A DJ performs in a nightclub in Antelias, a few kilometres north of Beirut, Lebanon, on Saturday. Even as Israeli air strikes continue to pound the city, the nightclubs of the northern suburbs are packed.Siegfried Modola/The Globe and Mail
In The Gathering nightclub, in the Christian northern suburbs of Beirut, there is no evidence whatsoever of the war that is ripping Lebanon apart.
It’s Saturday night, and the club, the size of a shopping mall, is packed. The music is rock-concert loud, the expensive drinks are flowing, and alluringly dressed young women and men are dancing on the floor or gyrating at their raised tables. Outside, fountains fill the square, and the parking lots are full of BMWs, Porsches and Mercedes.
Only about 20 kilometres away, Israeli air strikes are turning huge swaths of South Beirut to rubble, and hundreds of thousands of IDPs – internally displaced persons – are living in their cars, on the streets, in tents on the beach and in run-down hotels to escape the attacks.
“You don’t feel the war in this part of Beirut,” says Chambel Karam, a lawyer clad in black who is dancing with his girlfriend, drink in hand. “The centre of the city is almost dead, but here you are happy.”
Lebanon has always had a celebrate-and-mourn, gin-and-bear-it split personality.
This tiny country, wedged between Syria and Israel on the Eastern Mediterranean coast, has suffered virtually endless strife and violence since the 15-year civil war started in 1975. Israel has invaded Lebanon three times since then, in 1978, 1982 and 2006. Hezbollah, the Iran-backed Lebanese militia, went to war with Israel in 2024. The two began fighting each other again after Israel and the U.S. attacked Iran on Feb. 28.
A bar in Achrafieh, Beirut, Lebanon, on Saturday.Siegfried Modola/The Globe and Mail
Add in perennial electricity and clean water shortages, sporadic mass political protests, endless recessions, paralyzed parliaments and currency devaluations – one U.S. dollar now buys 90,000 Lebanese lira – and Lebanon seems to have invented the perfect recipe for non-stop grief and economic hardship.
Yet revelry − and lots of it − always manages to rise from the depths of despair.
“The mentality here is party today because tomorrow we die,” says Nino Aramouni, 42, the owner and “mixologist” of the Dragonfly cocktail bar in central Beirut’s buzzy and fashionable Gouraud Street. “Beirut people party like there is no tomorrow because sometimes there is no tomorrow.”
Nino Aramouni at his bar, the Dragonfly.Siegfried Modola/The Globe and Mail
Lebanon – and Beirut in particular – every once in a while manages to evoke memories of its distant, glamorous past. Sometimes it succeeds in spite of war.
There was a time when Lebanon was considered the jewel of the Eastern Mediterranean. In the 1960s and into the early 1970s, Beirut was known as the “Paris of the Middle East.” It was a stable, liberal seaside party town with thriving banking and property development sectors, a dynamic cultural life, religious tolerance – Christians, Muslims and Druze all felt welcome at the same table – and lovely beaches. Les Caves du Roy, a nightclub housed in Beirut’s Hotel Excelsior, was one of the region’s top glitz spots. Guests included Brigitte Bardot, Omar Sharif, King Hussein of Jordan, the Shah of Iran and Jacques Brel.
A woman and her partner dance in a nightclub in Antelias. Lebanon has always had a celebrate-and-mourn, gin-and-bear-it split personality.Siegfried Modola/The Globe and Mail
The good times ended with the start of the Lebanese Civil War, which pitted Christians against Muslims, killed 120,000 people and included starring roles by Syria and Israel, both of which occupied Lebanon at times. Les Caves and other nightclubs are long gone. But Beirut’s nightlife has not been extinguished − far from it.
When the latest Hezbollah-Israeli war started, Beirut’s centre and affluent northern suburbs went quiet. Streets, restaurants, bars and shops that were once full of customers emptied. Ziad Haddad of Nexty Spirits, an alcohol supplier to some 350 bars and restaurants in Beirut, saw his business dry up overnight.
Diners at a restaurant in Antelias. Many of the bars and restaurants in Beirut have more than a few customers, and some are almost full.Siegfried Modola/The Globe and Mail
The lull did not last long. A week later, the Lebanese apparently grew bored of their confinement and trickled back onto the streets even as the bombing of South Beirut, which Israel considers a Hezbollah stronghold, and a few targets in the city centre continued. “We are a people who like to live, and we love life,” Mr. Haddad says. “This is our mentality.”
The centre of Beirut is not fully back in action, but it is no longer empty. On Saturday night, many of the bars and restaurants have more than a few customers, and some are almost full. The Christian northern suburbs are crammed with revellers.
Some restaurants have waiting times of an hour or longer. Customers are peeling off US$50 and US$100 bills to pay for drinks and dinners. Some are sitting in bars smoking from hookah pipes. The dance music blares in the nightclubs.
“It’s like a different country here,” says Mr. Karam as he hoists another drink with his friends at The Gathering.