My muse

As I got off the small bus in what I thought (and hoped) was the city of Zahle, I suddenly realized that maybe I had be too ambitious. Few people seemed to be heading for the Bekaa valley, and none of those who were, were tourists. It took about an hour and half for the bus to fill up, a condition for our departure (buses here leave when full, not according to a schedule). This meant that I spent an hour and half sitting in an uncomfortable minivan, under the glaring sun and breathing the putrid fumes released by the endless traffic. I was about to give up when the bus finally inched forward, I was ecstatic to leave the chaos of the Cola roundabout behind.

The way to the Bekaa was rather an eventful. It was your traditional Lebanese road: sinuous, full of potholes, and bordered by vulgar concrete houses and shops. You crossed the usual checkpoint, where the soldiers don’t really check anything – they simply look inside the car through the window and nod. You got thrown around the bus as the driver dodges cars ahead or tries to overtake them. Yet, as you get closer to the Bekaa, the scenery changes. For starters, there’s less and less habitations, and more Syrian number plates. The checkpoints become a little more intimidating. The soldiers still only have a brief look inside before nodding, but now, they are protected by enormous tanks. I am no army specialist, but I can ascertain that the destruction potential of those tanks was far superior to that of the ones you encounter in Beirut. I guess that the closeness to the Syrian border requires it. So does the fact that Israelis have used the valley as a flying corridor in previous wars. Geographically, the Bekaa is a highly strategic region. On the way, you can marvel at a 60foot high bridge which was destroyed by the Israelis in summer 2006 in order to cut off the road that led to Syria and thus, prevent arms from pouring in the country… or civilians to escape it. Since, you have to take a nearby deviation. Construction crews are still trying to rebuild the bridge, but once done how long before it gets hit again?

I had been to the Bekaa before, but I was still stunned by the contrast it offers. Flanked by two very rocky and bare mountain chains, the luxurious green fields seem out of place. Seeing it from above, it looks like Eden. Absolutely flat, only a few miles wide, the valley provides the country with a lot of agricultural produce: fruits and vegetables, wine and pot. I was still admiring the meadows below when the driver signaled for me to get off. I had only one foot on the ground when a cab driver assailed me, offering to take me anywhere: a nearby village, chateau Ksara (a famous Lebanese winery), an hotel or Zahle. Evidently, I was not yet in Zahle. Detesting having to deal with pushy cabbies, I shoed him off hastily and entered an empty mall nearby to recompose. A careful look at the map revealed that although Zahle was an important city in the region, it was a little off the main road. More importantly, I established that I was in El Mallaagga. Although it was reassuring to know where I was, it was of little use. I only had a map of the country, not the Bekaa. I had no way to know which small road led where and what I would find along it. Maybe I had been foolish coming here alone, with the sole aim to wander and take pictures. Although I have been here for over two months, it was the first time that I had the courage to set out of Beirut on my own, and with few directions.

In order not to give in to panic, I decided it would be better for me to start walking and taking photographs. Usually, once I have my camera in hand, I focus on finding scenes, details, peoples that are worth capturing and forget about my worries. The road I chose was heading down towards the valley through a host of small, rustic auto shops. I took few pictures, annoyed with the non-stop honking directed to me. Obviously, I stood out. Not only was I walking in an odd part of town but I was also a young (some would add attractive) women. None of it was really threatening, but I aspired to tranquility; which I found only a few miles later as I turned on a small rural road. Alone, I suddenly found a serenity and an inspiration I had yet to feel in Lebanon.

Each photographer has a unique eye, a style, and subjects of predilections. Each photographer is moved by something different. The Bekaa is my muse. I could not take one step without aiming the camera. From old, decrepit factories and warehouses, to fenced fields or a few oddities, everything seemed to be begging me to be on film. And I hadn’t met the people yet.

Scattered along the small road were desolate tents, made out of cloths found here and there. These serve as homes to the many Syrian field workers. As soon as they saw me, they waved, invited me in their home, and offered me tea or coffee. They were as curious of me, as I was of them. They had no shame to be photographed in all their misery, they actually seemed happy that I did. Not because I could come back and give them the picture, but because someone was paying attention to them. Someone was giving them a mean to reach out to others. I feel honored to have shared an afternoon with them, and I feel a debt towards them.

The extreme agricultural wealth of the region, and the equally extreme poverty of those who extract it, makes for a photogenic contrast. But more importantly, this disparity should not remain. It has to be brought into the light, acknowledge and then dealt with.