“I will bless your son so that he may be like Menashe and Ephraim, two brothers who never competed with each other, who lived in harmony, just like we all should.”
“And then you’ll leave?”
The old rabbi looks to the soil in the garden. He stoops to pick up a handful and shows it to Abdullah.
“Leave? Can I leave this land, in which my family has lived for five hundred years? Their blood is in its soil, and so shall mine be when the time comes. Do not worry for me, my son. The Lord will protect me. Shalom Aleichem.”
Chapter
24
Beirut – Winter 1976
MARC WALKS BACK from the synagogue to his apartment. He feels unclean, ashamed that he eavesdropped on his friend. There’s a bond between Abdullah and the rabbi that he doesn’t fully understand.
Riley opens the door and looks down the street to see Abdullah leave the synagogue.
“Another visit? Doesn’t Abdullah worry about how the other Palestinians see these visits?”
“I don’t think so,” Marc says. “I’ve asked around. Everyone knows his mother was Jewish, but it doesn’t appear to be an issue with them.”
“And with the Lebanese?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Anyway, good for him. The Palestinian Left often pushes the idea of a bi-national state. At least, Abdullah is walking the talk, even if it is a load of rubbish.”
Riley is a good flatmate and always ready to mentor Marc in the art of journalism and impart his political view of the world. He doesn’t share Marc’s pacifism though. Instead, he argues that the only way for Palestinians to achieve justice is to fight for it like the Irish did to end 700 years of British occupation. Despite his political views, Riley is a thorough and factual chronicler of the war. His articles spell-bind readers in Europe. But he doesn’t have the sixth sense that Marc has when it comes to going to where things are about to happen, or the ability to connect the dots to predict what will happen next. The two flatmates are a formidable pair when they team up.
Riley offers Marc a Scotch.
“I heard that Hoda’s found a teaching position at the university.”
“Yes, but it’s not permanent.”
“So she won’t be returning to Shemlan.”
“No, and that’s a good thing. The checkpoints are becoming too unpredictable.”
“By the way, Marwan Kanaan and Nabil dropped by this morning.”
“Really.”
“Marwan’s family has bought Sarkossian’s photography studio, and he’s looking to drum up business. A discount for photo developing at the studio if you do photocopying at his family’s pharmacy.”
“Good, he can have my business. He’s a very reliable sort.”
“And mine too.”
“And Sarkossian?”
“The old man has gone to Canada.”
“Pretty soon, half of the Armenians in Beirut will be there.”
“It’s a loss for Lebanon, but can you blame them?”
“Of course not. And Nabil?”
“Oh, he wanted to tell you that he’s been accepted into the École des Beaux-Arts. He’ll be leaving for Paris next week.”
Marc leans back in his armchair, pleased with the news. He sips his Scotch. Good stuff, not as good as the Irish whiskey that Riley gets sent from Dublin, but still good enough for the daily fare.
Marwan passes over the list of clients to his uncle, Fouad Saadeh.
“So, have they all signed up?” his uncle asks.
“Almost all.”
“It’ll be important to get duplicates of their pictures.”
“I know.”
“We need proof of the militias’ crimes, and where the forces are positioned. These journalists’ photos are invaluable. Sarkossian wasn’t willing to play ball with us. It left us blind—I’m glad that he decided to immigrate.”
Marwan looks at his uncle. “Did you have something to do with his decision to leave?”
“No, of course not! He just read the writing on the wall. When this war is over, many will remember the Armenians for having raised the prices in their shops, and worse, some will blame them for selling to the militias the arms that sparked this bloodshed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not, but war doesn’t encourage objective recollection of events or the actions of those involved in them.”
“So how will the party use these photos?”
“First, we will analyze them for our own protection. If any of the other militias press us too hard, we can use the photos of their crimes to get them to back off. Second, we will send a set of them to Jumblatt once a week. His people in Mukhtara can use them in determining where to deploy his forces. It’s always good to know where your enemies are and what arms they have with them.”
