This article is a preview from the Summer 2019 edition of New Humanist
They came in their tens of thousands through downtown Beirut. Martyrs’ Square, the front line of armed conflict a few decades ago, is now a finish line. On the west side of the square by the Mohammad Al-Amin Mosque, the 5km, 8km and 10km runners are crossing – mostly locals. Just a few metres away, by the famous martyrs’ statue, is the more international marathon and half-marathon.
Usually these streets would be choked with cars. Soon after the start of the marathon, runners make their way along the motorway as bemused drivers sit in their lanes watching them go by. The area just north of the road was the site of one of the first atrocities of the long civil war that tore Lebanon apart from 1975 to 1990. The whole marathon route through the city is infused with meaning and history. Participants start off by the Corniche, where for years fighters fought pitched battles to control the seafront hotels. Now the seafront is home to posh boats and an array of international restaurants and chains, but the ruined shell of the old Holiday Inn has been left as a monument to the conflict.
From there, the route crosses the Green Line into the predominantly Christian neighbourhoods of east Beirut, on into the Armenian area and further east, before doubling back, taking a quick dive south along the river and then back into downtown Beirut. The runners are steered clear of the Shia areas and Palestinian refugee camps in the south of the city, which are still designated red zones by the UK Foreign Office. But the most obvious dangers in the camps are poorly constructed and wired buildings.
Lebanon is an extraordinarily complex place for a relatively small nation of just over six million people. Of these six million, around two million are estimated to be refugees, mostly from Palestine and Syria. This is the highest proportion of refugees to a population in any country. The legacies of colonisations, occupations and religious movements play out on a daily basis.
“Fuck this country,” says Mohammed Daed, a man I meet outside a café in Hamra, west Beirut, along the route of the marathon. This city is a gift for journalists because people are generally very keen to tell you exactly what they think: about politics, society, the economy. Daed and his friend have cigars and some coffee going. “Very dirty city. Very expensive,” he says before adding: “Everything gets worse in Beirut.”
Daed is from Hamra and remembers it before the Civil War – “like Paris”. He left in the 1980s and came back in the early 1990s because of the promise of a secular state. It is this broken promise that is at the heart of his scepticism about the future of Lebanon. His list of grievances are familiar: too much tax and too few services, corruption, and dysfunctional sectarian political parties. “Even religion is a business. School is business. Everyone living for profit and loss,” he says.
Martyr’s Square, front line, finish line, is also closely linked with more recent political developments. On 14 February 2005, Prime Minister Rafik Hariri was assassinated. This kicked off a series of protests – centred on the square – that forced the withdrawal of Syrian troops for the first time since 1976. In the following years, the one-month memorial of Harriri’s assassination became a rallying date for supporters of the “14 March Alliance” of political forces opposed to Syrian influence in Lebanon.
The civil war in Syria means the relationship between the two countries has transformed, at least in the short term. Perhaps it is the removal of Syrian troops that allows greater scrutiny of basic services within Lebanon. In 2015, crowds gathered again in Martyrs’ Square. This time the issues were the controversial regeneration of the downtown area by a private company, and Beirut’s waste collection.
The Beirut marathon has its origins in efforts to build peace and community, and a story of personal recovery. In 2001, businesswoman May El-Khalil was running through Beirut when she was hit by a van. Her injuries were severe and she stayed in hospital for two years undergoing surgeries. Starting the marathon was part of her rehabilitation.
It was also part of the rehabilitation of Beirut. A city that had been associated with violent conflict for decades would put on an event of international status and quality. Shadi, whom I met in the city’s upmarket Souks, told me: “The marathon is a special event where people from all religious sects come together. It is very important for the image of Lebanon internationally.” Over in Bourj Hammoud, the Armenian district, friends Sona and Alice tell me about their experiences. Sona, the elder of the two, has run the marathon twice. “The first time I hardly made it. It was too long. I made the 10 km.” I also met Chirine Njeim, one of the elite athletes who take part in the event. She is a Lebanese runner and skier who has represented her country at four Olympic Games. “When you are running you are very yourself,” she said. “There is nothing to prove. Nothing to tell people, and I think that brings people together.”
“When we first started,” El-Khalil told me, “it was at a time when Lebanon was recovering from the Civil War.” El-Khalil believes that running can address trauma and create an inner peace in each runner, which then can be turned outwards into a peaceful community and nation.
“When we did the first marathon it was not easy to bring those who were once fighting and killing each other and ask them to run next to each other, but under the umbrella of sports,” she told me. “Sports has the power to change the world.” At the first marathon in 2003, she explains, people came dressed in white. “They left their political slogans at home.” Even in 2006, three months after the end of a brief conflict that saw the Israeli army fighting Hezbollah in the south of the country, and several sponsors pull out, the marathon went ahead.
Not everyone is supportive. The fact that the marathon happens every year while Lebanon still struggles to resolve basic access to services (there are daily planned blackouts to manage electricity demand), is a source of suspicion to some, and of cynicism to others. Two workers in a trendy clothes shop summed this up: “It is like showing the world that we are fine but under the table everything sucks . . . It is a mass distraction.”
The Beirut marathon is both a symbol and an example of what can be done. It is a non-sectarian, non-partisan event that literally seeks to love the city. At the finish line I met Hana, who set up a charity to promote awareness of bowel cancer following the death of her husband. She ran the marathon to raise money and awareness for the cause.
At the water stations, a group of young Christians and Muslims were handing out bottles to participants, just being young people, having fun. “We are doing a water station to cheer them up. Cheer up the runners . . . the whole city is running,” they said.
Although the marathon may be transformative for some individuals, old attitudes and new challenges continue. The experience of running the marathon didn’t stop Sona making a comment about there being “too many Muslims and too many Syrians” in Beirut. My Syrian Muslim interpreter said these types of comments were pretty normal, particularly towards Syrians. Nor can it overcome the scepticism and cynicism felt by many towards institutions that are often ineffective, but rarely threatening.
It is safe to say the Beirut marathon will continue, and that those little transformations, the friendships made, the charities supported, the personal achievements met, will contribute to a better city and country. The greater challenges of transforming the political environment and resolving the social, economic and environmental issues facing Lebanon remain. What happens when the Syrian Civil War ends is the biggest unknown of all.
Additional reporting by Baraa Seraj Aldin
