Between Sight and Sound
1982, Beirut, Lebanon. I am fourteen. School, some friends, a nice house facing the sea.
My father is visiting from Dammam, Saudi Arabia, where he has been working since the mid-seventies. He visits two or three times a year. I am happy. When he is home, almost nothing can go wrong. Even war seems to pause. He is old, a good kind of old, the kind you believe will outlive you.
This trip, Father is set on replacing our old car with another used one. It’s the first time he’s shared his plans with me, or maybe just the first time I’ve noticed. The first car that won’t simply appear in my life, already ours. Unlike the red Toyota my brother used to pick me up from school. That one seemed to exist only in those moments, suddenly there when my brother arrived, with no trace in my memory beyond that. Or the beige Plymouth, which appeared only when we were vacationing in Souk El Gharb, a village in the mountains. Even the green Volvo in the garage—one day it was just there, as if it had always been.
It is Saturday. A good Saturday. All Saturdays are good Saturdays. I come home on Friday evening and return to boarding school on Sunday night. Saturday is the only all-day-home day.
I wake to the sound of loud chatter. It’s always a crowded house when Father is home—friends and family drifting in, handymen moving through the rooms, construction workers hammering or tearing things down, other men trying to sell him something or impress him with an idea.
I see my father talking to Issa, our driver, in the living room. He notices me approaching. A big smile spreads across his face. They walk over together, and my father hugs me. “Get ready,” he says. “We’re going to look at some options for our next car.” He’s been eyeing a Mercedes or a BMW.
Issa says the Mercedes dealership is in Dora, in East Beirut, and that getting there would take the better part of a day—the checkpoints that separate the two sides of the city have long lines, are unpredictable, and can shut without warning. He’s not sure where the official BMW dealership is, but insists he knows a reputable place in West Beirut that sells used BMWs and Mercedes.
Issa has been with us for a couple of years. Young, somewhere in his early twenties, with a teenage mustache. Shy, always wearing an uncomfortable smile. He stays with Father, even travels with him to Saudi Arabia. I don’t know what he does there. My father already has a driver in Saudi. A cook, too.
Issa drives us deep into Beirut, into areas I don’t remember ever seeing before. Electrical wires burst out of small boxes hung on posts, crisscrossing from building to building, fighting for space with banners of one leader or another—and another. The walls are thick with posters of dead men’s faces, layered one on top of the other. Some are torn to make space for new ones, leaving only part of a face or a piece of a name. Each reads Al-Shahid al-Batal (The Heroic Martyr), with a name underneath. I read a few names and stop. There are too many.
We pull off the main road into one of the many parking lots that riddle Beirut. At first glance, it looks like any other. As we drive through it slowly, I realize it’s a used car dealership. My father looks surprised but quickly adjusts. Issa parks, then hops out of the car, eager to introduce him. I can’t tell if he’s trying to impress Father or show off to the owner—maybe both. Once introductions are done, they get straight to it: a good Mercedes or BMW.
“‘Ala zawwak (something that would appeal to your taste),” Issa tells the owner, using the phrase to mean he’s trusting the man’s judgment—his choice, his responsibility. “Akeed (Of course),” the owner replies. “Min wein el estez? (Where is the gentleman from?)”
My father starts walking toward the lot. He doesn’t like it when people ask about anything that separates us—especially during Lebanon’s civil war.
“He is my boss. He is Iraqi.” Issa answers.
I follow my father. We circle the lot: several Mercedes, a couple of BMWs. We stop beside a Mercedes, Issa and the owner standing next to us. “Shlon haadhi? (What about this one?)” Father asks, in his usual, toned-down Iraqi accent.
The owner says something about it being one of his favorites on the lot. I can’t quite catch the rest. He’s trying to imitate an Iraqi accent, which makes him almost impossible to understand: neither Iraqi nor Lebanese. Most salespeople do that.
As I watch the owner showcase the car, I realize that all the cars on the lot, including the one we’re looking at, are old. I ask Issa for the keys and tell him I’m going to wait in the car. I circle the lot one more time to see if there’s anything I might’ve missed. There isn’t. I sit in the car and wait.
About half an hour later, Father and Issa show up. Father asks why I left. I tell him the cars are old—that used doesn’t have to mean outdated. He looks a little embarrassed since Issa was the one who brought us here. As Issa drives, Father launches into one of his long lectures, explaining that cars are nothing more than tools, their only purpose: “To get you safely and reliably from one point to another.”
I like his lectures. They’re elaborate, sometimes exhaustingly so. I like them despite that. Maybe because of that. He never gives lectures over the phone. I’m not sure I like this one, though. I can’t tell if he means what he’s saying or if he’s just trying to keep Issa from feeling left out—something he often does, downplaying what he really wants so that others don’t feel out of place. For now, I just want to get back home and salvage what’s left of a good Saturday.
*
Friday evening. I wait for Issa to pick me up from school and drive me home for the weekend. The school sits in Choueifat, a village in the foothills of Mount Lebanon, overlooking the airport and much of southern Beirut. I perch on a ledge near the school gate, watching planes rise and fall against a sky weighted with dark clouds. There’s a rhythm to them: one lands, another takes off, then a brief intermission before the cycle begins again, steady and constant.
