The Jerusalem Post, November 28, 2008 (published under a pen name to protect the identity of the interviewees)
It’s Friday night and we’re piled into a SUV, headed toward Gemmayze – the uber-hip district of the moment in Beirut where young people go to party. My host sits in the passenger seat, a baseball cap perched on his brown hair, the bill tilted to the side. He leans over to his friend, who is driving, and asks him, his voice light as though he were telling the opening line of a joke, “How would you describe your political and cultural leanings?”
His friend snorts. “Do you have a cigarette?” He turns up the music – Portishead – and leans an elbow on the open window. Cool night air flows in.
“Can I quote you?” I quip.
“Sure,” he says with a laugh. “My name is Mustafa.” Everyone laughs then – his name is not Mustafa. But he knows he’s talking to a journalist, knows I’ve come from Israel, so on-the-record names are off limits.