Photo credits: Jeroen Swolfs - www.jeroenswolfs.nl

The versatility of Beirut cannot be compared to anything. There's misery but the city also has a mystique that is difficult to comprehend for Westerners like us. I am not alone this time, my brother Wouter joined me. After having traveled alone a lot recently, that's a relief. Especially just before Christmas. He is my brother but also a very good friend. Wout has had some difficulties with his Political Science studies lately and besides he and his girlfriend just broke up so he feels a bit stuck. A wonderful opportunity to bring him along to one of the less friendly countries of the Middle East. I thought it would help put things in perspective, which appears to be true.

I am used to a few things, but to me Beirut is as close as I can get to a real war. Less than half a year ago it was raining Israeli bombs with Jewish children's drawings on it instead of Mediterranean raindrops. Yeah, let's involve the next generation in a conflict that has been going for generations already.

This trip is well-prepared, which is mostly Wouter's achievement. Before our departure I made it very clear to him that I would be of no use to him since I will be taking photos which after all is a solitary activity. So he had to scour his own network and arrange for some meetings. To my surprise he took my advise very seriously and all of a sudden we have quite a busy schedule in a city where you're busy in the first place looking everywhere.

In some districts it isn't even clear anymore which conflict caused the damage or who started it. Druzes, Christians, Shiites or Sunnis, they all did their best to completely wreck this city. The last crushing blow however came from beyond national borders when Israel taught Hezbollah a lesson.

Besides the many tours we made through this city together, December 16th has especially stuck in my memory. What happened that day is a perfect illustration of the bizarre contrasts in Beirut.

We spent an interesting evening with a family I got to know through Ingrid, a former class mate of the Photo Academy who was also staying here. They assured us we could go to Harm Heikh to look at the bombed Shiite district. Since the Dutch embassy advised against going to Lebanon in the first place and more specifically the districts where the Shiites come together to protest, the Shiite district didn't seem like a good idea to us. But apparently it is possible. After a few days we're used to the constant presence of armed military units, tanks in the streets and rolls of barbed wire that contribute to the comfortable atmosphere in what is called 'downtown'.

What were we thinking? Of course, I'm a journalist so I want to explore. But when you take your blond little brother into the Shiite district in Beirut all heads quickly turn your way. It's tough to walk on with a purpose in mind and greet people without showing that you're nervous. So we don't completely succeed. The streets towards the neighborhood guide us past numerous auto parts stores. Sorted by brand and owned by Shiites that are soaked in oil. Strange that they trade not the least Western brands. But these things get mixed up easily.

Anyway, we think we are going in the right direction but it doesn't start anywhere. We visualize a bombardment as some destroyed houses increasingly getting worse. At noon, in the heat and noise of the Eastern craftsmanship, we have the idea we're in the wrong place. Until we catch a glimpse of an open area through an alley. The plain seems to be never-ending. A yellowish light shines in our faces. Through the tight alley the moonscape that was once an entire neighborhood reveals itself before us. The laser-guided precision of modern warfare immediately dawns upon us. They did it street by street. Geopolitics in its most extreme form. Just Shiites, just Hezbollah who has full control over the district. No bombs on the neighboring Sunni neighborhood because that would raise a totally different kind of anger. We are fixed to the ground and can only watch the devastation. Did this really happen in our time? I mean, we knew. Television. But when you're there it's so different. So frightening. This is the place where people threw bombs at other people. And this is the result. A desert full of pieces of house and family. Twisted steel with scarecrows of clothing and curtains. It is quiet because the families have sought shelter elsewhere. Somewhere in the background is the sound of demolition for reconstruction. When our initial stupidity has passed a bit, we walk into the lion's den. Suddenly we are very much part of our own history.

I slowly start to take pictures. I don't even know where to start. Wouter, lost in thought, heads in another direction. This isn't what we expected. We thought about it but we didn't expect it. In front of me is a building like a lame shoulder, ripped open like a can of old fish. On several floors there are parts of an interior hanging out: what used to be someone's living room, where people laughed and cried. A lamp is still hanging on the edge of the torn-off concrete. Persian rugs are blowing in the wind, only half inside. On the ground before my feet is an open book in Arabic. Is it a Koran? The wind is turning the pages. This image combined with the half tooth in the background perfectly illustrates the situation. I sit down on the dusty ground to get the right composition and snap some pictures.