Marwan nods.
“Have you spoken to the Palestinian girl?”
“Hoda?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Yes, she’s ready to work with us.”
“And her brother, your room-mate?”
“His visa for France has come through. He’s leaving next week. Anyway, he’s not interested in politics.”
“Never mind. It’s the girl we want. We need her to take the photos to Deir Al Qamar to meet a contact there who’ll take them to Jumblatt in Mukhtara. You can drive her, but she should keep the photos on her. The militiamen rarely check women at the checkpoints. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Uncle. I’ve to go now. I have a class at the university.”
Fouad watches his nephew leave. He knows that he can trust him.
Chapter
25
Beirut – Winter 1976
HODA KEEPS HER RELATIONSHIP with Marc discreet. In Muslim Beirut, every neighbourhood has its moralists. Hoda and Marc begin to speak of marriage. She rejected his initial proposal, made the day of his return from France. No, she told him, let’s wait—we need to be sure. Marc has offered to convert, at least on paper, but Hoda will have none of that. She’s unsure of her own beliefs, and the more she frequents the Social Nationalists’ meetings, the less Muslim she feels herself to be.
They steal moments away from their work for intimate dinners at Marc’s place. Those evenings always end in long embraces and caresses, which stop just short of intercourse. One more year in Beirut, Marc says, and then he can ask for a re-assignment to Paris. In France, they’ll marry, away from the madness of Lebanon. He has already chosen a spot for the wedding. It’s high in the Pyrenees, a place of such splendour that every man, even he, would admit that God must exist.
Against the backdrop of their romance, the war continues. Lebanon begins to lose its soul, its humanity, and the international media can’t get enough of it.
The Battle of the Hotels is the main story for much of 1976. Marc and Riley cover it by riding with the militias of the Lebanese National Movement. Owen moves to Ashrafiyeh to report from the Maronite side. Late every afternoon, the three confer by telephone on the day’s events. It’s a see-saw war between relatively small groups of armed men, but because it takes place largely from the rooftops of luxury hotels, the world stands up to watch.
Marc meets Hoda at their favourite café, just outside the university. The area is now secured by the Social Nationalist militia, which has grown in numbers as more Christians and Muslims join it to oppose the blind sectarianism of the other militias.
“My employers want me to get out of Lebanon for a couple of weeks to recharge my batteries,” Marc says. “Have you been to Cyprus?”
Hoda smiles. “Have I been to Cyprus? I’ve never been anywhere.”
“I’ve checked. There is no problem for Palestinians entering Cyprus. Come with me!”
“We would have to keep it secret.”
“We can do that.”
“I’ll tell my parents that the university is sending me on a training course to Jordan. They don’t know anyone there.”
Hoda also needs a break from Bei
rut. The war’s bred a lot of fanaticism on both sides, and loving someone outside one’s community has become very dangerous. But she’s not alone in loving a non-Muslim. Her brother Nabil now studying in France has confided how deeply in love he is with Selima, Marwan’s cousin. They met first as Red Cross and Red Crescent volunteers, and then many times at Marwan’s apartment when Nabil roomed there. Selima, well connected to Lebanese elite, helped Nabil set up several art exhibits before leaving for France. Now she too will be going to study in Paris.
Hoda likes the young Maronite girl. She’ll be good for Nabil. He has never been physically strong, and the death of Akil has taken a toll on his mental health. She’s told him again and again that he did what he had to do. And he did it for her and for the safety of their family. But since Akil’s death, Nabil has estranged himself from the community. It has been harder on Nabil than her. Somehow, she has summoned the strength to black out the nightmares of the assault, at least most of the time. But when she visits her parents in Sabra and sees Akil’s friends now all sporting long beards and skull caps, she cringes. She knows that she, like Nabil, can never live again in the camp.
