Exploring Lebanon Through the Eyes of Locals
November 2010: As part of a longer two-week journey that included Libya—where I explored Roman ruins under Muammar Gaddafi’s rule—and Sudan, where I camped among the Nubian pyramids, I spent three unforgettable days in Lebanon. Unlike my usual solo adventures, this trip was unique because I had the opportunity to stay with a Lebanese-American friend’s family, immersing myself in the country through the eyes of locals.
Their home was in Zahlé, a predominantly Christian town nestled in the hills outside of Beirut. I stayed in my friend’s childhood home with her elderly mother, while her sister and friends—who were around my age—took me in as one of their own, showing me Lebanon’s beauty, culture, and, of course, its unmatched cuisine.
There’s no better way to experience a country than through its people, and Lebanon was no exception. The family treated me like an honored guest, showering me with hospitality and generosity. Saying goodbye was difficult—not just because of their warmth, but also because Lebanese food is simply some of the best in the world.
The route I took
Lebanon: A Country of Ancient Glory and Modern Struggles
Lebanon, despite its small size, is one of the world’s most historically rich nations. Once the heart of the great Phoenician maritime empire, it has played a pivotal role in trade, culture, and civilization for thousands of years. However, Lebanon’s modern history has been shaped by conflict and sectarian divisions.
Throughout the 1980s, the country endured a brutal civil war, fought mainly among Christian, Shiite, and Sunni factions, resulting in over 100,000 deaths. The war ended with a delicate power-sharing agreement, but tensions never fully dissolved. Today, Lebanon’s Shiite population is largely represented by Hezbollah, a powerful Iranian-backed militant group, engaged in long-standing hostilities with Israel. Hezbollah, designated a terrorist organization by several countries, remains deeply entrenched in Lebanese politics, making peace fragile and instability an ever-present reality.
During my short stay, I hoped to gain a deeper understanding of Lebanon’s volatile history and sectarian complexities—viewed through the eyes of my Christian hosts, who had lived through both war and uneasy peace firsthand.
Meeting My friends in a Hezbollah Recruitment Center
A Surreal Encounter with Hezbollah: My Unexpected Welcome to Lebanon
When I landed in Beirut from Cairo, I knew Lebanon’s immigration officers would scrutinize every page of my passport. They weren’t looking for expired visas or extra baggage fees—they were searching for any sign that I had visited Israel. Had they found one, I could have been deported—or worse, arrested. But after a tense few moments, I cleared customs and made my way outside, eager to begin my three-day stay.
Following my friends’ advice, I took a local bus from the airport to an outer suburb where they planned to pick me up. The ride was smooth, but when I was finally dropped off in a busy district, I couldn’t find them. No phone, no Wi-Fi, and no clue where I was supposed to be. I waited for about 20 minutes, scanning the crowds, hoping for a familiar face. Nothing.
At that point, I decided to do something simple—walk into a nearby business and ask to borrow a phone.
The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time (Or Maybe the Right One?)
From the outside, the building looked completely ordinary. A small shop, dimly lit, nothing particularly special. But as soon as I stepped in, five young men turned to look at me in unison. That’s when I saw it—the martyr flags and Hezbollah murals covering the walls.
Oh, shit.
Too late to turn back. So I did the only thing I could do: I smiled.
“Hey, uh… do you guys have a phone I can use?”
They stared for a second, then one of them asked, “Where are you from?”
“The U.S.,” I replied.
There was a long pause before one of them exhaled and said, “We are not friendly with your government.”
Great.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “But you are a guest here, and you are a friend to us—just not your government.”
I nodded politely. That was better than the alternative.
A Hezbollah Welcome Committee
Now that they had decided I wasn’t a threat, they became genuinely curious. When I explained that my friends were girls from Zahlé coming to pick me up, the whole group burst into laughter.
“You are a lucky man,” one of them said, grinning. “Christian girls like sex very much.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I just laughed awkwardly.
From that moment on, they were incredibly helpful. One of them took the phone call himself, spoke to my friends in Arabic, and gave them clear directions to where I was waiting. After I thanked them and shook hands, I stepped back outside, trying to process what just happened.
A few minutes later, my friends pulled up in their car.
“You Found a Hezbollah Recruitment Center?!”
As I climbed into the car, the Hezbollah guys were still inside, giggling and peering at my friends through the window.
When I casually told the girls where I had just been, their eyes went wide.
“Of all places, you found a Hezbollah recruitment center to borrow a phone?” one of them asked, laughing in disbelief.
I shrugged. “Hey, they were nice.”
I asked if there had been any real danger. They shook their heads.
“No,” they assured me. “We have good relations with them, but we do not like them. They are small in their minds.”
With that, we drove off toward Zahlé, where my whirlwind, action-packed tour of Lebanon was about to begin.
And honestly? It was hard to imagine a more unexpected, unforgettable way to start the trip.
Me and my new Lebanese friends at a nightclub playing raucous Arabic music with people dancing on the tabletops.
