19 JANUARY 1985, Page 10

Ungovernable Lebanon

Gerda Cohen

Xjahariya beach: hot beige grit and mi- ca, licked by the boring Mediterra- nean. Lebanon is a livid haze up the road. One can drive there in ten minutes, hear the latest tattle about the withdrawal of Israeli troops, and be home for lunch. A humid breeze batting down from Lebanon keeps up a faint clatter in the palm trees. It's warm, air like warm damp Kleenex. The municipal bathing sheds are shut, and smell of pee. None of the locals goes bathing at this time of year, although the water has cooled to an agreeable tepidity. So the beach is empty, except for some white-haired Berliners, kippered by a life- time of sun, and over on the far side, out of hearing, a phalanx of pink young men from the United Nations peace-keeping force. They maintain a distance. UN people ought not to fraternise. But what do they do, actually? 'They are drinking,' stated our old friend Werner in his exact English, `every week comes here a wagon with whisky.' And what else? 'They are bringing their tarts.' Werner smiled. Bald and brown as a walnut, he runs an engineering firm. He has never been known to make a joke. The United Nations have 5,700 based up the road at Naqura. Surely they must do more? Watarlich,' Werner modified his earlier statement, 'today they are arran- ging lunch for the Generals. Do you say "lunch" or "dinner"? Which is correct,' he asked me deliberately, "'lunch" or "dinner"?'

Motionless cones of cloud demarcate the Lebanese border. We swim in a very still, tepid sea, amid the slow boom of gunfire. An explosion thuds and unfolds into the huge steamy sky. No one even looks up. The cones of cloud remain motionless, piled up like schlagsahne. They remind the Viennese of cake piled with cones of cream. The Old Berliners and their Vien- nese chums stand and chat in the sea, their brown shoulders blotchy from the sun. 'At night,' pursued Werner relentlessly, 'are you taking "dinner" or "supper"? Tell me please.' He had not noticed any explosion. Vich, routine, normal routine. For two years they are exploding here. Fortunately I suffer from impaired hearing.'

Every morning he would listen to the BBC World Service, at full volume; he lo- ved the comfy, archaic accent, `so re- assuring,' he said, 'in the Orient.' We pedal slowly back from the beach. Tatty tamarjsk, oleander lip-stick pink, grow beside the new villas. Two years ago the tanks came rolling along the beach night and day, into Lebanon. Now they must be extricated. Well, at least the talks have begun. 'Talks,' pronounced Werner, prop- ping his bike neatly in the shade, 'talks are for the television camera. Our Chief of Staff will decide.'

Israel has in fact decided, since my visit, to make a unilateral withdrawal of its forces from Lebanon, the first phase to be completed within the next five weeks. One can see why they wanted to go. The enemy, the Shi'ite Muslims of southern Lebanon, will go for anyone, to further Jihad, their holy war. Our afternoon siesta was broken by army helicopters flying low along the shore. The lumbering khaki things sounded loud as a train. 'Wounded,' said Werner at tea time, 'are being flown to hospital.' Sure enough, on the nine o'clock television news we saw corporal some- thing, a cheerful bandaged youth, teleph-. oning his family in bad Hebrew. One soldier had died. 'Tomorrow comes the fu- neral on television.' Werner looked thoughtful. 'Do you say "casualty" or "fa- tality"? Which is correct? I want to perfect my English. Which is correct, "casualty", or "fatality"?' There have been 602 in Lebanon.

Wondering if the talks had got anywhere, we cycled up to the border. It ends in a big chalky cliff, looking like Ramsgate on a good day. Casual, noisy, slap-dpsh, the border crossing had a holi- day air. Tourist coaches jammed the ap- proach. incredibly obese American trip- pers linked arms and grinned for a photo by a notice saying 'Photography forbid- den!' Lebanese businessmen in little trilby hats paraded up and down enjoying the view. From the military check-point one had quite an agreeable view, the yellow white headland jutting into blue sea and sky. 'Most boring job out,' complained the unshaven bloke on sentry duty, 'and my uncle has ruined the business for me.' Ap- parently he owned a shoe shop in Haifa and was doing reserve duty.