I can’t see the passengers; from here, the view obscures the small area where they board and disembark. I’ve often wondered if life is more dream than reality, and the sight of planes arriving and departing without any trace of those inside only reinforces the idea that none of it is real—a stage set, the planes merely part of a backdrop, their purpose beyond that irrelevant.
Issa arrives. As I get in the car, he greets me.
“Your father bought a car,” he says. “A beautiful car.”
I can’t help but wonder if “beautiful” is an exaggeration, considering the kinds of cars we’ve seen, and my father’s lecture about a car’s purpose. Still, I ask him what he means by beautiful.
He nods reassuringly. “It’s a good car. One you would like.”
His response, however, dampens my hope for what I consider a truly beautiful car—something shiny, something newer, something that befits the house we live in.
As we leave, the school gates close behind us. It’s raining. Heavy. It’s always heavy at night when driving through unmarked, narrow streets. A turn. Puddles. Chaos. Cars and pedestrians jostling for space, pushing forward, merging into one another. A car is stopped by the rain. We’ve been there; everyone has. Most likely, it’s the spark plug housing. It’s always the spark plug housing. You just have to wait for it to dry.
Cars honk, and people shout. As they pass the culprit, they all understand. Some offer advice, some stop to help. Now, more traffic.
As we drive on, we near a checkpoint. Issa glances at me. “Sit up straight,” he says. I adjust my posture. This refrain happens three or four times during the thirty-minute ride home.
This checkpoint is heavily fortified with sandbags, browned and misshapen by the rain, sagging under their own weight. Set in place, solid but uneven. We stop. A soldier, his back to us, stands facing a group of his comrades. Rifles slung over their shoulders. Cigarette smoke mingling with the condensation of their breath in the cold air. The soldiers smile at his story, anticipating a punchline. They see us, but none acknowledge our presence—or the growing line of cars behind us. Minutes pass. The soldier turns, barely glances our way, lifts a hand in a dismissive wave. We pass through. No questions asked this time.
Issa sighs in relief. His name, Issa (Arabic for Jesus), always raises questions at this particular checkpoint. I ask him, “How come you’re named Issa if you’re a Muslim?”
“What do you mean? Jesus is a very important prophet in Islam.” He pauses, then adds, “Did you know that Issa is the only human being who was never touched by Satan?”
I hesitate. “Oh,” I murmur. I’m not sure what he means by “touched by Satan,” but Jesus’ role in Islam surprises me.
Winding through the mountain streets, we approach the outskirts of Beirut, circling the airport before entering Ouzai—once a quiet coastal village, now overtaken by the displaced. I press my face against the fogged glass, trying to understand how the buildings function. Most of them are incomplete. Many are made of shoebox-sized stone slabs, riddled with holes, with cement brushed along the seams connecting one to another. Some have windows but no glass. Others are made of tin.
It’s busy. Always busy. Busy with cars, busy with people, busy with ugly, hole-riddled buildings. Muddy in the winter, sandy in the summer. Beggars roam the streets, some of them disabled. A child with both legs amputated sits on a narrow wooden plank mounted on small caster wheels. His hands are wrapped in soft cloth to protect them as he pushes himself across the ground and begs. He couldn’t have been older than ten.
Why do I only ever see disabled people who are poor? Is it a feature of poverty? Is it a feature of poverty only in Lebanon?
We pass through Jnah, another area overtaken by the displaced. This neighborhood is less busy, slightly better kept. I know it—my father shops for groceries here. He’s become impressed with the butcher’s son, who seems to know a lot about a lot of things. “A different beginning would have had him competing with the top students, graduating from the best universities.” To him, it’s proof—yet again—that one’s status, and where they end up in life, is entirely circumstantial.
A few blocks later, we turn into the area where we live. A world transformed. The Algerian, Kuwaiti, Iraqi, and other embassies all line up along the street, their façades facing the two major beach clubs in Beirut. The streets are lit. The streets are empty. It’s raining. A different kind of rain. Less heavy. Less angry.
When we finally turn onto our street, I catch a glimpse of something new in our driveway but can’t make out what it is. As we draw closer, its silhouette takes shape. Broad. Sleek. Unmistakable. Then, suddenly, I fully see it: a BMW 7-Series, almost new, parked in all its glory. I am ecstatic. I can’t believe my eyes. Issa was right—it is a beautiful car.
I rush inside to find my father reading at his desk. He looks up and smiles. After a big hug and a kiss, I tell him how beautiful the car is. Then I remind him of his words, that a car is merely a mode of transportation.
He smiles again and says, “Its main objective is still to transport you safely and reliably from one point to another.”
I ask if Issa can take me for a ride, but he’s finished for the day and needs to go to his family. I grab the keys and a few cassettes I find on my father’s desk, then hurry back to the car. I sit inside, looking around, checking the various knobs, the steering wheel, the seats. I pull the hood’s lever. Step outside. Check the engine, then the trunk. I go back in. Now in the passenger seat, I open the glove compartment and find a folder with a small BMW emblem. I open it and leaf through the books inside. I find the original owner’s information, the manual, service records, and the dealer’s business card, all in German.
