Nowhere’s safe—certainly not the nearby city of Tripoli now under the control of Sunni militias opposed to any Christian faction, and at war with the Syrians. Still, Hoda finds it hard to believe Marc hasn’t found them. She’d left a letter with Ghassan to tell Marc that, after the attack on the road and Mustapha ‘Akkawi’s death, they had to change plans and decided to cross the border at Arida on the road from Tartus to Tripoli. Their new rendez-vous would be in the Koura not in Chtaura. She also wrote of her condition.
Isolated in Bsarma, she and Marwan agree to resume the charade of man and wife until Marc can reach them and take Hoda out of Lebanon. Marwan knows only a few people in the village, but some, like their neighbour Um Amin, fondly remember Marwan as the young boy who would visit his grandfather on school vacations. The villagers take their “marriage” at face value. Soon they’re also congratulating Hoda on her obvious pregnancy. None asks why she and Marwan never attend Sunday mass. After all, the couple are “city folk.”
“Things are getting worse,” Marwan says as he shakes the rain off his khaki jacket and puts his rifle against the inside of the door. “These Marada fighters are just gangsters. They won’t last long.”
“Is there any way to get out of here?”
“Only through the Syrian-controlled Alawite parts of Tripoli.”
“No, we can’t trust the Alawites. Is there at least a way to get word to Beirut, to Marc?”
“The Phalangists have cut all the telephone lines in the valley. They’re preparing for a major push.”
“What about the Palestinians in Nahr al-Kalb? They could help us.”
“No, the camp has fallen under the firm control of Muslim extremists. They would kill both of us. Me for being a Maronite and you for carrying a foreigner’s child. For them, we are the worst kind of kuffar.”
“Kuffar—infidels,” Hoda mutters the word under her breath. Is that how she’ll be seen?—a woman who has abandoned Islam and is now carrying the child of her non-Muslim lover.
Hoda feels her belly. She’s six months pregnant. She wants desperately to escape this place. Damn Marc, why hasn’t he found them yet? He has connections everywhere. He could certainly have found a way across the lines. Perhaps, he doesn’t want to. They never talked about having a family. Would he betray her when she needs him most?
Marwan sits beside her.
“Don’t worry. Maybe, I exaggerated. We’ll stay here. Bsarma is just a small village. Perhaps, we will be left in peace.”
Hoda begins to cry on his shoulder.
“Marwan, I’m so afraid for the baby.”
“Don’t! I’m here with you.”
Travel within Lebanon has become almost impossible. In the north, the Phalangists are pressing the Marada militia hard for control of more territory. In Beirut and its southern suburbs, the Shiite Amal Movement have come to blows with the Syrian Army. Elsewhere the usual sectarian violence and petty gangsterism are running rampant. The respect for journalists at the beginning of the war has long since faded, and Marc’s name tops the kidnapping lists of several militias he has lambasted in his articles.
The quiet refugee camp of Mieh Mieh comes into view. There Abdullah ‘Akkawi will be able to help him find Hoda.
Fighters from the checkpoint outside the camp jump into the taxi for the last stretch to Abdullah’s house. Although two of them know Marc, no one approaches their commander’s house unaccompanied.
The gigantic fighter appears at the door to his quarters. Marc jumps out of the taxi and marches up to him.
“Do you know where Hoda is?”
“Come inside. I’ve prepared tea.”
Marc follows the tall man’s orders. Abdullah eases himself to the cushions on the floor, the wounds from last year’s invasion are still not completely healed. Marc sits beside his friend.
“What do you know, Abdullah?”
“About Hoda?”
“Yes.”
“Things went awry after Mustapha was killed outside of Sednaya. Hoda, Marwan and my man Ghassan survived the attack, but Mustapha’s men refused to take them to the border. They blamed their commander’s death on them.”
“And?”
“They took their chances with the Damascene taxi driver. He took them to Aridha where crossing the border is much easier.”
“And you learned this from Ghassan?”
“No, Ghassan didn’t make it back to Mieh Mieh. His mutilated body was found on the road from Ba’albek to Chtaura, not far from the Christian town of Zahlé. The local villagers buried him and gave his identity papers to the Lebanese police. We found out about Aridha from the driver in Damascus.”
“So where’s Hoda now? When can I see her?”
“We lost track of them after Aridha. They didn’t want to tell the driver where they were going next.”
Marc waited.
“Don’t look at me that way! Don’t you think that I wouldn’t leave any stone unturned until I found her? We’ll find Hoda, but we must wait. There are too many things happening, and the Israelis could return at any time.”
It’s not what Marc had hoped to hear, but he understands that Abdullah is stuck in Mieh Mieh, coordinating the preparation of the next Israeli invasion. Abdullah is his last lead. He has already tried Fouad Saadeh, who knows nothing more, even after putting out the word to every Social Nationalist in Lebanon and Syria. He thinks about Aridha. Why that border crossing? Safer yes, but could there be another reason? He recalls that Marwan had once spoken about spending much of his childhood with his grandparents in the Koura Valley. What was the name of that village again?
