REPORTER'S NOTEBOOK: Kelly McEvers
Tarek's story was pretty hard to resist. He speaks five languages. He tells vivid stories about growing up in the Democratic Republic of Congo — how a volcano destroyed his father's import-export business, how he had to scramble to find work, how he learned to be a fixer.
In Congo, Tarek mainly worked for what he calls "international businessmen." They came from Europe and the Arab world to mine for gems, cut trees, or open fancy hotels. Tarek says he didn't care what kind of work they did. He just liked showing them around. And of course he liked getting paid.
Back at home in Lebanon, Tarek seemed to be landing good work as a fixer — this time for photojournalists. Mostly American and European, the shooters were flocking to Lebanon's capitol, Beirut, when I met Tarek. They came to document the destruction from the brutal 33-day war between Lebanon and Israel in the summer of 2006. I thought it would be interesting to watch Tarek fix for them.
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“If the situation is bad in Lebanon, I work with journalists. If the situation is good, I have tourists. I want to buy a car for clients to rent. But I need more money for this.”—Tarek Haidar Eskandar
« previous There are other fixers in Lebanon. They work for big TV, big newspapers. They're serious professionals. They charge hundreds of dollars a day. They live in nice apartments and socialize in Beirut's cafes and clubs. Somehow, though, Tarek's daily life seemed more dramatic than theirs.
While all of Lebanon was affected by the war, Tarek suffered direct hits. Tarek comes from a Shi'ite family, and it was Shi'ite areas that were targeted by Israeli airstrikes. (This was, in part, a strategy to counter the Shi'ite militia, Hezbollah). Four homes belonging to Tarek's family were destroyed. Three cousins were killed by an airstrike as they walked near a mosque.
Despite all this, Tarek was scrappy. And I admired him for it. He was figuring out how to make a living off his own bad luck. In his own way, he was trying to make sense of the chaos around him.
All that said, Tarek could be really annoying. He would promise something and not do it. He was always late. And I wasn't the only one frustrated by Tarek. I realized this when we visited his mother in southern Lebanon.
Short but sturdy, with a fair complexion and a strong smile, Tarek's mother welcomed me into her rented house. She told me she was waiting for government help to rebuild her own house — the one flattened during the war. She said she hoped Tarek was making good money as a fixer. But she didn't sound too optimistic. At one point, Tarek asked to use her car for a quick errand, and she immediately said no. It seemed like she didn't trust Tarek.
Not long after that visit, Tarek failed to repay $200 he owed to Zoriah Miller, an American photographer. At first I thought it was an innocent mistake. Or maybe Tarek needed the money to get back on his feet, and he planned to give it back later.
But he didn't give it back. And worse, he disappeared. From Beirut, I called a colleague in the States. Should we still do a story about Tarek? Can we profile someone who has breached a trust like this?
We decided we should go ahead and tell Tarek's story — because this is what happens in war and troubled times. People make do, however they can. Sometimes they make mistakes. Sometimes they do bad things, just trying to get by.
