Ryan's Journal

The rainy season has begun. After a night of lightning, the storms moved in for the start of the next two hundred and eighty days or so of rain, the murderous sun mercifully hidden behind clouds, the suffocating humidity washed away for now, another deluge - hard, hard rain - to be expected in the next twenty-four hours.

In a hotel known for housing journalists during the violent troubles that only stopped for good but half a decade ago, the tradition of connecting to the greater world outside this tiny city continues, all manner of foreigners staring at digital screens and what little this information pipeline can bring in to their own island, an air conditioned, modern-styled restaurant and bar of world-connected and isolated individuals. Government ministers, Lebanese businessmen, and expats brought together by the need to reliably email.

But it's obviously different now, obviously better. A classroom's worth of NGO children sits at the big long table in back, visiting and holding today's lesson with the rest. If the entire compound is surrounded by high walls and razor wire, like every other section of the city, a reminder of how things once were, it is also filled with the innocent clamor of children's voices, children who only need care what their teacher is saying today. It is filled with hope.

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