Shell-Shocked Survivors

By Amy Wilentz

Even as the shells of warring factions continue to burst over the city, Sylvester Stallone's Rambo is breaking all box-office records in Beirut. During the ten years of almost nonstop civil war, at least 50,000 residents of Lebanon's capital have died. More than 100,000 have been dislocated. Street battles and car bombings are almost daily occurrences. Nonetheless, Beirutis manage to carry on a semblance of a daily routine: shopping, working and even indulging a taste for the blood and glory of escapist films.

In East Beirut, where a single Christian militia maintains a surprising degree of control, life seems relatively calm. But in Muslim-controlled West Beirut -- across the barricaded "green line," a swath of no-man's-land that divides the city between east and west -- gunmen from various Shi'ite and Sunni factions rule the streets. Neighborhoods in this area, where the American hostages are presumably being held, often change hands from week to week in the endless fighting among factions.

None of this, however, can destroy the city's legendary mercantile spirit; even in the war-torn western sector, stores are still open, selling quality goods at bargain prices ($40 for a pair of stylish Italian-made shoes, $4 for a bottle of Scotch). Main reason: the government has been unable to collect customs duties for many months. Even some liquor stores are operating, though they keep their stocks hidden for fear of attracting the attention of fanatic Shi'ite militiamen who roam about looking for violations of the Islamic stricture against alcohol. Shortages of staples are rare; only severe and prolonged shelling interrupts the flow of imported goods. Housewives rush out to do their shopping early in the morning, when an unofficial cease-fire reigns; the shelling usually does not start until midday.

Thieves steal with impunity, but it is not much use complaining to the police, who do little except direct traffic these days. It is occasionally possible to protest to whatever militiamen control the neighborhood; they sometimes catch a criminal and deal out rough justice. Then again, the robbers might be their comrades. For self-protection, many Beiruti men -- even if they , are not affiliated with one or another militia -- carry guns tucked under their belts, and women have neat little .38s stashed away in their purses.

Children still go to school, and even take exams. But their mothers frequently retrieve them and head for shelters when the firing begins. Sometimes it is the students who cause problems; at the American University, professors have been menaced by gun-wielding scholars demanding higher grades.

In the daylight hours, the cratered, potholed streets are crowded. Beirutis whose cars have not been stolen drive around the city with an ear cocked for bursts of gunfire, signs that militiamen are approaching in their Jeeps and battered cars. Generally the gunmen shoot their automatic weapons into the air as they career around a corner, warning other drivers to clear a lane. But they can get ornery if anyone blocks their way. Many a hesitant motorist has had his tires shot out from under him.

Between sunset and sunrise, sensible citizens stay home: only the gunmen are out then, settling shadowy scores. In a city that used to be famous for its nightlife, people now spend the evening huddled in their apartments, playing cards or watching videos, which are even more of a national obsession in Lebanon than in the U.S. Despite the continuing excellence of Beirut's cuisine, people venture out to restaurants at their peril. In January, the Smugglers Inn, one of West Beirut's noted dining establishments and a favorite among the city's intellectuals, was blown up and four customers were killed.

Beirutis have grown so accustomed to the sound of shelling that children can tell the difference between the whistles of an incoming and an outgoing shell. Even when a shell is headed away from their neighborhood, Beirutis instinctively prepare to move to a basement or some other shelter: experience has taught them that outgoing rounds are often soon followed by incoming ones. Just as Eskimos have many words for snow, Beirutis have developed a glossary of descriptive terms for shelling.

A major annoyance of Beirut's near anarchy is the intermittent electric power supply, which fails anywhere between six and 18 hours a day. Wealthy residents have equipped their apartments with portable generators. The poor exact a kind of dues from the government by draping copper cables over power lines to tap free electricity for their shanties. When shelling is light, drinking water is supplied every other day for a few hours. But water can be shut off for weeks.

Some residents of the city have moved six or more times in the past ten years because their houses were destroyed or threatened. Says one Christian businessman: "The trick is to anticipate where the next flare-up is going to take place and move before it happens. Of course you have to be pretty well off to afford that. Poor people have to sit tight until the fire licks their feet."

To the south of Beirut lies one spot of brightness: the Summerland Hotel. If they have enough money (single room: $60 per night), shell-shocked Beirutis can experience resort fantasy for a few days before returning to the realities in town. Among Summerland's amenities: its own generators, armed guards, a Mediterranean beach front and a relatively safe outdoor cafe with fine Lebanese cuisine. As in the golden days, the bikinis are still brief and the bodies tanned.

But Summerland is a weekend luxury only for the well-to-do, a remnant of a Lebanon that Beirut residents wistfully recall. The rest of the time, for the rest of the people, Beirut means violence as usual. Perhaps the most telling image of Beirut's chilling atmosphere of terror and normality is that of a young Shi'ite militiaman who rested in the sunlight one day this spring after a hard battle with a Sunni force. As he squatted on the rubble-strewn pavement, he held a rocket-propelled grenade in one hand and, in the other, a vanilla ice cream cone.

With reporting by John Borrell/Beirut