Nabil sits on his bed in his tiny room in the Latin Quarter and re-reads the letter his sister has sent him. She tells him of the beauty of the divided city of Nicosia. She and Marc move constantly between the Greek and Turkish sectors. Hoda writes that leaving Cyprus to return to Lebanon won’t be easy, but Marc’s editors have heard that the Phalangists, who’ve lost the battle of the hotels, are now intent on launching their final offensive on the sprawling Palestinian refugee camp of Tel al-Zaatar. They’ve asked him to find out if the rumour is true.
Nabil puts the letter down. He limps to his easel. The injury to his knee is a constant reminder of the assault on his sister. On the easel is his present to Selima. He’s counting the days to her arrival. He dips his brush in a rich red and dabbles it on the canvas. With a piece of cloth, he rubs in the red to fill in her lips. He stands back to admire the painting. He’s worked hard to find the calming blue of her eyes, to sketch the perfect cherubim cheeks and capture her round chin. He’s painted her from memory, but every detail is there, and then more.
Nabil rubs his knee. The room is cold. The pain in his other joints has also returned. He now worries about the rheumatic fever from his childhood coming back. He knows that he needs to take better care of himself. He counts the francs in his pocket and hesitates before putting another coin in the electric metre in the room. He has used up most of the money he earned from selling his paintings in Beirut, and Paris is much more expensive than he had expected. No matter, tomorrow he’ll sell a painting at the flea market. Nabil leafs through several recently finished paintings against the wall. There’s one he likes very much. A black figure of a young man climbing over a wall. In the teal background, the skyline of Beirut appears through a smoky nocturnal sky. He thinks of Sabra, of his parents still living there, of Akil’s death. Is escape really possible? He puts the painting in his bag. Tomorrow, he’ll barter his past for his future.
Chapter
26
Tel al-Zaatar – August 1976
MARC’S STOMACH GRUMBLES as he marks off August 10 on his calendar. It’s been two days since he has eaten anything but bread. He’s been in Tel al-Zaatar for six long weeks. The camp’s supplies are running dangerously low. Whatever provisions there still are go first to the children and pregnant women. The defenders eat what Marc eats, and that isn’t much. It’s clear that the camp won’t be able to hold out much longer. The negotiations to evacuate the civilian population have faltered on one point. The Palestinians refuse to allow their women to be searched—a fatal mistake. The Syrians have now switched sides to help the Maronites and are blockading Muslim West Beirut. There’ll be no relief for the camp.
Marc walks to the dispensary. He has lost a tooth during the night, and he’s worried about infection. He can’t remember the last time he saw a vegetable. If he can’t find something to eat soon, he will at least ask the doctors to disinfect the hole left by the missing tooth. Gaunt boys stand guard with old rifles over the line-up of women and children waiting to see one of the camp’s two remaining doctors. A month ago, the camp had six doctors. Two died when an artillery shell struck their clinic. Another died from an infection picked up on the makeshift operating table. And one, a Christian Palestinian, just vanished in the middle of the night. If the battle drags on much longer, the camp will face not just starvation, but widespread disease.
Two hours later, Dr. Ayad sees Marc. A quick rinse of homemade disinfectant and a shot of morphine for the pain. Opiates are in ample supply; antibiotics are not.
“Good news,” Dr. Ayad says as he pulls out the syringe. “The evacuation is back on track. The Maronites have agreed to search only the women’s bags but not their bodies.”
“When will it start?”
“Tomorrow if all goes well.”
“Thank you, doctor, I have a lot of work to do.”
Marc leaves the clinic quickly and begins to interview everyone he sees. Their impressions on the eve of the evacuation need to be recorded. Some will be leaving homes that they’ve lived in since 1948. There are only a few who remain defiant. Most are ready to accept any conditions to avoid another day of hunger in the camp. Marc is down to his last roll of film. He chooses his subjects wisely: a grandmother cradling her daughter’s newborn, a boy carrying an assault rifle in one hand and holding the hand of his little sister with the other. Marc’s energy begins to ebb. The pains in his empty stomach grow stronger.
