Telling stories about meeting Golda Meir and Yasser Arafat. 

“Well, if you’re going to be there anyway boychik, maybe you could do a job for your people,” Marty told him right before. “The Guest or the Host could die, either one. Whoever you can get closer to. Only if it’s supernatural looking. No air strikes inside the City right now.” 

No one at all anywhere actually thought the Jew should be in Beirut for any reason at all. No one besides Bashir had given him any good rope to work with besides maybe Suheil; but Suheil Tajer gave him tourist rope and Bashir had a whole city plan. Well, it was both their plan, wasn’t it, but without Bashir and the Lion’s Den it could never work. It also probably will not work unless the Israelis invade Lebanon, which could happen any day now. That would make all the factions desperate. Every day Hezbollah fired a few rockets at Israel and Israel fired a few back; and Gaza was now again hell on earth. The body count could get as high as 50,000-100,000 by the time it was all wrapped up. Maybe even more. From the Otriad, no back up except Kaveh Ashuri and an Austrian woman named Karen Gruber, coming in near New Years. He didn’t count on Bashir in the same way, not in the make it our alive same way. Marcy says this is all “destiny”. Hezbollah was firing dozens of rockets a day into Northern Israel from Southern Lebanon and that too might end very poorly. Thats what Marcy had said. 

Marcy is some kind of Jewish witch. A sorceress friend of his mother. Maybe “shaman” is the right word. A tricky fourth dimensional scam artist?” She often hypothesized about the “end of times”, or “beginning of a new time”. She often hypnotized the Jew, at least several times and helped him see certain things. And that’s why, or should I say where, the Jew of Beirut turned for advice; to a retired spy, and a Witch descended from Adam Luria, the Rabbi who wrote the Shulhan Arukh. And the gentleman Trader of course. But the Jew was working with and for Yousef Bashir. Working for the cause of Middle East Confederalism. Even now ten years on he remembers the words of Bashir at the 5th Congress in Western Massachusetts woods;  

“The territory is just too small, too small for the lives and aspirations of 16 million Judeans and Palestinians; it is as small as it is all illegitimate. The borders of the Middle East are shaped by Sykes-Picot not us; the answer is not one state, two state; it is to birth a Middle East Confederation that stretches from the Maghreb to the Indus River; and delivers us all from warfare fueled by the foreign power after the resources under our sands.”  

Bashir and Adoneav wrote that together in the Heller School and then spent ten years laying the groundwork that would soon be tested. 

Marty ultimately said, “you probably won’t make it out in one piece”, and Marcy said it was “fulfillment of my destiny” to be there. Not just my destiny, but perhaps a pivotal moment in a spiritual journey I was bound to undertake. A celestial pivot point.” 

“Whatever you do, please don’t go to their newly renovated synagogue,” little Karessa Abe had told him. 

“Why would I poke my head in there?” 

“Because you’re a tourist, not a terrorist, you gotta take pictures of stuff, you gotta go on sightseeing tours. And ask dumb questions about history. But don’t go see the new synagogue please. No one needs to really know you’re a Jew. Why run that in anyone’s face. Why test them?” The trouble is, the Jew isn’t just dumb, he’s dundunbanza; and he doesn’t like taking pictures of things. He likes living a free life. Which often means doing whatever he feels like, if it doesn’t trample the rights of others. A key ideological element of the Abdullah Ocalan “Free Life” concept is that “it is better to live every day as a free person and meet the end when it arrives, then live a very long life like a slave”. Back in Newyorkgrad there was a suicide each month in the ambulance service. Back in Newyorkgrad your bank account was empty or near empty each time you paid the stupid motherfucking evil Jew rent. 

Yousef Bashir once said, “If you do this job with us your bank account will never be empty, and you will have friends all over the world.”  

Well, if that wasn’t a valuable preposition, whatever it would be more than enough to try and keep going. To keep sticking to a well-made plan. None of that matters to the Jew. So, there was a 1-day layover of sleepless agony in Paris, and it was there that he realized this was probably it; he was probably not ever coming back. He spoke by satellite phone with not Marty the possible spy, or Marcy the shaman, Witch whatever. He lights up a Cedar smoke and dials up Yousef Bashir, his old friend from the Strip called Gaza. 

ADONAEV  

What’s a Jack knife to a swan? 

(Went the words of code from a song by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones) 

YOUSEF BASHIR 

What’s a hero to a hooligan not afraid to cross the line? Good to hear from you, glad you arrived safely.  

ADONAEV   

I hate airplanes. Everything about them. 

BASHIR 

How’s the hotel? 

ADONAEV   

It’s fine. I’m gonna rent another one tomorrow. I don’t like the energy on the Christian side. 

BASHIR 

Well don’t get kidnapped. 

ADONAEV   

How’s your son doing? 

BASHIR 

Fatherhood is very time-consuming. But extremely rewarding. 

ADONAEV  

That is what I hear. 

BASHIR 

You need to go to an address in District Chiya. In the southern suburbs, Al Dahiya. I’ll provide it to you. See an old, trusted friend of ours from Graduate school. I’ll message you on Telegram with a phone number to call. It’s a Tea House right next to Shatila Camp where I’m sending you. Here you’ll find people to help us. Ask for ‘the Host’. I’ll be in Beirut in seven days, Kaveh is coming sooner. 

ADONAEV   

I hope this all works out. 

BASHIR 

Why would this not work out? Do not have any useless Jewish doubts. We have the numbers; we have the will. The Party is with us! No doubts needed! You are the best man we have for this job.  

ADONAEV  

I’ll do my best. 

BASHIR 

You need better than your absolute best to pull this off. You need something extra special. But the pieces are all in place man. So, just stick to the plan, and all will be okay. Everyone is ready, and you, my Judean Friend, are the tip of the spear. You use that Jew magic for Allah, and everyone will be your ally. We have spoken about this for years. This is the only way forward. So do not get kidnapped! 

ADONAEV   

I will do my very best, Allahu Akbar my old friend. 

BASHIR 

You stay alive man, and I will be there quite soon. Go recruit some local talent, you are always such a people person. Everyone you meet will be willing to help us; I can feel it. The people are with us! Allah is with us! Every one of our many comrades is with us! We will not fail this time. Yalla⁵⁴.