“Abdullah, can you get me to the north?”
“Where?”
“The Koura Valley.”
“The Koura is inaccessible. The area is defended by Suleiman Franjiyeh’s forces, and he’s clearly in the pockets of the Syrians. Your problems with Damascus aren’t going away anytime soon. Besides everything between Beirut and the Koura is in the hands of the Phalangists, and they’re pressing hard to expand their territory north and northeast to box Franjiyeh in.”
Marc knows what Abdullah is saying is true. The Phalangists have succeeded in bringing other Christian fighters under the umbrella of the newly formed Lebanese Forces. Only Suleiman Franjiyeh and his Marada militia are holding out. The fighting in the North is bound to get a lot worse and very soon. He’ll need to wait out the worst of it before trying to reach the Koura.
Chapter
50
Bsarma – November 1979
IT HAPPENS SO SUDDENLY. A whizzing through the air. Hoda doesn’t even have time to look up. The mortar shell smashes into the wall of the old house, knocking her down. She instantly feels the wrenching in her abdomen. She clutches herself and sees the blood on the floor. Hands are lifting her toward the bed. She looks up to see the faces of her neighbour Um Amin and her daughters, Amal and Najwa. She can hear their soft reassurances. Don’t worry. Everything is fine.
When the child comes, it is already dead. The impact was too great. When Hoda comes back to consciousness, Um Amin tells her that a priest sprinkled holy water on her child.
“Don’t worry, my little one. We even gave him a name.”
Hoda’s eyes turn up to the old woman.
“Yes, a beautiful name. Rami. It was Marwan’s grandfather’s name.”
Um Amin’s youngest daughter, Amal, blurts out: “And you’ll see him in heaven. God is merciful to the innocent!”
Marwan, who’d left the fighting as soon as he heard what had happened, now sits holding Hoda’s hand. He sees her lips move, but without sound. He leans down to hear better.
“Rami,” she whispers as she slips into unconsciousness.
The days pass. The first snow blankets the mountains above the Koura. The Phalangists return to their warm homes in the Metn. The Marada militiamen also return to their loved ones, but many fewer men than the summer before. Marwan now is always by Hoda’s side. In her semi-lucid moments, she confesses to him
her fear that Marc has abandoned her. She wants to return to her parents’ home in Sabra. Winter comes and goes, and the melting of the snow on the mountain passes promises another season of blood-letting. The militiamen pay their respects to Hoda but insist that Marwan must return to the front. Marwan has become a good fighter, and they need everyone to repel the Phalangists’ spring offensive.
Under the warm Koura sun, Hoda’s injuries heal. The Phalangists retreat, and Marwan returns home. Hoda decides to stay in Bsarma. It isn’t that it’s too dangerous to return to Beirut. The roads have re-opened during a ceasefire. It’s that she no longer wants to see Marc. In her mind, the loss of the child, their child, ends everything between them. She can’t believe that he couldn’t find them. The directions to Bsarma were clear in the letter she gave to Ghassan, and she trusted Ghassan. The young man had stood by her on the road from Sednaya and risked his life to bring them to Aridha. He wouldn’t betray her. He would certainly have found a way to deliver the letter. Yes, it’s Marc who’s failed her, turning his back on his unborn child. Had she really ever known him?
In the recent months, Marwan has become every day more caring, more tender in his language and attentive to her needs. They no longer speak just of politics and the good times in Beirut, but instead, increasingly of the everyday goings-on of the village. Despite the war, the hearts of the villagers have not hardened. Many come to visit Um Rami, as they now call her. Their warmth and simple manners win her over. Even in war, these villagers never hesitate to reach out and share their love of life. And for a while, she thinks that she can live with them forever. When she is strong enough to walk, Um Amin and her daughters take her to the cemetery. As they stand there by the tiny plot with a carved wooden cross, Hoda panics—she has nothing to put on her son’s grave. Um Amin speaks quickly to her daughters. Najwa and Amal run into the nearby forest. Within a few minutes, they return with wildflowers. There are so many to choose from, but Hoda takes a single sawfar iris and lays it on the rough stones covering the son she’s never seen.
Um Amin and her daughters begin to recite prayers in the Syriac language that the priest has taught them, but Hoda puts her finger to her lips, takes their hands in hers, and recites to her son the words of Gibran Khalil Gibran, Lebanon’s greatest poet.
You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
Chapter
51
Bsarma, Northern Lebanon – December 1979
IT HAPPENS MUCH QUICKER than they expected. Maybe it was inevitable—as Abdullah would say “Maktoub.” Hoda thinks back when she first saw Marwan. He was a handsome young man with a brilliant mind. That he was a Maronite had dissuaded her from any other thoughts. Marrying a foreigner who could take her away from Lebanon was one thing, but falling in love with a Christian Lebanese is another. Now in the eyes of all the villagers, they’re a happily married couple. When they look at each other, they begin to feel the same.