I put everything back in its place, look around one more time, pick one of the cassettes, and insert it into the cassette player. It turns out to be Mozart, and Mozart has never sounded as grand—whether from the passenger seat, the back seats, or the driver’s seat.
*
By Sunday evening, after a weekend I spent exploring every inch of the BMW, Issa drives me back to school in it. He always listens to the news. “Huna al-BBC” (“This is the BBC”), spoken in Arabic in a deep, commanding voice. The anchor places the microphone so close to his mouth that every breath is audible, each inhale and exhale punctuating the silence between sentences.
His presence carries authority, reinforced by the weight of his words and the credibility of the BBC, the leading Western news outlet in the Arab world. Now, coming through six stereo speakers, his voice feels even more assertive. For the past couple of months, the main subject has been Israel’s impending occupation of Lebanon. More impending in stereo.
I look outside and notice people staring. I blush. The car feels too conspicuous, too out of place, drawing attention—especially in areas where the displaced live. My father’s lecture comes to mind. Now I understand its message more clearly: excess invites scrutiny. And scrutiny is the last thing I want.
The BMW is too obvious a marker, a glaring contradiction to everything I learned from six schools in nine years: being noticed always came at a cost.
I ask Issa to drop me off near the school gate, away from where most kids hang out. I still love the car and can’t wait to ride in it again, but I wonder how long that feeling will last, and whether there’ll be any resentment once more kids see it.
Over the next few days, as word spreads about the car, I realize my initial concerns—like many before—were unfounded. On the contrary, the friends who saw the car or heard about it were excited. They hoped Issa would bring it again so they could see it, maybe even ride in it.
By the time Friday rolls around again, the car has faded into the background, overshadowed by the familiar pull of the weekend. For many of us boarders, it’s a time to celebrate: we’re finally going home. Even the school acknowledges the occasion, serving its best meal of the week—roasted chicken and frites with special sauce.
Of course, there’s an ulterior motive behind the special meal. The administration has figured out that one of the first things parents ask their kids about is the food. Being able to say they just had a very good meal only reinforces the school’s already strong reputation.
It’s lunchtime. The boarders make their way to the lunch hall. We stand at our assigned seats, reciting grace. The top student in the second Baccalaureate class, who also earned the highest score in last year’s national first Baccalaureate exam, leads a special version of grace, one that transcends any specific religious denomination:
“Oh God, bless this food for us and provide for every poor person in need.”
The sentence always struck me for how it distinguishes between those who are poor and those who are poor and in need. Not everyone who is poor is necessarily in need.
Lunch is always loud: laughter, clinking utensils, voices competing for space. At our table, my friend Issam—tall, still growing, his limbs incongruous, the only person I’ve ever had a fistfight with—is telling us about his soccer game. As usual, his story veers into something both disgusting and funny.
Suddenly, a distant rumble. Low and steady. The sound is familiar. Everyone recognizes it. And for those who missed it, the unmistakable whine of jet engines follows. A few kids scream in unison, “Raid!” and the whole hall erupts in a hundred echoes: “Raid!” Silverware clatters against plates like a long drumroll, the kind that used to signal an attack. We rush out of the dining hall, scrambling to see what’s happening.
Fighter planes roar overhead, streaking toward Beirut. Almost everyone at school runs to the northeast end of the playground. From that vantage point, the city lies bare, stripped of all obstructions—stripped even of the sectarian divisions that mark it.
We watch in awe as the warplanes descend, bombing the city mercilessly, again and again. We stand aghast, aghast at the sheer ferocity of the explosions, and, for some of us, aghast at the eerie delay between impact and sound. We saw the fire erupt, its brightness defying the broad daylight, followed long seconds later by stomping booms that deepened into roars, like reprimands for daring to register what was happening.
It was like a badly edited movie, the images and sounds never quite in sync. For a moment, I wondered if what we saw and what we heard were two separate events. Did all the dead die before the sound found them? Was it possible that, in the seconds between sight and sound, any of them could have escaped, could have been saved, could have known a different reality?
We watched as Beirut burned. Everything around us stood in deep, reverent silence, bearing witness to a world that suddenly felt unknown. It was a stark contrast to the prayers we recite at different times of the day, prayers for compassion and peace.
The school bell rings, sharp and discordant, as if cueing us out of a collective trance. Most of us hurry back to class, hoping to reclaim some sense of normalcy.
The classroom building is crowded with kids—silent kids climbing stairs. The sound of shoes against stone, dragging. I’ve never heard shoes here before. Loud. Slow. Almost a shuffling.
I enter the classroom. The teacher stands, staring at his desk. The rows of student desks are only half filled. He says nothing. Neither do the students.
I take my seat in silence. Then I start to cry.
The next day, the school closes indefinitely.
Zeid Omran has lived through war, loss, exile, Bach and Rilke. His work explores identity shaped by displacement and the tension of belonging to both Western and non-Western worlds, yet fully to neither. An economist by training, he co-founded a research organization supporting Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. He now lives in Southern California.
