Interview with Hezbollah.Part 1

The road to Baalbek

Let me be absolutely clear right from the word go.

When I set off, walking from my hotel in the old quarter of Beirut, I had no idea that later that day I would be staring at the ‘pointy end’ of an AK47, brandished by someone designated a terrorist in the west ! My sole aim was to visit the UNESCO World Heritage site of Baalbek.

Yet, here I was, face to face with a member of what mainstream classes as an Islamic fundamentalist group, Hezbollah (to be fair, as you will read, my interviewee didn't have an issue with that description).  Someone who according to the official narrative would, if I was fortunate, most likely shoot me on sight, or worse still, live stream my execution for the world to witness.

At the time, it didn't really seem that surprising that, at around 3pm, local time, on a blisteringly hot Lebanese afternoon in late June, 2024, I was not just face to face with an armed guard close to the Jihad museum overlooking the Bekaa Valley near Baalbek, but with the help of a well known translator app, I was trying to explain that, as a Gonzo Journalist, I would offer no explanation of anything he told me unless it was necessary to set out the context of whatever he agreed to speak about.

I managed to explain that I was not there to judge nor justify his words. My role was to simply record what he said and that I would publish his words as he related them to me.

No censorship, no justification, no judgement. 

That is the role of a gonzo journalist. Pure subjectivity in so much as the subject IS the story and the story is the subject’s.

The previous afternoon I had familiarised myself with the location of the Kola Interchange bus and taxi rank. As bustling, noisy and seemingly chaotic transport hub as I have seen anywhere in the World, and I've seen my fair share!

In fact there was, at first glance NO order here at all!! No system, no information and nobody official to ask for help! This wasn’t helped by my inability to read Arabic, in fact I could barely manage a basic conversation, so the numbers and destinations on the buses and minibus style taxis may as well have been hieroglyphs to me.

So, I did what I always do when I am in places and situations like this, I found a street food vendor, gave him a big smile and walked over to see what was on the menu. I was in luck, the ‘special of the day’ was corn on the cob! Mielies to South Africans, grilled on a wire mesh over burning coals. Exactly what was being burnt, I’ve learnt not to ask and besides, I trusted that the intense heat would get rid of any lingering ‘nasties’. Probably!

As street food goes this guy provided comparative luxury and he handed my morning snack in a husk he’d peeled away from his stock earlier that morning - dried just enough on the coals to make a perfectly serviceable ‘serviette’ and hopefully any more ‘nasties’. 

Besides, by now I was fairly confident that I’d built up sufficient resistance to waterborne bacteria. Whenever I visit a new country, I start off by brushing my teeth with tap water before moving onto stage 2, iced coffee. I’m not entirely certain of the science behind my theory, and I’m not saying anyone should rely on my methods, but it seems to have worked so far! The husk also makes it easier to roll the sweetcorn in salt, very handy in the +40c heat!

I handed over the equivalent of 50p sterling, about 20 times the asking price so enough to make the vendor happy without drawing attention to myself (my Shermagh goes ‘some’ way to disguising my obvious western appearance)

As I hoped, my new ‘buddy’ now pointed out who I needed to speak to in order to arrange a ride. The ‘supervisor’ took me to a ramshackle hut with a fridge that had been hooked up to a nearby lamppost! This meant I was able to buy a 1.5 L bottle of ice cold water, essential for any trip of over an hour. I was working hard at drinking at least a litre every 2 hours. In spite of my ‘iced coffee addiction’, I never drink the tap water when I am travelling, unless I know that it is safe to do so, or if I have sterilised it myself.

I trust the boiling process for coffee and tea.

Fed and watered, I was directed to a metal bench and told to wait for the number 12 taxi to  Baalbek. Thankfully it was in the shade otherwise my backside would have been broiled!

Almost immediately I was joined by a young man who introduced himself as Ali, it's a common name in the Middle East,  and he asked me where I was going. I told him my name and destination and his face lit up. I had already learnt that Adam is a highly regarded name in Arabic speaking countries and Ali accepted my offer of a cigarette, they are a great way to start a conversation, and, using our phones to translate, we started chatting away.

I learnt that he is a 21 year old Syrian refugee who is hoping to move to Germany via a UN relocation scheme where, Inshallah, he hopes to become a famous recording artist. 

Ali showed me his pop-art and designs for his own web site. Young people all over the world have similar dreams, fame, financial security and a beautiful wife.

ALi also dreamt of owning a home that wasn't likely to be bombed, wiping out most of their family.

He also showed me the photographs of what used to be his home, before the bombs destroyed it.

He also told me that the number 12 minibus to Baalbek had left an hour ago!

Little did I know it but that was to be the catalyst for what became an incredible day.

Ali told me not to worry, offered me one of his cigarettes, a bootleg Malbourough, less than half the price of originals and made a phone call. 30 seconds later he told me that his friend would take me to Baalbek. I was unsure, but at this point, it seemed to be my only option as the next taxi to the Northern town wasn’t for another three hours. The ‘supervisor’ cheerfully confirmed this and asked me if I would like some tea white I waited!

I didn't have time to reply because a screeching of brakes and a shout of Habibi (a colloquial Arabic term meaning ‘my dear’) The term, "grinning ear to ear” could have been written to describe the taxi driver, also called Ali!

Once the two friends had greeted each other, Ali number one waved goodbye to me and climbed into the back of another taxi, speeding off into the smoke, haze and fumes that constantly fill the air at the Kola interchange. Ali number 2 gestured for me to get into the passenger seat of his taxi but I'd been travelling long enough to know that first of all we needed to agree on a price.

Ali’s starting point was $100 US to take me there, wait 4 hours then bring me back. I knew this was expensive so we entered into negotiations, Lebanese style, which effectively meant 5 minutes of shouting at each other, both of us doing a lot of gesticulating, me walking away and with Ali waving pictures of his children at me as if to say, ‘are you trying to steal food off my childrens plate’?

Eventually we shook hands on $25 US for which Ali would drive us to Baalbek, wait for 4 hours and bring us back to Kola. We were both happy with this deal and once we were on the move I paid up front in full. I wasn't at all worried about being ripped off and / or left stranded in Baalbek as we had shaken hands on the deal. It is not the Arabic way to renege on a deal, at least that's my experience. Also, I knew I could trust Ali, I could see it in his eyes.

When he handed me his phone to select some music I knew we were going to get along just fine. I chose The Beatles and by the time we had cleared the city congestion and had pulled onto the Beirut / Damascus International highway route 30M, heading towards the Baalbek highway we were both singing along to Penny Lane!

This is as good a time as any to explain that Lebanon holds the dubious title of being the most dangerous place in the world to drive in. It is, and if anyone knows of any other contenders please let me know. I will avoid them!

The only rule of the road that I was able to discern was honk the horn and charge! 

Traffic travels at high speed in both directions, on both sides of the road. Apparently they are supposed to drive on the left and point out that sometimes they do!

The highways are marginally better which allowed Ali to pose for a photograph of him making a heart gesture with both hands which sounds sweet until I tell you that we were doing 110kmph up a mountain pass!

By the way, Ali and I still keep in regular contact over Whatsapp and I will take him up on his offer to join him and his family for dinner in their home one day. He insisted on me speaking to them via video call and I learnt that his wife teaches English at a local high school.

The drive took about three and a half hours after we’d stopped for coffee, fresh olive bread and more bottles of water. All of which Ali insisted on paying for. We were brothers now.

I did manage to convince him to allow me to tip him generously at the end of the day, although by  then he’d also bought us lunch on the way back. Falafel in fresh sesame loaf!

Once we had parked up near the ancient site (a key item on my list of must sees) Ali told me not to speak to anyone and pointed to an enormous yellow and green flag hanging from a nearby building. I soon learnt that this was  Hezbollah territory. They control the area, they are the police, the local magistrates, the local authority. Hezbollah are in charge here.

There is no crime in the area, although to be fair there is virtually no crime anywhere in Lebanon from what I have seen and been told.

