Tracey Barnett: The human face of conflict

I couldn't live with myself if I left," said my Lebanese friend Rima in Tripoli. She had gone there from America just in time for a war instead of a summer holiday.

"All my family is here. I can't see why I am more important than them. It would be hypocritical of me to ask the American Government to help me leave when I am also Lebanese, and for them ... "

She didn't finish her sentence. She didn't have to.

Condoleezza Rice's wrangling in Rome made it clear: Lebanese and Israeli blood do not weigh the same for the US State Department. Shamefully, in Rome even the phrase ceasefire needed neutering.

Rima's words echoed the impassioned speech of Lebanese Prime Minister Fouad Siniora to world leaders last week.

"Is the value of human life less in Lebanon than that of citizens elsewhere? Are we children of a lesser God? Is an Israeli teardrop worth more than a drop of Lebanese blood?"

There was visible emotion in the room after Siniora's comments, diplomats told the New York Times.

Despite his eloquence Siniora walked away empty-handed, a state Lebanon knows far too much about.

This is nothing new for Rima. She has lived through civil war. I've known only peace. I used to think the bond that held us together was that both our 6-year-old sons genuinely hated basketball. We used to collapse in laughter after both boys would stop in the middle of the game to hold conversations with us about dinner possibilities.

I am a Jew. She is a Muslim. But I never noticed until last week.

When we first met, her son Bashar had a sudden urge to convert to Judaism when he found out his new Jewish friend got a present for each of the eight nights of Hanukkah. We still laughed about it last week after the Israeli-bombed phone tower was repaired and I finally reached her.

"My people are resilient but we are getting tired," she told me. "Other people's problems are trying to get solved on our soil. We feel like we've been abandoned. The world is just watching. It is not okay. It is people, it is human beings, it is life."

Rice said Prime Minister Siniora's speech had put a human face on the conflict.

The human face I know is that of a mother with her young son who has chosen not to leave.

Rima's family has two months' worth of food. They are only 45 minutes from the Syrian border if things get worse. Her city expects 5000 refugees in the next two days and they are the lucky ones, she explains. The towns closest to the south are swamped with tens of thousands to shelter and feed.

Last week when leaders stopped to wrestle ridiculous semantics in Rome, their inaction was only helping to set the stage for 34 or so dead children in Qana yesterday. How can anyone be hopeful that the West can focus on the complicated rise of Hizbollah's Nasrallah and their new-found endorsement from al Qaeda with anything more than chest beating from a distance after a UN force is finally sent to the border?

Israel knows the clock is ticking on its offensive before an international force stops them. Everyone will save face, but it will be Lebanese parents who are left to bury their children. Welcome to the new Middle East.

"I don't know what 'the new Middle East means'," Rima said. "In the US they must know, but here we are just waiting to see what our piece of that will be. Mostly people are in a state of shock. We are powerless."

Days later when we spoke again, much had changed. Initial shock had transformed itself into resistance. Lebanon's "war by proxy" is becoming a misnomer.

She told me yesterday, "Even in one week, things are changing so quickly. We are dying but we are proud that we are standing up for ourselves. Finally we are not executing Iran's agenda, or Syria's; we are executing our own."

She can feel the change on the streets.

"I never realised as a people how much we were craving a sense of pride, the sense that we're not invisible or weak. It is really not about hatred of Israel so much as the realisation of what we want now as a nation.

"It is like a woman coming out of an abusive relationship. This is the first act where she is saying, 'This is enough. I don't want to hate you or kill you; I want to reclaim myself.' That is what is coming out of this war now."

Jews and Muslims are bombing across each other's borders. But a few of us are talking over repaired telephone lines just to make sure our human connection hasn't been severed.

"We are supposed to be enemies," I offered with more emotion than I knew was there.

Her reply couldn't have been more gracious. "There is a connection between us. We overlap so much culturally, historically, genetically. It's sad and it's awkward but the challenge is to feel the pain of people being hurt but not be stuck in hate.

"This is how I learned it is about governments and not about people. When I remember you all, it makes me hopeful."

I hung up the phone with a woman stranded in a war zone who was trying to convince me from the safety of New Zealand to be hopeful. Friendship sometimes yields unexpected dividends.

* Tracey Barnett is an American journalist working in Auckland.