Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

  “That’s precisely why they’re sending me. Anyone more senior might seem like we’re giving him a direct order. My visit will only be to warn him and then not even directly. I’m hoping Abu Walid will pass on the message.”

  “Warn him of what?”

  “That Damascus has lost patience, and he should watch his back.”

  Riley looks over at Evan. He has never known him to be so candid.

  “So why do you want me to tag along?”

  “I could use a witness to the fact that I actually went to Mukhtara. My boss-man, Robinson, is a hard case, always accusing me of dodging difficult jobs. Meanwhile, he sits on his butt, slugging down Cuban rum at the marina.”

  “Sounds like a prick.”

  “You’ve got that right, mate.”

  “If I go with you, will you introduce me to Abu Walid?”

  “Sure. He loves the Irish. A big Joyce fan. He’s been translating Ulysses into Arabic for the last ten years.”

  “Wonderful, a man of letters in the turmoil of a crumbling country. All right, I’m in.”

  Hoda re-reads the letter from her brother Nabil. He tells her of how wonderful Paris has become since Selima’s arrival. She delights at her brother’s happiness. She looks forward to the day that she too will live in France. But for now, there’s important work to do.

  She waits outside Marwan’s photo studio. She pulls out her hijab. Downtown Beirut is more conservative now that the Sunni militiamen are fired up with the idea that they’re the vanguard of Islam. The studio was once surrounded by many Armenian shops. Some opted to emigrate to Canada. Others moved to Ashrafiyeh. Sunni merchants have moved in, often investing money that they or their relatives earned in Saudi Arabia. West Beirut is losing its cosmopolitan caché. Sleeveless tops and mini-skirts have been replaced by kaftans and hijabs, but Prada knock-offs are still in vogue. For a moment, she thinks she sees Sadira, Akil’s sister, but she’s mistaken. Akil, will she ever forget what he tried to do? She pulls her hijab off and puts it back in her pocket.

  Marwan’s white Mercedes pulls up beside her.

  “Hoda, I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s fine. We still have time. Do you have the photos?”

  “Yes, but today I can drive you myself. It’ll be safer that way.”

  “Are you sure? There might still be some flying checkpoints.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  Hoda jumps into the back seat of the taxi. Marwan passes her the photos, which she slides inside her blouse. He watches her through the rearview mirror. Her hair is flowing free today. It has been a while since he has seen her that way. He takes a deep breath, starts up the Mercedes and heads toward Aley and then Mukhtara.

  Chapter

  28

  Beirut – December 1976

  THE MOUNTAIN ROAD FROM MUKHTARA twists and turns as they head back to Beirut. Normally, Evan would be enjoying the drive, but the trip to Mukhtara was a bust.

  “You look upset,” Riley says.

  “It didn’t go well.”

  “What happened?”

  “Abu Walid blew me off. Instead, he sent his sister Nadia to meet me. She told me point blank that nothing would change Jumblatt’s position on Syria’s presence in Lebanon.”

  Riley shifts in his seat. Evan is pushing the car pretty hard, barely clinging to the road on each new turn.

  “Take it easy, man. Get us to Beirut in one piece, for Criss’ sake!”

  “All right. Keep your panties on!”

  Fecking bastard, Riley thinks, I can’t wait until … A blast hits them before he can complete his thought.

  The Peugeot rolls off the road, doing three-sixties until it hits an enormous cedar. Masked men scramble down the slope. They pull open the driver’s door. Evan, dazed, can barely make out their words.

  “Mish huwi—it’s not him,” the first masked man to reach them says, cursing. The second aims his gun.

  “Khalee-hun li halhun—leave them be.”

  “Why?”

  “Killing foreigners is not what we’re being paid to do.”

  Evan hears the boots jamming into the mountainside as the men scramble back up to the road. He waits until the tires screech away before he finally exhales. Riley’s bloodied face is now staring at him.

  “Sweet mother of Jesus! Who the fuck were those guys?”

  “Palestinians and Syrians. Probably Sa’iqa.”

  “How do you know?”

  Evan holds back. He isn’t ready to reveal how well or why he can distinguish local accents.

