Beirut: Farewell to the Arabs
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keen, my senses alert. I knew, now, why the miserable fellaheen consumed it. Hasheesh first made gods of them—then it
enslaved and destroyed them.
I walked on, voraciously hungry again. Everything was
closed down now. I walked to the water's edge and splashed
water on my face. I sat on a rock, looking into the expanse of
the sea and the mountain slopes kissing the shore; then the
sun gradually broke over their rim in a glorious Lebanese sunrise. I remained there for a long while. I had no idea how long
I sat there, in a state of extraordinary well-being, content with
myself and with the world.
I rose and walked until I found a restaurant, and gorged
myself. Then I went home, washed and shaved, and began
packing. This was my last day in Beirut. Tomorrow, I would
be in Cyprus, in transit to my birthplace, Alexandropolis,
Greece. One final concern remained, and it consumed me all
day—how to take safely out my voluminous notes and photographs. A dozen schemes came to me, some wild. I had no
inkling whether Dr. Imam in Damascus, Cecil Hourani in
Beirut, Farhan Bey in Amman, Nassib Boulos in Jerusalem,
or any of my other Arab "friends" elsewhere had put the
Lebanese police on my trail. If so, they would catch up with
me at the airport, a favorite dragnet for Arab police, who are
generally too lazy to look for foreigners except at airports,
hotels, and bars.
I sought the advice of a number of Armenian friends, who
knew some of the airport customs officials. That night I
packed as my friends had instructed, and left the rest to
them. ... I worried no longer.
I couldn't sleep; apparently the stimulating effect of the
hasheesh hadn't worn off yet. I had eaten six times during the
day. I stayed up all night, and by morning was still full of
energy. I suspected that soon some kind of reaction would
come, but I did not worry about it. My friends took me to the
airport and saw me through. I had no difficulty with the customs officials. To my relief, the police did not even ask to see