`Moishke,' he suddenly yelled at an army truck, 'why don't you halt?' Why halt?', Moishke yelled back. 'Don't you know me all of a sudden?' They argued in extreme debate until a large United Nations trailer drew up waiting to pass. 'You see,' cried the sentry, waving them through in disgust, `Jews argue, always argue. Moishke is my brother-in-law. So what!' Constant traffic went around the chalky headland. Brand- new tanks. Ladies from Tyre in a sleek Mercedes, their.menfolk unbelievably fat. The ladies had cream silk clothes and tragic eyes outlined with antimony. One wore a fox fur. 'She must be hot,' remarked the sentry. `She can afford it,' said a captain lounging nearby, 'dinars are worth more than our damn shekels.' He gave a surly smile at my amazement. 'Lebanon is rich and we're bankrupt. You don't know why? Hashish, they've always lived off hashish. Smuggling is easier than breathing to the that little lot.' He really enjoyed my dis- may. 'Don't believe what you read in the papers.'

After that, we retired for a cup of tea in the panorama restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean. It was chalk blue and shimmery like the Isle of Wight. Tired young soldiers sat around, cradling their sub-machine guns and eating chocolate ice- cream. A few read the football page, their automatics slung over the chair-back. Little biting flies whizzed about, investiga- ting the sugar and the warm bare arms of the United Nations personnel, natty in their powder-blue berets. 'Have you tried the Israeli beer?' asked a soft wheedling voice, 'It's impotent!' He poured me, a glass, laughing jumpily. 'Nice view how- ever.'

We stared at the sea, the banana groves and kibbutz bungalows. 'One bomb would finish this lot. I'm joking, ma'am!' His gin- ger moustache had bleached from the sun. Apparently he was an Irish airman, working for the UN. But did Ireland have an air force? 'Indeed,' he retorted indig- nantly, 'the Irish Republic does indeed have an air force. We're short on air, that's all.' He was glad to be going home. `They're a cocky lot, Israeli, Syrian, cocky as hell,' he finished another bottle, 'but they're lambs, innocent lambs, compared to the Shi'ites.' He leaned forward to clasp my hand. The Shi'ites believe in holy mur- der. They're worse than the Provos. Would you believe, the Shi'ites won't touch a drop, not a drop.'

A warm dusk, smelling of cats and mag- nolia. We have tea with Alfred W. The silver belonged to his grandmother in Han- over. Alfred is wiry; strong yellow teeth, often bared in laughter. Two wolfhounds are chained in the yard. 'The silver tea- spoons bear the family monogram. Posh eh?' He speaks English in rapid bursts, rapid staccato English learnt in the Royal Navy. Alfred always knew what was going on since the army called him up with his bulldozer, to clear roads for patrol. 'I did work in south Lebanon; glad to get out of it. Beautiful villages though.' A burst of laughter. 'Roads mined, but beautiful.' His strong yellow teeth bared. 'Every man neath his own vine and fig, patch of hash- ish.' Alfred bit a macaroon. His bite is clean, straightforward. 'Lebanon lives off hashish, always did, pity they've gone off the rails: ungovernable.' Alfred offered some more Earl Grey. Completely fearless himself, he admired British pluck, and sce- nery. South Lebanon is about the size of Derbyshire. 'Ungovernable,' said Alfred, `that's Lebanon. Christian against Chris- tian, Moslem against Moslem. The only thing is to get out and let them fight it out. We're like the British in Northern Ireland, keeping the factions from killing each other.' Outside in the warm dark the two wolfhounds begin to howl. Not long ago here on the beach gunmen landed and took a small girl hostage. They dashed her brains out on a rock. 'I don't understand,' said Alfred, tinkling his teaspoon in the Earl Grey, 'the British talk about Irish ter- rorism, and Arab guerrillas. Why?'