  “I don’t know. Just a guess.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Riley tries to move his hand to open the door, but an excruciating pain shoots up his arm. “Feck, I think my arm’s broken.”

  “Hang in there, mate.”

  Evan eases the driver’s door open, noticing in the side mirror that his forehead too is covered with blood. He climbs out of the car. The grass is wet. He starts to slip down the slope but grabs a low-hanging branch of the giant cedar. He looks around. The tree has blocked the car just two metres from the edge of the ravine, an easy two hundred metres deep. He notices the gasoline leaking from the fuel tank.

  “I’ll be there in a sec, Riley,” he says as he hoists himself onto the tree trunk to get to the passenger side of the Peugeot.

  A small rock bounces off Evan’s shoulder. He looks up the mountain. Nothing and then faint voices. Riley hears them too.

  “Jesus,” Riley says, groaning. “Are they coming back to finish us off?”

  The phone is ringing when Marc enters the apartment. He rushes to pick it up.

  “Yes … Okay, I’ll be there shortly.”

  It’s been an exhausting day of work in Sidon. He has spent hours with fishermen protesting against the Israeli seizure of their boats. Things aren’t going well in the South. With the PLO’s support, the Mourabitoun have moved into Sidon and Tyre to set up checkpoints and collect local taxes. In the towns and villages closer to the border, Saad Haddad is forcing Shia villagers to enlist in his Free Lebanon Army. Those who refuse are quickly expelled from his mini-state.

  Marc’s dispatches on South Lebanon can wait. He changes shirts, gives his face a good scrub, and rushes into the street to hail a taxi.

  “Where to, Effendi?”

  “Berbir Hospital.”

  The entrance of the hospital is full of patients. A harried nurse points Marc to the emergency ward. The hospital’s corridors are spotlessly clean, but a few cracks are showing on the walls. As he turns the corner, he sees Hoda, Marwan, and Evan waiting outside a room marked “minor trauma.” Hoda walks to Marc.

  “Don’t worry, Riley’s going to be okay.”

  “What happened?”

  Evan steps forward.

  “Some fucking Syrians and their Palestinian lackeys blew us right off the road!”

  Hoda glares at him.

  “They weren’t our people,” she says.

  “Probably Sa’iqa and Syrian intelligence,” Marwan says. “Do you have any idea why they attacked you?”

  “They probably thought we were somebody else. I heard them say it’s not him, and they just took off.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “No kidding, and then the cavalry arrived.” Evan looks to Hoda and Marwan.

  Marc studies their faces. They twitch a little and avoid his glance.

  Marwan explains how they were returning from Mukhtara. An errand his uncle had asked him to run. Marc looks to Hoda.

  “I asked to go along. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the Shouf,” she says. There’s an unevenness in her words. A tightness around her mouth. Her eyes dart up to the left. Evan knows that she’s lying. He’s been trained in these things.

  Marc doesn’t press her.

  Riley limps out of the trauma room, assisted by a nurse. His arm is in a cast, but he’s smiling.

  “Don’t worry, folks. I’m not dying, at least not yet. Just ba
njaxed my arm.”

  “Let’s get to the office,” Marc says. “We need to file a story on this.”

  “Can you leave our names out of it?” Marwan asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Marc, I need to get back home now,” Hoda says. “I want to make sure that my parents are okay. I’ll see you later.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Marwan says.

  She leans up and kisses Marc. Marwan shuffles his feet. Marc feels something forced in her kiss. He watches Hoda and Marwan leave.

  The nurse insists on pushing Riley in a wheelchair to the exit while Marc trails behind. Riley scribbles his phone number on a piece of paper for her.

  Evan sidles up beside Marc. “Don’t worry about Hoda and Marwan, it’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “Those two weren’t sightseeing in the Shouf, but they’re not fooling around either. It’s something political, I bet. I can find out for you exactly what they’re up to if you want.”

  “No, Evan. If there’s something I need to know, she’ll tell me.” Marc walks quickly ahead of him. His friend’s presence suddenly irritates him. His words were too close to how Marc really feels. He knows that Marwan took great risk in getting him out of Tel al-Zaatar, but it grates on him that his wife-to-be spends so much time with the man. He takes in a deep breath. He will talk to Hoda one day.