Me Smoking Shisha-tobacco waterpipe
Baaqa Valley-Hezbollah Territory
Into the Beqaa Valley: A Journey Through Hezbollah’s Heartland
Of all the places I visited in Lebanon, few carried the weight of history, tension, and raw atmosphere quite like the Beqaa Valley. This rugged region, known as a Hezbollah stronghold, bore unmistakable signs of the group’s presence. Martyr flags lined the streets, their faded images fluttering in the breeze, while murals of fallen soldiers and Shia clerics—most notably Iran’s Ayatollah—were painted on walls like sacred relics. Unlike the more cosmopolitan corners of Beirut or even the Christian towns in the mountains, the Beqaa Valley felt like another world, one where conservatism ran deep. Most women wore black hijabs, and the air carried a quiet but palpable intensity.
I wasn’t alone on this trip. My local friends—two Lebanese girls dressed in jeans and without headscarves—were the ones driving me into the valley. Our first stop was Baalbek, home to some of the most stunning Roman ruins in the Middle East. As we stepped out of the car near the towering Temple of Jupiter, our presence didn’t go unnoticed. A group of local men caught sight of my companions and immediately started shouting at them in Arabic. The girls didn’t hesitate—they whirled around and shouted right back.
Curious, I asked what had just happened. With a mix of frustration and amusement, they explained that the men had called them “Christian sluts,” assuming they were with me in a romantic sense. The accusation was laced with disdain, an ugly intersection of sectarianism and patriarchy that simmered just beneath the surface here. My friends weren’t ones to back down, though. They fired back with insults of their own, standing their ground in a place where such confrontations were more common than outsiders might realize.
Baalbek’s ruins stood in stark contrast to the modern tensions outside them—silent, timeless, and indifferent to the conflicts of today. But the day wasn’t over yet, and the reminders of Hezbollah’s dominance continued. Later, we stopped at the main Hezbollah mosque, an imposing structure that loomed over its surroundings. I was allowed inside, but the girls were turned away without question. A simple but telling moment—one that underscored the rigid divisions that defined life in the Beqaa Valley.
Traveling through Lebanon, I had encountered many different faces of the country—the lively, progressive heart of Beirut, the serene villages tucked into the mountains, the war-scarred streets of Tripoli. But the Beqaa Valley was something else entirely. It was a place where history, politics, and religion collided in ways that were both fascinating and deeply unsettling. And for better or worse, it left an impression I wouldn’t soon forget.
Hezbollah Imam
Murals glorifying war
Me with the girls at Baalbek Temple
Baalbek Temple
Baalbek Temple
Baalbek Temple
Hezbollah Mosque
Hezbollah Mosque
A Night at the Palmyra: Echoes of a Grand Era
As we neared the Syrian border, we stopped at the historic Palmyra Hotel, a relic from a bygone era. Opened in 1874, this grand old hotel had once been a jewel of the British colonial world, its guestbook filled with the signatures of kings, queens, and dignitaries. Even Agatha Christie had stayed here, reportedly penning one of her mystery novels within its timeworn walls. Soldiers from both World Wars had passed through its halls, and for nearly 150 years, the Palmyra had remained a silent sentinel, bearing witness to the ever-shifting tides of history.
Today, the Palmyra is more museum than hotel. Though it still accepts guests, its rooms—simple, unrenovated, and frozen in time—feel like portals to the late 19th and early 20th centuries. The antique bar, untouched by modernity, exudes an old-world charm, its dim lighting casting long shadows over a collection of dusty bottles and fading portraits.
The hotel’s manager, an elderly man who had dedicated decades of his life to its care, welcomed us warmly. He poured us drinks and settled in beside us, weaving stories of the Palmyra’s storied past. His voice carried the weight of history—recollections of an era when this hotel was a hub of elegance and intrigue, when high society mingled beneath its chandeliers and whispers of diplomacy and espionage filled the air.
That night, we were the only guests. The empty corridors, once filled with the laughter of aristocrats and the footsteps of soldiers, now stood eerily silent. It was a poignant reminder of how political instability had drained the region of visitors, leaving places like the Palmyra suspended in a twilight between past glory and present solitude.
Even in its faded state, the Palmyra retained its magic—an enduring monument to a time when this corner of Lebanon was a crossroads of the world. As we turned in for the night, the air felt heavy with the echoes of the past, whispering stories only a place like this could tell.
British Era Palmyra Hotel
My friends and I at the British Era Palmyra Hotel
My friends and I at the British Era Palmyra Hotel
Into the Mountains: Cedars, Caves, and Hidden Villages
Leaving the bustle of Lebanon’s lowlands behind, we ventured into the mountains along a desolate road, winding our way through a landscape that felt untouched by time. Along the way, we stopped to eat in small Christian villages, their isolation only adding to their charm. Nestled deep in the rugged terrain, these villages had an air of quiet resilience, their stone churches and weathered homes standing as reminders of centuries past.
One of our most unforgettable stops was among the ancient cedar groves—a living testament to Lebanon’s legendary trees, famously mentioned in the Bible. Once, vast cedar forests covered the region, their timber prized by ancient civilizations from the Phoenicians to the Egyptians. But centuries of overharvesting had left only scattered remnants, and today, just a handful of ancient trees remain—some believed to have stood since the time of Jesus. Standing beneath their towering branches, breathing in the crisp mountain air scented with cedar resin, was a humbling experience. These trees had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, yet here they stood, defiant against time.
