Beirut is the new World Book Capital for 2009, taking over from Amsterdam. Hosting this prestigious, year-long book festival is of great significance to this once war-torn city.

A personal story by Janet Nammur of RNW's Arabic section

Sitting in the train on my way home from Hilversum to Amsterdam, I'm enjoying the sunset on a beautiful spring day. The last rays of the sun are struggling through grey and white clouds, creating a dazzling display of colour. I'm thinking about a piece I have to write about my old city - Beirut - as it takes over the title of World Book Capital from my new city, Amsterdam.

My thoughts wander from the beauty of the Dutch landscape on an April day to Lebanon in wartime. To the long hours, days and years spent in the shelter under the apartment block where I lived. It was built as a garage for the residents, but people have priority over cars in wartime. My greatest dream was of sleeping in my own bed, without fear.

I dreamed of being able to travel safely to the university where I was studying journalism. Without having to listen to the little transistor radio I always carried so I'd know which route it was safe to take. Safe? Well, to find out which streets bombs were falling on at the time I had to go home, would be a better way of putting it.

Beirut is a small city, and it was divided into even smaller zones - sometimes of enormous contrast. One street would be bustling with life while the shadow of death hung over the next. People have an amazing ability to adapt, even to the bizarre, rapidly changing lottery of death.

I grew up, finished my study and met my life partner under these conditions, constantly adapting to the changing conditions in the city.

Fear is the great enemy of ambition and intelligence. Fear turns books into a luxury, something for people who have some certainty in their lives. That's why it's not strange that people in war-torn countries don't have room in their lives for books.

And now my chaotic Beirut is picking up the baton from my safe Amsterdam. Beirut, where the ruins of the ancient Roman "school for judges" still stands. Where the first alphabet was invented by the Phoenicians. Beirut, a city that, nowadays, is only associated with sectarian conflict and division.

All these thoughts tumble through my head as I sit in the train looking at my fellow passengers, with their noses buried in books. Can my Amsterdam pass this habit on to my Beirut, along with the honour of the UNESCO title of World Book Capital?

The train takes me home to Amsterdam. I dream of sitting in a Lebanese train taking me home to Beirut, surrounded by people carrying books rather than weapons.