bookbashuk Chapter 396 Lebanon as a Chessboard
Chapter 396 Lebanon as a Chessboard
The morning light in Beirut cuts out diagonal lines of light and shadow through the dust in the warehouse's high windows.
Lin Yan stood in the light, holding a brand new "passport" in his hand.
It wasn't Lin Yan, but an American-Chinese freelance photojournalist named Aidan Lee.
Albert and Alexander were as efficient as ever, providing all the necessary documents, visas, and even past commissioning records from several European news agencies.
Of course, there was also a heavy Leica M4, with a classic black body, a brass texture, and a lens that gleamed faintly in the beam of light.
This camera is known for its sturdiness and durability; it was standard equipment for war correspondents during World War II. Holding it in your hand is like holding a piece of solemn history.
He changed into a durable khaki photography vest, hung his camera around his neck, and walked into Beirut in the summer of 1982.
This place was once a bustling "Paris of the Middle East," but now it is divided by a "green line."
The eastern section is Christian, the western section is Muslim, and in between is a no-man's-land filled with rubble and riddled with bullet holes.
Lin Yan's Leica shutter sounded clear and abrupt amidst the sporadic echoes of cold gunfire.
He used his camera to document a family huddled under the broken wall, sharing canned food, and the exhaustion in the mother's eyes.
I photographed a militia boy carrying a rifle taller than himself, yet with a childlike gaze; I photographed a scarlet geranium blooming tenaciously in a window amidst ruins.
He also documented many very different faces.
In the taverns of the East District, well-dressed businessmen and foreign military attachés clinked glasses, while near the mosque in the West District, masked armed men and suspected Soviet advisors conversed in hushed tones.
Faith, class, and the shadows of external forces intertwine to form a complex pattern on the wounds of this city.
As the analysis suggests, Lebanon's diverse sectarian groups and complex history have long made it a stage for external interference and internal conflict.
He was stopped once while photographing a series of Syrian garrison tanks.
The soldier questioned them in broken English, his gun barrels seemingly raised intentionally or unintentionally.
Lin Yan calmly presented Aidan Lee's press pass and U.S. passport, explaining in California-accented English that he was shooting a feature for Time magazine.
"Soldier, there's a reflection on your armor; the composition is quite unique." He even pointed to the viewfinder.
Perhaps it was his American citizenship that made an impact, or perhaps it was his overly calm and professional demeanor that was perplexing; the soldier waved his hand, muttered something, and let him pass.
The atmosphere changed drastically upon leaving Lebanon and entering Syria.
The atmosphere in Damascus was even more solemn, with posters on the streets bearing slogans of President Assad and the Ba'ath Party, and the influence of the Soviet Union could be vaguely felt behind the scenes.
Lin Yan's visa was for transit purposes. He traveled east along the highway, then turned south, with his destination being the Israeli-controlled border region of the Golan Heights.
The scenery on both sides of the highway is desolate yet magnificent.
He once photographed a Soviet-style Syrian army convoy heading towards the border at dusk, kicking up clouds of dust, with a blood-red sunset in the background.
Also in a roadside shop, I recorded an old man pointing south, recounting in a tone mixed with hatred and helplessness the story of how his family lost their land after the Six-Day War in 1967.
There, he saw Soviet tanks confronting American allies across the mountains, and saw the demands of the homeland reduced to pawns that could be sacrificed on the chessboard of great power geopolitical games.
The closer they get to Israel, the more frequent the checkpoints become.
At a checkpoint near the front lines, a Syrian officer carefully examined each of his documents, especially the entry and exit stamps on his British passport.
"Are you American or British? Where are you from and where are you going?" The officer's gaze was sharp.
"From news in Lebanon, to anywhere with a story."
Lin Yan waved the Leica in his hand.
"Sir, I see your soldiers standing guard under the scorching sun. It must be very hard for them. Would you like me to send a photo to his family? It was developed in California; the quality is excellent."
He cleverly applied the principle of "entering and exiting the same country," using only documents that matched his entry records within Syria.
The officer stared at him for a few seconds, seemingly assessing the danger posed by this Asian-looking reporter, before finally stamping the document.
Perhaps in his eyes, this journalist with an expensive German camera and somewhat eccentric behavior was nothing more than another vulture from the Western world chasing bloody headlines.
After weeks of trekking, Lin Yan finally stood on the edge of the Israeli-controlled side of the Golan Heights.
Beneath my feet lies land once riddled with trenches, now strewn with rusted barbed wire and tank wreckage. Looking into the distance, the azure waters of the Sea of Galilee shimmer in the sunlight, and further still, the silhouettes of Israeli towns are faintly visible.
The atmosphere here is completely different from the previous two.
The order was tight, imbued with a "normal" atmosphere of heightened vigilance. The Israeli soldiers' checks were professional yet detached, meticulously verifying his American and British citizenship and journalist status, but the process was swift.
After all, in 1982, Israel had just launched the Lebanon War, and its security operations had a clear background of US support.
A journalist holding a U.S. passport is likely to encounter far less "trouble" here than in Beirut or Damascus.
Instead of heading immediately to Jerusalem or Tel Aviv, he stayed at an abandoned observation post on the high ground.
The evening wind howled, blowing across the rocks that had been soaked in blood. He set up his camera, but didn't press the shutter.
The images from this journey are far more somber than the sunlight and seafood of Europe.
He saw Lebanon groaning amidst fragments of faith, Syria standing tall yet struggling amidst the cracks of great powers, and finally arrived in Israel, a country that had "grown strong from weak" in five wars and profoundly shaped the regional landscape.
He saw everything shrouded in the shadows of the United States and the Soviet Union.
The decisions made by Washington and Moscow, through weapons, money, and ideology, have carved new rifts in this ancient land, causing fratricide and shattering homes.
The fear in the eyes of children, the despair on the faces of women, the hunched backs of the elderly, and the eyes of men ignited by hatred or fear are the smallest and most real specks of dust on this grand game of chess.
As a monk, he was detached from worldly affairs.
But as a soul who once lived in another "peaceful" century, a chilling anger and an extreme sense of alienation settled within him.
The Tao Body in the mortal world operates silently, absorbing this vast and bitter "worldly wisdom" about conflict, faith, and power.
The setting sun cast a long shadow of him.
He put away his Leica, turned his back to the lights of Israel, and looked at the vast land behind him, filled with the smoke of war and sorrow.