  Months fly by, and Marc and Hoda are as busy as ever. She has graduated and is now teaching at the university. Riley recovers and pulls Marc along on every lead he has. Evan frequently goes to Damascus. The embassy there needs a helping hand. He’s met a nice local girl. Cheaper booze in the duty-free zone. Too many pretexts to ring true. Marc doesn’t care. Whatever Evan is up to, he trusts his friend. Marwan isn’t much in sight. Perhaps, Hoda has finally felt Marc’s discomfort about him.

  Hoda’s cousin, Abdullah ‘Akkawi has taken over responsibility for Mieh Mieh, a camp of five thousand in the hills overlooking Sidon. The camp has become a listening post for everything happening in the South, and journalists from everywhere stop there when they can. But rarely does Abdullah agree to see them. There are just too many covert agents posing as journalists. Marc and Riley are the ones he truly trusts. He welcomes them in his modest quarters, and often sends back with them boxes of oranges from the local orchards for his wife Hedaya to sell in the market in Sabra. During the lulls in the fighting, life seems close to normal, or for what passes for normal in Lebanon.

  Dawn is breaking when Riley walks into Marc’s room.

  “They fecking did it!”

  “Did what?”

  “Those bastard Syrians just killed Jumblatt.”

  Marc scrambles out of his bed.

  “Who did you hear this from?”

  “Marwan just called me. He told me to stay out of the Shouf today. The Druze are mobilizing.”

  Silence fills the room as the two journalists begin to realize just how serious the situation is. Jumblatt was no local warlord. He had thousands of armed militiamen, who were ruthless when it came to reprisals. And no act of retaliation would be greater than avenging the murder of their leader. The Syrians are out of reach, hunkered down behind fortified lines, but the Christian population of the Shouf is easy prey. Their isolated villages are only defended by local youths, reinforced by a few hotheads sent up from East Beirut.

  “We can’t just stand by. There’s a story out there that the world needs to hear,” Riley says as he paces around the room.

  “Can Marwan get us there?”

  “No, all of Fouad Saadeh’s drivers are now suspect. The rumour is that Damascus used the pro-Syrian branch of the Social Nationalists to carry out the attack. Fouad’s guys are party members, although none of them side with the Syrians.”

  Marc and Riley ponder the situation.

  “Let’s call Abu Walid. He can at least give us the Druze version of what’s happening.”

  Riley nods his head in agreement and walks to the phone.

  Marwan pours the tea and puts out the pita bread and hummus. But neither of them has much appetite.

  “Hoda, the situation is bad, really bad.”

  She nods.

  “The Druze will drive all the Christians out of the Shouf, and the Phalangists will retaliate against West Beirut.”

  “And they’ll attack the Palestinians first,” she says. “Massacre us again like in Tel al-Zaatar.”

  “Uncle Fouad is trying to work something out. He’s asked me to go to Mukhtara to talk to Abu Walid.”

  “He should go himself.”

  “He can’t. He’s on the Syrian hit list now. Besides, he needs to organize the party’s militia. We could be heading for an all-out war.”

  Hoda rises up. “I need to go. I want to make sure that Marc doesn’t do anything foolish.”

  Marwan watches her as she walks to the door. She has begun wearing traditional Palestinian dresses, which flow to the floor but accentuate her curves. His body begins to ache. How long has he known her? Five years. He remembers when he saw her on her first day of university. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a loose summer blouse. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, and her eyes lit up the room. He wasn’t the only boy whose head she turned. He had thought many times of asking her out. She was a Muslim though, and he a Maronite. Others had bridged that divide, but Marwan had been more cautious, always waiting for the right moment. Then Marc came into the picture. She’s still here in his life, but not as he wishes. He knows one day soon, she’ll leave for France with Marc, and perhaps never return. His chest constricts at the thought.

  Elie Labaki and his men arrive too late. They took the long way around to avoid the Lebanese army checkpoints and drove the muddy back roads for the last ten kilometres into the village. The disorganized Lebanese army has been trying to create a buffer between the belligerents. The army’s efforts keep the Phalangists and other Christian militias from reinforcing their positions in the Shouf, but the better-armed Druze militiamen just drive around the army checkpoints. When Elie and his men arrive in Maaser, the Druze fighters are already gone, leaving behind them a devastating scene of destruction, and evacuating the handful of Druze families still living in the village.

  Twenty-one bodies lie face down along the wall of St. George’s Church. The village women come out of hiding when they see Elie’s men. They rush to the wall, seeking signs of life from their loved ones. There are none. The wailing begins. The male survivors, very old men, load cars and tractors with whatever can be carried. Some of the men try to add the bodies of the dead children, but their mothers resist, holding them tight against their breasts. No, the women will carry the children with them in the cars. Elie tells the villagers to hurry. The Druze could return at any time.

  Compared to the bloodshed in Tel al-Zaatar, Maaser is a minor massacre, but unlike Tel al-Zaatar, no one among the victims carried a gun. It was a mindless killing to quench the Druze’s thirst to avenge the death of their leader. They came in by foot from Mukhtara, walking in the middle of the night through the dense cedar forests to surprise the villagers at dawn, and retreated the same way. Elie looks at the trail and considers pursuing the killers, but it’s too treacherous. Instead, he sends his sappers to mine the trail to delay the henchmen’s return. Most of the villagers clamour to leave for Beirut, but a few want to stay and insist that Elie and his men remain to protect them. Elie explains they’re too few to defend the village.

  An old woman walks up to him. She’s toothless and hard to understand. She waves her cane at him.

  “It’s your fault! We lived in peace with the Druze. You have ruined everything. And for what! So you can sunbathe on the beaches of Jounieh with your women undressed for all the world to see. Go away! Return to your whores! Leave us in peace!”

  Spitting at the ground, she heads for the church. There she’ll pray for the husband she’s lost, for her murdered sons and grandson, for the end of life as she has known it. Elie watches her. Is her anger any d
ifferent from his? He too has cursed the politicians who’ve led them into this war. He calls on the old woman to return to the cars. But she continues walking, her back to those who are deserting their village. Then she falls. The other villagers run toward her. A young woman, her granddaughter, Elie later learns, puts her ear to the old woman’s chest. Nothing. More women gather round, and the ululations begin. The old men glare at Elie, who turns away from them.

  “Yallah, Shabaab. There’s nothing more we can do here,” Elie shouts to his men. He takes one last look around. He thinks, here are the best cedars, the oldest and tallest in the Shouf. Like the Christians of this village, they’ve been here for centuries. But how long will they last in the fires of war? How long will any of them last?

  Chapter

  29

  Paris – March 1978

  NABIL COUGHS AS HE READS THE NEWSPAPER. The news from the Middle East isn’t good. A group of Palestinians have attacked Israel again. This time they’re led by a young woman from Sabra. He remembers Dalal Mughrabi well. She’s only a year younger than him. Now she and her comrades are all dead and more than thirty Israeli civilians, including thirteen children, have perished in the failed mission.

  He looks over at Selima quietly sleeping in his bed, her perfect body curving under the sheets. They’ve found peace in Paris, but those they left behind are still caught in the cycle of violence. He worries for his sister Hoda and for Marwan. It’s clear from her letters that they’re now deeply involved in the Syrian Social Nationalist party. She writes of joining him in France when she marries Marc. But she also speaks often of Marwan and the importance of the work that they’re doing. When he lived with Marwan in Beirut, he saw how Marwan would look at his sister, how he would speak of her. And at times, she would also look back at him. He wonders if Hoda really knows what she wants.

  Images of Dalal Mughrabi and her comrades are already painted on the walls of Sabra when Marc and Riley arrive to interview her family. At first, the family refuses to speak to them. But as Dalal’s mother is closing the door on Marc and Riley, Hoda appears. She asks Dalal’s mother to tell them why her daughter left her nursing studies to become a fighter. Right or wrong, the world should understand why young Palestinians are taking up arms.