I don't hear anything but suddenly I see a shadow beside me. As I turn my head there's a guy in a black suit with some sort of pouch on his leg. Undoubtedly a weapon. He has a stony face and a compelling look. A beard. I get up and greet him. He nods and asks me something in Arabic. I tell him in English that I don't speak Arabic. With gestures he tells me to follow him. Ok, this is not going the way it should. In the meantime, Wouter has noticed something is going on and walks towards us. The man asks in broken English who he is. I answer he is the writer of the article. The poker game has begun. Wouter asks me what is going on and I tell him I don't know but we have to come. We follow the Hezbollah agent to what seems to be the official entrance to the area. Maybe this would have been a better place to enter the area, but it's too late now. He tells us to wait there. While he is discussing in Arabic what to do with us through a walkie talkie, we notice some sort of exhibition that is set up there to our surprise. There are cartoons about the Israeli, the Americans and the Arabs. Same shit, according to the organizers of this exhibition. The UN isn't popular either. Hezbollah plays the heroic part in the liberation of Lebanon and Palestine, which apparently is near. In the meantime the man in black has finished talking. He hands us over to another guy in a leather jacket and disappears between the ruins.

Again we have to follow. I don't feel comfortable at all because I have absolutely no control over what is happening. Besides, I brought my little brother into this situation. Well done, moron! They take us to a derelict building where a rickety elevator has to take us to a higher floor. The elevator is cramped and get's going with a squeak and a moan. Two brothers standing next to some dude who is also armed and is going to take us God knows where. Behind his back Wouter and I exchange glances. I nod to let him know we'll be fine.

Worst case scenarios are going through my mind. Arriving upstairs and getting a bag over your head. On your knees, a gun to your head. A picture in the newspaper. Stupid fool to bring yourself and your brother in this situation!! But we were told we could do this. What the heck is this?!

At what seems to be the fourth floor, the door creaks open. We look into a dusty office. No bags over our heads. A sigh of relief passes through my tense body. They ask us to sit on a worn couch in room that's kind of hot. Stay cool. It remains very unsettling, but we reason that if it really had gone wrong it would have happened already. We pep each other up by agreeing that Hezbollah knows they shouldn't mess with white journalists, but instead you have to win them over. Fifteen minutes pass while we're thinking things through.

A beautiful woman enters the room. Beautiful, but her eyes are carved out of the coldest ice. Don't shake hands of course. She asks what we are doing here. I explain that I am working on another project but that my brother and I, being a photojournalist and a writer, wanted to see with our own eyes how Hezbollah's reconstruction activities were coming along. That too is a story that needs to be told when all the cameras in the world are focused on another war and nobody cares with what happens to Harm Heikh. She pretends to be interested but thinks it's very strange that I cannot show her a press permit. Which it is. Again I explain to her that I came here at my own initiative, as a freelancer. That I don't need a permit. But if a permit is necessary I will be happy to get one. She says I do need one and I can get it at the Ministry of Information. Until that time we are not welcome.

We are free to go.

More relieved than ever before we are walking down the stairs and suddenly we're outside again. Free to take off immediately. We jump into the first taxi that will take us as far as possible, without bargaining. After a few deep sighs and curses of amazement, we look each other in the eye and realize how close we came to the fire.

Barely recovered from this event, we go out at night with two Lebanese ladies we met earlier that week. They want to show us the nightlife of Beirut. We are both craving for a cold beer after this hot-tempered afternoon. Soon the two gorgeous Lebanese ladies, Wouter and I are walking through the Christian neighborhood where it is part-time all over the place. This is a Mecca party people in the Middle East and Beirut, although bombed many times, still is the local Paris. Here anything goes. Here the champaign flows freely and the Ferraris and Hummers with their mostly Arab owners drive in convoy through the streets. They outdo each other with heavy R&B beats, competing for the favors of gorgeous scarcely dressed ladies that are beckoning them. But… wasn't I this afternoon..? There.