BEIRUT, Feb. 21 (Xinhua) — Lebanese ministers said on Thursday that the relations with Syria topped the agenda of the first meeting …

BEIRUT, (Xinhua) — David Frem, ambitious founder of Frem Industry, will finally realize his dream of launching “Frem Immortal,” the first car …

BY ABBY SEWELL nationalgeographic.com --- In the mountains above Beirut, a stately Ottoman-era hotel came to life again last autumn after decades of abandonment. The Grand Hotel Casino Ain Sofar–once a preferred vacation spot for the region’s stars and the site of weddings and lavish parties–was left to looters and the occupying Syrian Army during Lebanon’s civil war, which lasted from 1975 to 1990. It was finally left empty and in disrepair. But this past fall, hundreds of Lebanese and foreign guests once again flooded the hotel—renovated but still deliberately bearing the scars of its past—this time for weeks of events that included an art exhibition, storytelling nights, and DJ sets. The hotel has once again become the site of weddings and parties. It’s one of a handful of examples in a growing push in Lebanon toward rehabilitating threatened landmarks, many of them damaged in the war, and re-envisioning them as collective spaces. Amid the largely privatized post-war reconstruction process, developers and politicians imagined Beirut transforming into a glittering modernist metropolis like Dubai. Many of the city’s historic French Mandate and Ottoman-era buildings were leveled and replaced by high rises. Get amazing videos, travel tips, and pictures of the world’s most beautiful and far-flung places, plus special offers.

By signing up for this email, you are agreeing to receive news, offers, and information from National Geographic Partners and our partners. Click here to visit our Privacy Policy. Easy unsubscribe links are provided in every email. But as the construction has picked up pace, with cranes hovering over half-finished towers in most of Beirut’s neighborhoods, so has the push to preserve the heritage sites that remain. “It’s a matter of identity,” says Joana Hammour, one of the organizers of Save Beirut Heritage, an organization formed in 2010 that has pushed to save threatened sites and for legislation that would preserve more. In a country with 18 recognized religious sects and a complicated patchwork of political groups, Hammour says, “We need to have those spaces of collective memory, spaces of gathering, spaces of community, to live together.” Beit Beirut is one attempt at creating such a space. The imposing yellow building, elegant despite the bullet holes riddling its exterior, occupies a prominent corner in central Beirut on the former demarcation line that separated East and West Beirut during the civil war. Formerly a family home known as the Barakat building, it became a snipers’ perch during the war.

by Rachel Cooke  @msrachelcooke -theguardian.com --- Nadine Labaki is a Lebanese actor and director whose latest film, Capernaum (meaning confusion or chaos in Arabic), won the jury prize at the 2018 Cannes film festival and has since been nominated for a Bafta (beaten by Roma) and an Academy Award. The film tells the story of a 12-year-old boy, Zain, who lives in a Beirut slum and whose parents are incapable of taking care of him. Having run away from home, he lives for a while with an illegal immigrant from Ethiopia, Rahil. None of those who appear in the film is a professional actor.

How did you come to start thinking about Capernaum?

In Lebanon, we are exposed to the sight of children suffering on a daily basis. They are there on the streets, selling gum or flowers or carrying heavy loads, such as gas tanks. Sometimes, they’re just lying there. I once saw this kid on a cement block in the middle of the road at one o’clock in the morning. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. It began with feeling responsible, with wanting to become the voice of these kids. I thought: if I stay silent, I’m complicit in this crime – and it is a crime that we allow this to happen. I don’t know how we live with ourselves. These children are in perpetual danger. So I started going out with my co-writers to the most difficult neighbourhoods – to the slums, to the detention centres, to the courts – just watching.

The boy at the centre of the film, Zain, decides to sue his parents. Where did you get that idea?

I asked the children I spoke to if they were happy to be alive and for most the answer was no. One of them told me: “I don’t know why I was born if no one is going to love me, if no one is going to kiss me before I go to sleep, if I’m going to be beaten up every day.” One day, it hit me. This is going to be the story of a child who says: no more. For the character of Zain’s mother, I was inspired by a woman who’d had 16 children, seven of whom died from neglect.