Beirut, Lebanon.
Jewel-like gambaz dresses flash through the crowds while a steady drum pounds an echoing bass around the city. A prickly blend of cinnamon and ginger aromas compete for prominence as the crowds stir them together. The streets are lined with stands selling sticky handpicked dates and sweet nammoura. I’m in the middle of the Educational Festival of the Beirut School Network, which brings together children from ninety schools across the Lebanese capital to celebrate their nation’s culture and traditions.
Once the ‘Paris of the East’, Beirut has not been without its internal problems; yet right here, right now, there is a fresh faced innocence to the capital. I reach the centre square where, under the clocktower, one particular display stands out to me. A map of Lebanon, made from colourful dyed roses, leans proudly against a wooden easel. Each section is delicately positioned to create the six governorates of Lebanon; it’s an intricate work of art. Children play around it, clambering onto the base of the tower behind and narrowly missing their creation. They have done the hard work, so now is the time for them to play.
The drum beat stops, creating a wave of hushes from the audience and a group of small figures scramble up onto the central stage. The girls giggle as they take their places, eventually freezing into position with only the slightest of quivers. The music starts; a deep twang which plays out loudly across the square and the girls are brought to life.
Tandour headdresses and silk veils twirl around the dancers, anchored onto their petite heads, turning them into embellished spinning tops. Their bodies, not affected by the momentum of their headdresses move at a much quicker pace, popping and jabbing their elbows in a staccato fashion. Gold bangles rattle down their arms, jingling to the pulse.
I wander backstage where, amongst pink flowers, a group of dancers in mauve sit nervously on concrete steps awaiting their turn. Boys in oversized embroidered waistcoats take turns to nervously wander over to the girls, their confidence far outweighing their chances of any conversation. Young teachers gossip in the cool shade and one boy skips across the pavement, balancing a rainbow of hula hoops around his tiny arm.
"Boys in oversized embroidered waistcoats take turns to nervously wander over to the girls, their confidence far outweighing their chances of any conversation."
I continue to walk, the festivities peter out and it is not long before I reach the peaceful site of the ancient Roman ruins. Behind it stands the impressive Mohammad Al-Amin Mosque, a blue domed symbol of hope and peace for the community. The image that lies before me a pictograph depicting Beirut’s continuous ability to pull itself from its own rubble.
That was before the explosion. The scenes of devastation reaching my television last August were heart breaking. A complete juxtaposition to the city I love; full of colour, laughter and innocence, Beirut has found itself forced to rebuild from the rubble once again. Despite this, I look forward to returning as soon as I can. I have hope in the next generation, full of life and creativity, I have no doubt they will be able to celebrate once again soon.
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