Visiting a city broken

by RAF KATIGBAK

Some cities feel like they never change. Every time I visit Berlin, Paris or New York, it feels exactly like it did the last time. Even though newer, fancier places overtake the seedier dives, the surface may change, but the spirit stays the same.

But it had been quite a while since I’d travelled to this particular place, and even though I had been here many times, it’s as if I had never been before; I could hardly recognize it. The place was completely destroyed. As I stood staring at the piles of rubble blistering the main street, I marvelled at how the giant pits gouged out of the earth looked like graves. They could be graves, in a sense; one false step from the locals and surely there would have been trouble.

It’s amazing how completely messed up an entire city can become over what seems a short time. I had heard a lot about how bad things were over here, so I had come to see it for myself. It was just as people described it: utter chaos. My first thought when I stood staring at the disaster was, How do they do it? How can these people live in such mayhem?

But like anyone living through everyday hardship can tell you, you just learn to deal with it. Life goes on. Indeed, the locals seemed almost completely oblivious to the anarchy. To them, this is just reality.

During the day, the old women still shopped at the local market, just as they had before.

But now it seems they shop with an increased urgency. Perhaps they were nervous about the perilous trek home, or maybe they were excited because there were now fewer of them to jostle over first-choice from the piles of dried fish and barrels of savory olives. Much of the older generation is afraid to make the journey to the market—navigating the concrete barricades and wire fences that had appeared since the city’s collapse just isn’t part of their routine.

At night, after an evening of libation, young drunken revellers still spill out onto the street, as they had when I last visited. But there was something changed about them too. Perhaps at one time they drank to remember, and now they drink to forget. After closing time, they walk the makeshift planks of wood spanning the gorges along the street; around them, iron rods shoot from the ground like deadly weeds. Each cautious step seemed to ask, When will it all be over?

On my last visit, I wasn’t thirsty for alcohol, it was only noon, and I wanted a Coke. “Welcome to our little war zone!” greeted Farid as I took refuge in his little tobacco shop off the main strip. He was young, in his mid-20s, with a full, well-trimmed beard that belied his age. Like most of the shop owners on the street, he was fed up with the destruction around him, and especially with the severe financial implications it had on his life.

“This is terrible for business. People don’t want to come out because they’re afraid for their necks. You really have to watch your step, especially at night.” It’s true; there were fewer people on the street since last I came. Instead, more and more signs proclaiming Closing Sale! or Moving Sale! had popped up. “It’s very difficult to make a living here now. This used to be the busiest part of the city! Everyone used to shop here. Now it’s a mess!” Farid shook his head and hands as he said this.

What about the government or local officials, are they helping you out? I ask him. “Government? Pfffft. They don’t care about us. It’s their fault we’re in this mess. They’re the ones who started this whole thing. They say, When this is over, it will benefit us. But what about in the meantime, I ask you? Most of us are not rich, we can’t wait that long!”

I bought my Coke and hung around talking with Farid about his life and his father’s tobacco shop. I asked him what is the hardest thing about working and living in the area. “Well, there are many problems, with the constant noise and dust everywhere. The reconstruction is very slow and sometimes the people driving those giant machines are not careful with what they’re doing, I think they’re going to run me over one day. But the absolute worst thing? It’s going shopping, especially if you want to buy something between Rachel and Mont-Royal. Forget it, that part of St-Laurent looks like Beirut!”

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca