Latterly
Justin Salhani covered the war in Syria from Lebanon for five years before moving home to the U.S. Guilt came with him.
Justin Salhani has written two stories for Latterly. His first, “Edge of Evil,” documents a dramatic hostage negotiation with an Islamic State cell in Ras Baalbek, Lebanon. His most recent, “Maha’s Soldier,” is a love story set against the backdrop of the Syrian War. Last year he moved to back to the United States after working in the Middle East for five years. I asked him about his experience covering the Syrian conflict.
How did you get your start covering the Middle East?
I always wanted to be an explorer. When I graduated college I took a job teaching English in Beirut. I loved the lifestyle, the city, the excitement, so I did whatever it took to stay there. Coincidentally that was journalism.
In “Edge of Evil,” how did you manage to get so many details of the hostage’s captivity and the negotiators’ efforts to save him? Was anybody reluctant to talk?
Surprisingly, everyone was incredibly open about the experience. I think it helped that my fiancée is from Ras Baalbek, the village where the story took place. She helped me a lot with connections, with interviews, with getting locals’ phone numbers from her dad. The guy who was kidnapped is actually a distant relative of my fiancée (they’ve never met and, apart from this story, have never really spoken, either).
I got such good detail by conducting multiple interviews with each person. I had been in and around the village multiple times and had written other stories concerning certain characters before. I usually just let the characters tell their stories and then tried my best to ask for details. What were they feeling? What was going through their mind? I was a bit surprised by how open each person was about the experience, especially the post-trauma Makhoul Mrad is suffering since his kidnapping.
Is there anything you miss about being in Beirut and covering the turmoil in the region? Is there anything you don’t miss?
Yes and yes. I miss the field reporting. I miss sitting with people who have a story to tell. These days my one-on-ones are generally with analysts or experts, and most stories are second hand. I miss the feeling of developing a contact — when you make a connection with someone on a personal level but also develop a source that you know will be able to help you tell good stories. I mostly miss getting information from the source and knowing that nobody else knows it. I also miss the excitement — anything can happen at any time.
But it’s nice to walk home and not have to worry about celebratory gunfire. I don’t miss the political bickering. It’s personal there, and people have a hard time removing themselves from the situation. Lebanon is a free society and you can speak openly about almost anything, but I constantly found myself on the defensive because I was an outsider and thought differently from certain crowds. I often wasn’t given the time or platform to express my thoughts and found myself a lot less expressive and introverted around certain people.
After we published “Maha’s Soldier,” about a member of the Free Syrian Army, one reader responded that the story glamorizes a “terrorist.” Do you think there are any “good guys” fighting in Syria right now?
That’s a difficult question. In terms of organizations it’s hard to find a “good guy.” But despite what that one reader says, I know Sultan and know he is a good guy. That being said, I sympathize to a degree with the reader and others inside Syria, who may have lived decent lives before the uprising and now blame the opposition for uprooting that life. My sympathy runs out pretty quickly, though, because I think it’s unacceptable to ignore crimes like those committed by the Assad regime just because you are in a position of comfort.
There are analysts who can probably answer that question on a micro level. What I can say is that there are still good guys fighting for freedom in Syria. They don’t appear to be the majority. What I don’t subscribe to is this notion that one must choose between Assad or ISIS. Both have committed heinous crimes against humanity, and aligning with either one is not reasonable — neither ethically nor in policy.
What’s one story you think is begin overlooked about the Syrian conflict?
I’ve followed Syria pretty closely since the start. I think most stories have been covered, though obviously to varying degrees. I think the idea that there are people still calling to back the Assad regime against ISIS is disgusting. Stephen Rapp, the State Department’s ambassador-at-large for War Crimes and director of the Office of Global Criminal Justice, has said that the Assad regime’s use of torture, mass murder and starvation is the worst since the Nazis.
The view from Assad supporters is often that he is better than the alternative. But if we have to live in a world where Assad is my best choice, I’ll take death, please.
One issue that has been covered but isn’t getting enough attention at least in terms of policy or in government is the desperation of Syrians still besieged by the regime, ISIS or other groups inside Syria. These people have endured barrel bombs, chemical weapons, beheadings, rape, starvation and the list only grows.
What advice would you give to a young writer interested in becoming a war correspondent?
Draw your limits. Don’t be an adrenaline junky. And talk to your family regularly. Make sure you know how they feel about this work.
What is life like for Syrian refugees? Are there any stories that stick out in your memory?
I think I remember the story of almost every refugee I ever met. I stopped covering refugee issues at one point because I felt helpless. I remember Hassan, 30-something now, who was exploited by his landlord. He was a Sunni Muslim but gave his daughter a Shia name because sectarianism didn’t register with him. I’m still in touch with Nour, a soccer player in his 20s. He came to Lebanon to study and can’t go home now for fear of being drafted.
The most heartbreaking was a girl who was partially disabled. She was probably around 10 but had hydrocephalus — water on the brain. Syria was and still is such an impoverished country that this girl had a disability that is very rare in, if not eradicated from, the developed world. Her father beamed with pride when she said something clever. Her teacher said she was the smartest in class but she couldn’t attend very often because she didn’t have a wheel chair. I am still ashamed because I called around trying to find her one when I got back to Beirut but couldn’t get someone from the relevant NGO to pick up a phone. A few days later I traveled somewhere, and by the time I got back it had slipped my mind. I still feel guilty about that. I’d call now but I’m sure she’s moved on from that camp and there’s no way I could take her the chair from Washington, D.C., to Arsal — a place most people can’t get to these days because of its proximity to battle.
One more story. I visited a group of Syrian-Palestinians in a camp in Baalbek. There were so many in a one-room shack that they’d rotate and some would have to leave the house and wander the camp. My colleague at the time wanted to photograph the family sleeping at night, so we first went in the evening and brought chips and juice for the kids. They were so excited.
I’ve never had a very close family, so I naively thought for a moment that this is almost kind of nice — to have your whole family around and to be always around people. But as we spent more time there, we realized the reality. The semblance of joy quickly faded. The kids all started crying. They were hungry, tired, bored, scared and a million other emotion all at once.
I hate to stereotype, even positively, but Syrians and Palestinians are generally extremely proud people. The desperation in the room, however, was palpable. They asked us for help in anyway we could — money, connections to aid agencies, food. As journalists we are not supposed to give or receive gifts. I was torn, though, and I left some money on the chair I was sitting on without telling anyone.
I left Lebanon. Many people can’t.