On the road to Baalbek we had been stopped by numerous police and army roadblocks and Ali had in fact, given a lift to a Lebanese army corporal on his way home to his family's farm, just south of Baalbek. The military gets free travel on taxis and buses in Lebanon which I think is a great idea!

He wouldn't let me take his photograph for understandable security reasons. His mainly but I also have an open invitation to stay at his farm as his guest now.

At the last checkpoint I’d noticed a lack of insignia or Lebanese army uniforms and although I didn't understand the reason at the time, I soon would. Like I said, this is Hezbollah territory.

My visit to Baalbek was every bit as awe inspiring as I had anticipated. Unlike at Giza the official guides were more than happy to provide their assistance free of charge and explained how each level had been inhabited by different cultures over thousands of years. From Romans and Greeks right back to the Cult of Baal. 

There is no current archaeological work taking place although plans are in hand to excavate under the miles and miles of hills, known to contain more evidence of potentially older civilisations. 

As we made our way back towards the minibus Ali was approached by a man he seemed to know and, after a brief chat he asked me if I wanted to go and see Hezbollah!

Without knowing what I was agreeing to I immediately said yes and we were led on a short walk through the maze-like streets to an open space where a 3 wheeled ‘tuk tuk’ was standing, doors open as if we were expected. The driver, a boy who could have been no older than 12 or 13 was wearing a yellow and green headband and as we got in he said to me; ‘no camera’. I understood.

We headed North on a rough track, passing through the local Martyrs Garden. Images of fallen Hezbollah fighters were painted on walls and I could see that the graves were well kept, with fresh flowers and other tributes amongst the graves.

It was a solemn experience.

Ahead of us the track climbed steeply and on top of a flagpole on a hill about 1km away, the Hezbollah flag was flying proudly in the afternoon breeze.

At this point the young driver pointed to me and spoke in Arabic. Ali told me they wouldn't blindfold me but that I should look at the floor of the vehicle and keep my eyes closed.

I was conscious of the fact that I had not heard a single ‘western’ accent all day. My satellite tracker was in my hotel room back in beirut but at least my mobile phone was switched on, besides, now wasn't the time for second thoughts!

The last 50 m or so felt like we were heading downhill on a bumpy track then suddenly we stopped, the boy spoke and Ali told me I could open my eyes now.

I was not prepared for what I saw!

A well maintained block paving road leading to a military compound lay in front of us. I now know that this is the site of Hezbollah's first military action, taken against Israeli forces. Nowadays it is a museum cum shrine with military equipment from rifles to tanks, captured from ‘the enemy’.

Amongst the trophies of war, neatly laid out, under camouflage netting there are examples of Hezbollah's armoury with Russian and Iranian tanks, rockets and drones. It would seem they have been upgrading their military hardware.

This would have been an impressive collection anywhere in the world, no doubt drawing many paying visitors and I would soon learn that this is the plan. Raising funds not only for the military campaigns but also to reinvest in services in the local area.

Today it was empty except for a Lebanese taxi driver and one other person. The Scouse African.

Ali and I drifted off to look at different sections of the encampment and I heard a noise coming from inside a building I would later learn was a museum-like shrine to Hezbollah’s leaders past and present, to fallen fighters and to the leaders of states who supported them.

As I looked round for the source of the noise I found the entrance to the museum and as ALi joined me we took photos and he translated the signs and posters.

Leaving the building I looked up towards the flagpole to take a picture as a souvenir of the day.

That's when I spotted him.

At the foot of the flagpole was a guards hut, partially obscured by more camo netting and as I moved to get a better line of sight a figure appeared. I say appeared, he was indicating that I was not allowed to photograph him or his position. 

He emphasised his point by pointing his rifle at me. Ali wanted us to leave now and was shocked when I said I wanted to go and talk to him. He made it clear that I was on my own on this one but to give him credit he called up to the guard and after a brief conversation in Arabic he turned to me and said;

‘Follow the tyre tracks, keep your head down, don't say anything until he speaks, stop when you get to the guard post’.

I did as I was told and managed to take a video of the dirt road. He hadn't said no pictures of the road. 

No Camera! The barked instruction convinced me to put my phone away immediately.