As the sun sets, he wraps up his last interview—a woman of seventy-three, who can still remember attending her Jewish neighbours’ weddings in Safad. The old woman is overwhelmed that this starving journalist is risking his life to record her story. She offers him some dates she’s been hoarding. He politely refuses. When he rises to leave, she calls her grandson to walk back with him. The young boy, who looks no more than twelve, brings a Kalashnikov and guides Marc back to the unfinished building that he has called home for the last six weeks. Along the way, Marc asks about the gun.
“It’s my father’s,” says the boy.
“Where’s your father?”
“He is a Shahid,” chokes out the boy. “And I … will be one, too.”
Marc puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders.
“What’s your name?”
“Najib.”
“Well, Najib, today you can’t be a martyr because you’re going to help me climb four flights of stairs. Is that okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Journalist. I’ll help you. I’m very strong.”
When they reach his building, Marc stumbles on the first stair. The boy catches him before he falls, and then slings the gun onto his shoulder to free his hands to hold Marc up. Together, they climb. When they reach the room, Marc collapses on a well-used mattress.
Najib stands guard over him as his grandmother has instructed him. He moves to the window. The sun is setting. Slowly all of the camp turns pitch black, but the lights come on in Ashrafiyeh and in the villages of the Metn. They look magical.
Najib thinks of the stories that his grandmother has told him about Safad, about how the mountains are so beautiful. She always tells him that they are mountain people, born to breathe the pure air. He knows that he’ll never see her mountains, never step foot in Safad. But he just wants once to go up into the Metn, and look down on Beirut from its heights.
Only twelve but here he is with a gun in hand—an orphan waiting to kill Maronite invaders before they end his life. He has never even met a Maronite. Why do they want to drive the Palestinians out of Tel al-Zaatar? He can’t understand why the world is against his people, why his grandmother can’t return to the city she was born in. He cries. He just wants to grow up to live his life like everyone else. The sound of the Frenchman turning and twisting in his sleep brings the boy back from his sorrows. He must be strong, like his father. His grandmother has given him the duty of protecting this man
. He will make her proud.
The sun isn’t yet up when Marc awakes to the artillery shells pounding the camp. He knows that this can mean only one thing. The plans for the evacuation have once again been dashed. From below he hears gunfire. He looks outside and begins to take notes. It’s been two weeks since he was able to file his last story. His notebook is full of descriptions of life in the camp. He has interviewed hundreds of refugees, recording the stories of many who are living the last days of their existence. He’s full of regret. His editors had only asked him to confirm a rumour, not to get himself killed. He’ll never see Hoda again, and his stories will never be published. The tragedy of Tel al-Zaatar will be told by others.
From his balcony, Marc has a clear view of the eastern edge of the camp. He can see the massing of vehicles just beyond the camp’s perimeter. The Phalangists have brought in reinforcements. Marc realizes that they’re preparing for the last push. Some Palestinian defenders will fight street by street, but there’s no way that they can hold out for long. He looks around him for Najib. The boy is nowhere in sight. Good, he must’ve returned home. It’s better that he’s there to protect his family when the enemy comes.
Elie Labaki brushes the dust off his uniform. The thread of the Phalangist patch on his shoulder is beginning to fray. He thinks of his mother who had reluctantly sewed it on. He checks his gun again. Oiled and ready for action. He throws a rock in the air and blasts it with a single shot. For weeks, he’s been preparing for the assault. He sleeps little these days. The nightmares are too many. To stay alert, he takes amphetamines shipped in from Haifa, courtesy of their Israeli advisers. Elie doesn’t care for the Israelis, even if they are now providing a lifeline to his people. He doesn’t even care about Lebanese politics. He fights now only to avenge his fiancée’s murder in Damour.
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