Further down the road, we descended into the depths of Jeita Grotto, an extraordinary underground world carved by water over millions of years. The cave system stretched for miles beneath the surface, its vast chambers adorned with surreal limestone formations. A subterranean river snaked through its depths, and we explored its eerie stillness by boat, gliding through the silent darkness. Even now, Jeita remains one of the most breathtaking caves I’ve ever visited.
Yet, unlike other places I’ve explored, Jeita’s beauty exists only in memory—cameras and phones were strictly prohibited inside. No photographs, no videos, just fleeting glimpses of towering stalactites and shimmering pools that have now settled in my mind like fragments of a dream. In an age where every experience is captured and shared instantly, Jeita remains one of the few places where its magic is felt rather than documented—a secret world known only to those who have stepped inside.
As we left the mountains behind, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey had taken us through Lebanon’s soul—a land of hidden villages, ancient giants, and subterranean wonders, where history lingers in every rock and root.
Christian man we met when we stopped for snacks in a small mountain village
Driving across the mountains
Ancient grove of cedar forests
Christian church in the cedar forest
A Monastery Lost in Time: Beer, Tradition, and Sacred Silence
Among the many places we visited in Lebanon, one stood out not just for its history, but for its unexpected tradition. A 1,000-year-old monastery, nestled in the mountains, exuded an air of quiet reverence. Its ancient stone walls had witnessed the prayers of generations, standing as a testament to faith and endurance in a land shaped by history.
But what made this monastery truly unique was hidden beneath it—a cave where monks have been brewing beer for centuries. Passed down through generations, their craft was as much a spiritual practice as it was an art. Stepping inside the cool, dimly lit cavern felt like entering another world. Barrels and bottles lined the rocky walls, the scent of fermentation hanging in the air, mingling with the damp earthiness of the cave itself.
As we toured the underground space, the monks shared their brewing process—a delicate balance of tradition and patience, perfected over time. Then came the best part: the tasting. Each variety of beer carried a distinct depth of flavor, from rich malty notes to crisp, refreshing undertones, a reflection of monastic craftsmanship refined over centuries.
Sipping their handcrafted beer in such an ancient and sacred place was an experience unlike any other. It was a seamless blend of history, devotion, and unexpected indulgence—proof that even within walls built for prayer and solitude, life’s simple pleasures could thrive, unchanged by time.
Barrels of beer stored in the ancient cave
Me and my friends touring the cave.
A December Halloween: Lebanon’s Unexpected Blend of Traditions
During our time in Lebanon, we stopped by a Christian school where one of my friends is a principal. It just so happened that the students were celebrating Halloween—except it was December.
At first, the sight felt surreal—children dressed in costumes, playing games, and enjoying the festivities, completely out of sync with the usual October spirit. Yet, as we watched, it became clear that this wasn’t just about Halloween; it was about adaptation, about traditions blending in ways that weren’t strictly Lebanese but had taken on a life of their own.
Lebanon has long been a crossroads of civilizations, and this peculiar celebration was a perfect reflection of that. East and West, past and present, old customs and new influences—all colliding in unexpected ways. In a country where Christmas lights often glow alongside minarets, where French cafés stand next to Arabic souks, and where ancient ruins sit in the shadow of modern skyscrapers, a December Halloween didn’t seem so strange after all.
Instead, it felt like a reminder that culture is never static. It evolves, borrows, reinvents—and sometimes, it throws a Halloween party two months late, just because it can.
Kids celebrating Halloween at school, all dressed as Spider-Man, evidently a favorite costume, hitting a piñata.
A Feast of Lebanese Hospitality
My Lebanese friends took great pride in their cuisine—and rightfully so. Determined to give me an authentic taste of their culinary heritage, they introduced me to their favorite dishes at their favorite restaurants.
Every meal was a feast of bold flavors and fresh ingredients—from silky hummus and smoky baba ghanoush to sizzling kebabs and fragrant manakish. Yet beyond the food, what stood out most was their unwavering hospitality. No matter how much I insisted, they never let me pay, always waving me off with a smile.
“You’re in Lebanon,” they said. “You’re our guest.”
Their generosity, paired with the incredible food, made every meal feel like a celebration of culture, friendship, and tradition.
Me trying a Lebanese dish
Beirut: A Farewell Marked by Resilience
Beirut was my final stop before heading home, but before leaving, we visited neighborhoods scarred by the recent war with Israel. Walking through the aftermath of destruction was a sobering reminder of Lebanon’s fragile peace and the conflicts that continue to shape its history.
We also stopped at the mosque where former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri was laid to rest, his assassination in a massive suicide bombing a pivotal moment in Lebanon’s modern era. Standing at his burial site, I reflected on how deeply politics, sectarian tensions, and external influences continue to impact the nation.
As I prepared to depart, I carried with me more than just memories of Lebanon’s food, landscapes, and history—I left with a deeper understanding of its struggles, its resilience, and above all, the warmth of its people, who, despite everything, welcomed me with open arms.
Tomb of Hariri