Chapter 2: The Two Dedicated Elders

Lebanon, situated in the southwestern part of Asia on the eastern coast of the Mediterranean Sea, shares its eastern and northern borders with Syria, its southern frontier with Israel, and faces the Mediterranean to the west. It is a nation of many ethnicities and religions.

Once, Lebanon was affluent and tranquil. Though various faiths coexisted within its borders, religious conflicts were rare. Different factions were able to negotiate peacefully and resolve national affairs together.

The capital, Beirut, was even dubbed the "Switzerland of the Middle East," serving as a vital hub for commerce, transportation, and tourism in the region. Its prosperity inspired envy in many nations.

But everything changed due to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the Syrian crisis.

A flood of refugees shattered the delicate balance. Civil war erupted and raged for fifteen years. Occasional wars with neighboring Israel further devastated the nation. The "Little Paris of the Middle East" became a thing of the past.

Now, chaos and poverty are Lebanon’s new bywords.

“Officer Zhang, thank you for your hard work.”

The next morning, on the road to the “Blue Line”—the 121-kilometer temporary boundary set by the United Nations after Israel withdrew from Lebanon in 2000—Zhong Rong offered a smile as he spoke.

“You’re too kind, Reporter Zhong,” Zhang Liang replied, shaking his head slightly. Though he might grumble inwardly, a task was a task—he had no choice but to see it through.

“How about this: since we’ll be living together for several days, let’s drop the formalities. I’m a bit older than you, so I’ll call you Xiao Zhang, and you can call me Brother Zhong,” Zhong Rong suggested, hoping to ease the distance between them. Since they were both Chinese, and strangers in a foreign land, a little familiarity felt appropriate.

Moreover, addressing him this way wouldn’t reveal Zhang Liang’s real identity, which he knew mattered to someone like him.

“Alright, you’re the senior, so you get to decide,” Zhang Liang shrugged, though his eyes never stopped scanning the roadside. He’d never been here before, but he’d heard plenty about this place.

He was uneasy, mainly because, as a military attaché accompanying two journalists, his superiors had only equipped him with a single sidearm for self-defense—the desert-colored P226 tucked quietly in his shoulder holster.

The P226, a reliable and low-maintenance tactical pistol, was indeed an excellent weapon. With a 9mm caliber and a 15-round magazine, it could handle most close encounters.

But a pistol was still just a pistol—its effective range of fifty meters was of little use in standard engagements.

“No need to be nervous. We haven’t entered the Blue Line area yet; it’s still safe,” said Kong Bailing, who was carrying the camera. Both he and Zhong Rong had been to war zones before. Their calm made things much easier for Zhang Liang.

“I’m used to it. Don’t worry about me,” Zhang Liang replied with a wave. In the special forces, his instructor had drilled into him: never let your guard down, because the enemy won’t announce their attack.

Zhong Rong, for his part, appreciated Zhang Liang’s vigilance. In a place like this, even sleeping with one eye open would be understandable.

In less than an hour, their car reached the nearest town to the Blue Line.

Because journalists from various countries frequently visited, they quickly located a hotel with decent security and conditions—a favorite haunt for reporters near the Lebanon-Israel border.

“Zhong, long time no see.”

No sooner had the three settled their luggage than a white man popped in for a chat.

“John, you’re here too?” Zhong Rong turned, smiling and raising a hand in greeting.

This was John, a Reuters correspondent from the UK, also specializing in war zones. The two often crossed paths.

“You’re a bit late this year,” John remarked, nodding to Zhang Liang and Kong Bailing.

“Too many assignments, not enough people,” Zhong Rong replied with a rueful smile, and John nodded in agreement.

War correspondents like them had a tough lot: harsh conditions, constant danger—few were willing to take on the job.

No matter how high the pay, it was useless if you didn’t live to spend it.

“Well, I won’t keep you. Let’s have a drink later,” John said, knowing they were eager to begin filming. With a wave, he took his leave.

“Kong, is the equipment all good? If so, let’s head out,” Zhong Rong called.

“All set,” Kong Bailing replied.

“Then let’s go. Xiao Zhang, we’ll be counting on you.”

Zhang Liang nodded. Without delay, the three, barely arrived, shouldered their gear and left the hotel.

The town was Alma al-Shaab, the closest settlement to the Lebanon-Israel border—a frequent flashpoint for conflict, only a few kilometers from the Blue Line.

“Hello everyone, I’m Zhong Rong, a reporter for the Military Channel. I’m standing now at the Lebanon-Israel border, where firefights broke out just days ago…”

Not far from the hotel, Zhong Rong and Kong Bailing quickly slipped into their professional roles, while Zhang Liang stood watchfully to the side, alert to every rustle in the wind.

“In war, it’s always the civilians who suffer most,” Zhang Liang thought with a sigh as he surveyed the collapsed buildings and the fearful, numb faces of the people around them.

Who, if they had a choice, would want to live in such misery?

But with Lebanon’s pervasive lawlessness, where could they go?

“Xiao Zhang, let’s move a little closer,” Zhong Rong called after Kong Bailing set down the camera.

“Coming,” Zhang Liang replied.

Gradually, they edged closer to the Blue Line—a temporary border stretching from Tripoli in northern Lebanon, along the Mediterranean coast eastward, passing Beirut and Israel’s Haifa, all the way to Eilat in southern Israel.

As they were about to enter the Blue Line area, a burst of gunfire erupted from behind and to the side.

Rat-a-tat-tat—

“Find cover!” Zhang Liang dashed forward, pulling the other two behind a ruined wall, his eyes fixed on the direction of the gunshots.

“It’s Hezbollah,” Zhong Rong muttered, watching armed pickups speed into the distance—men on board brandishing weapons, firing into the sky.

Formed in 1982 by Lebanese Shi’ites with Iranian support to resist Israel’s occupation of southern Lebanon, Hezbollah is also one of the country’s largest parties. Since its inception, armed clashes between Hezbollah and Israel have never ceased. Although the US and other Western nations have labeled it a “terrorist organization” and pressured the Lebanese government to disarm it, Hezbollah has always refused.

In fact, Hezbollah is now considered one of the world’s most battle-hardened “guerrilla forces”—honed through countless skirmishes with Israel.

Kong Bailing had already started filming, aiming the camera at the pickups. Zhang Liang, seeing this, could only sigh in resignation. The man was truly dedicated to his craft.

Fortunately, the armed pickups were just passing through. In short order, the vehicles, heavy machine guns mounted, disappeared from view.

“Probably just a patrol,” Zhang Liang exhaled, relaxing his grip on his holster.

In places like this, you must never brandish a weapon lightly; tense patrols on both sides might just spray you with bullets at the slightest provocation.

“What you just witnessed is the reality of the Lebanon-Israel border…” Zhong Rong began again, his voice carrying as he spoke to the camera.

Zhang Liang’s lips twitched as he glanced at him.

He spent the entire afternoon with his two “big brothers,” weathering the scrutiny of Blue Line sentries, filming, and even daring to interview one of the soldiers. Only after the two were satisfied did they return to the hotel.

“I’m just not cut out to be a babysitter,” Zhang Liang sighed, lighting a cigarette and gazing forlornly out the window as the other two went off to exchange stories with their fellow reporters.