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Facing windows wide open, we slumber amid noisy streets, urban din and household ware cacophony. To the sound of laughter, we fall asleep while we try to discerne our parents’ voices as part of a guessing game. Sleep comes despite the humidity. With open or closed windows, the air is heavy.
It feels like sleeping outdoors, embraced by the world, cradled by the breeze. We drift off amid the persistent hum of mosquitoes and the aromas of festive evening feasts. The distant honks of cars and the occasional strains of a neighbor’s music lull us to sleep even as a political debate arises every now and then between two balconies.
We wake up to the sound of more assertive, constant and urgent honking. The streets pulsate with life. Dawn breaks, but it is already warm and the city is already resounding with a cacophony. There’s an eagerness to rise, to venture out and play, to gather in that courtyard where, unnoticed, growth occurs amidst play. Although ever-present on the streets, the fruit vendors fade into background noise. Immersed in our games, we purposefully ignore the loud disputes of a couple that has forgotten discretion. We play, oblivious to what might be veiled cries for help. Childhood means ball and hopscotch games on streets serving as our garden.
But the streets also belong to the elderly. They belong to those who bring out vibrant and resilient plastic chairs and tables. They occasionally play backgammon, drawing a crowd oscillating between hushed observance and spirited commentary, as games succeed one another as if in a bid to immortalize the mundane. They spill onto revered doorsteps, enriched by countless conversations.
At times, the elderly play and greet passersby with inquiries about the family and invitations to a quick coffee. At others, they simply watch the world pass by.
Then a day arrives when the streets grant us a different liberty; we’ve grown. No longer holding onto an adult’s hand, we wander with school bags on our backs. There’s no longer any need to map out the path, let alone its winding, often sidewalk-less contours. We boldly face dangers our parents have warned us against time and time again: reckless cars, unsavory characters, disorientation or a mere trip and fall. Every passerby is perceived as a potential foe; every vehicle as an imminent threat. We quicken our step without surrendering to the dizzying hubbub, thus validating the elders’ often irrational fears.
In our unnamed streets, walking becomes a treasure hunt on a human scale. Circling our destination, we navigate by landmarks. Only the main avenue holds a name — “Independence Street,” its azure plaque, with white letters obscured by a dust-covered tree, goes unnoticed. Instead, we rely on the scattered business signs, serving as vibrant markers around anonymous addresses. Walking turns into play, a way to delay one’s arrival despite the initial impatience. The journey, a brief interlude between two thresholds, offers a respite for wandering thoughts.
Navigating crossings devoid of traffic lights offers a mix of trepidation and exhilaration. Slaloming through exhaust fumes, ever vigilant of revving engines and aggressive horns, becomes second nature. Familiarity brings solace: recognizing a disrupted sidewalk or tracing the whimsical designs of cracked asphalt. An indoor passage’s tile count with tapping feet becomes a ritual, as we always count to the same comforting number. We occasionally hum sentimental songs meant for older ears while oblivious to our own voice.
Amidst these streets, we grow, as their timelines intertwine with our youth. As familiar as our own limbs, they are imprinted in our minds. Yet, as war imposes curfews, these familiar streets become forbidden zones, punctuated by sirens. Occasionally, we dare cross at breakneck speed, not in defiance of official decrees, but in audacious evasion of bombardments. War reshapes our streets, severing some, forcing us into quieter regions, away from the tumult of Beirut.
Many of us will grow and emigrate, but our eyes will always moisten as we remember fragments of the past. The streets, even as they change, hold memories: a car parked in a shadowy nook concealing intimate faces or an elderly shoeshiner with a box swinging rhythmically.
Even today, we walk, but with a certain detachment, as if mere extras in a grand play. Yet, always at its center, stand the streets of Beirut, the constant in a world of flux.
