Adnan El-Ghoul
Daily Star Staff

Although exciting for reporters, surprises on the scale of Hizbullah swapping prisoners with Israel are not easily handled: the two-hour delay at the airport, close to the paper’s deadline, drove everybody nuts.
On the historic occasion of prisoners and the bodies of resistance fighters returning from Israel, the last two days have been very tiring for reporters. Leaving the office around midnight on the first day, I went home completely exhausted with an assignment to report from the border town of Naqoura where Israel was supposed to deliver 59 corpses.
“Please rent a car and be at the location by 9.30am,” my editor said, handing me a $100 bill. “Take this money,” she said, “You’ll need it.” Unlike everywhere else in the world, car rental companies in Lebanon do not stay open 24/7 and most service-taxis were busy ferrying delegates, families and reporters.
Worried that I might not make it in time, at 8am I grabbed the first service willing to take me to the South.
“I always wanted to see Naqoura,” the taxi driver said excitedly. I got into the cab without bargaining, which is unusual for me. The excited driver drove off like a maniac.
“Drive slowly please … I may be in a hurry, but I’d like to get there in one piece,”
I complained.
When we finally reached Mansourieh, south of Tyre, an army checkpoint reinforced with local civilians asked whether we were Lebanese nationals. “Yes we are,” I replied. Then, without being asked directly, the driver interrupted me: “No, but I am a Syrian national.”
“Sorry, non-Lebanese nationals are not allowed beyond this point; it is a restricted military zone,” the officer said. “You must get a pass from the Army Intelligence Bureau in Sidon or Beirut.”
“But I am a reporter,” I said showing my press card. “You may go, but get another taxi,” he suggested. But, where would I get a taxi on a day like this?
The answer came to me a few minutes later. I managed to convince the driver to let me “borrow” his service-taxi and I left him behind.
Ten kilometers away from reaching my final destination, traffic was re-routed in the opposite direction except for official delegates and reporters. No one believed me when I said I was a reporter, I guess my service-taxi driver disguise was a little too good. I stepped out and made my way over to the man in charge of the roadblock displaying my press card prominently. “Are you a taxi driver or a reporter?” he asked.
“A reporter, of course, but in my spare time I am a taxi driver; the salary is not enough, you understand,” I said sarcastically.
“I believe you.” he said, “I will let you pass if you give a ride to that family; they are the parents of a returned martyr,” he added.
I passed through the bottleneck traffic with five passengers accompanying me who were part of the family of the deceased Abdullah Youssef Soufan from Hanin.
Neutral or not, you never know whether to express grief or joy at such occasions. Should I have said, mabrouk or what? My editor added to the confusion when she asked me that morning to check how many sweets were being sold for the occasion. Women were dressed in black and wailing at the sight of each passing ambulance.
“Come on my friend, receiving corpses is a day of grief no matter what,” I told my editor, adding: “You should have asked me this yesterday; freeing prisoners was the day for joy.”