Marwan is still a traditionalist underneath his revolutionary idealism.
“I will find a way,” he proclaims.
“A way for what?”
“For us to marry.”
“You know that’s not possible. There’s no civil marriage in Lebanon.”
“I know, and the local clergy will ask to see our identity cards. Mine as a Christian and yours as a Muslim. But I will find a way. I could …”
“Stop! Don’t even think about converting!”
“It would only be on paper. We could go to Tripoli and …”
“No, I said no! I’m not asking you to risk losing your community over something that I don’t even believe in.”
“Okay, but I will still find a way.”
Hoda begins to invite Marwan to her bed, but he refuses. At night, she hears him pace the floor in the next room, trying to find a solution to their dilemma.
After a week, Marwan surprises Hoda in the kitchen as she chops parsley for tabbouleh.
“I found it.”
“Go on.”
“I met an American missionary in Zghorta. He can do it.”
“What church does he belong to?”
“He’s a Quaker.”
Tom was the young Quaker’s name. And he wasn’t quite a missionary. He had worked in Ramallah at the Friends School and had come up to Lebanon to volunteer in an orphanage in Zghorta. Marwan had asked him how Quakers married. Tom explained that Quakers had no clergy to officiate a wedding, but instead, other Quakers simply witnessed the marriage. Marwan asked how many witnesses were needed, and Tom answered: “Just one.”
So it’s decided. Marwan will ask Tom to come to Bsarma to witness their marriage. Hoda is delighted. She knows that the ceremony isn’t necessary. In her heart, she’s already married to Marwan. But she loves the effort that he’s gone to make things right.
“Marwan, you know that I love you. If you want to bring Tom here, that’s fine, but come with me now.”
Hoda pulls on his army jacket to take him to the bedroom. She takes off her clothes and lays them on the commode. She lets his eyes wash over her. Her excitement grows. It’s clear that his desire for her is strong, very strong. But he backs away.
“Wait, Hoda, I’ll get Tom now. We’ll be together tonight.”
Before Hoda can pull him back into the bedroom, he’s gone.
Four hours later, the young blond American follows Marwan into the house. The ceremony lasts ten minutes—just brief declarations of love and fidelity, a sheet of foolscap inked with the date of the marriage and the signatures of Hoda, Marwan and Tom.
“Are we really married?” Hoda asks.
“God joins man and woman together. All I’ve done is witnessed this so that you’ll be married in the eyes of the Society of Friends.”
“Tom, I don’t know how to thank you,” Marwan says.
“It’s nothing. Look, I haven’t seen Bsarma before. I’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Tom says with a shy grin.
Hoda walks up to Tom and kisses him on the cheek. “Thank you.”
With Tom’s departure, Hoda takes her husband by the hand to the bedroom. With the tenderest of care, she undresses him. He wants to turn off the light, but she refuses. When she removes his shirt, she sees the deep scars from the interrogation in Sednaya. He tries to pull it back on to hide them. No, she whispers that his scars witness his loyalty to her—the refusal to speak even under torture. He shivers when she touches them. She realizes that this is the first time that her traditionalist has ever been with a woman, and it excites her. She places his rough hands on her shoulders and pulls them down to her breasts. She meets his lips with hers and then guides his hand beneath her skirt. He pulls her closer, lifting her skirt high. She unbuckles his belt and slips her hand inside his pants. Her fingertips stroke his penis. It is hard and beautiful. She pulls him onto the bed. And lost in the moment of ecstasy, she drinks every gasp from his lips.
Chapter
52
Allenby Bridge Border Crossing – September 2007
MARIE AND MINH CHAU step down from the bus at the border. The driver unlocks the luggage compartment and pulls out the bags one at a time, under the watchful eye of two Israeli soldiers. Arab porters take the luggage of the Palestinian passengers off to an outdoor conveyor belt where teenage soldiers rifle through them. It’s nearly forty degrees Celsius, and the soldiers are irritable. Each time they come across unlabelled liquids and electronic gadgets they shout at the owner to step forward. If the answers don’t please them, they toss the objects into large storage bins. The bags of Marie and Minh Chau and the five other foreigners are taken to counters inside the building. As they wait for their turn, Marie again quizzes Min
h Chau about what Selima told her in Beirut.
“So Selima really doesn’t think that Marc can be my father?”
“That’s right.”
“But she did say that Hoda ‘Akkawi and Marc were a couple?”
“She said that they were together. I assume she meant as a couple.”
Marie looks at the floor.
Minh Chau gives her friend a minute before asking: “Does it bother you they were a couple even if he’s not your father?”
Marie doesn’t answer.
“Oh my God! Marie, you have feelings for Taragon. I knew it!”
Marie stiffens. She’s unsure how to respond. Minh Chau is now crossing the line. She resents her friend’s uncanny ability to read her and worse maybe even decipher what she herself can’t come to grips with.
“Next,” the Israeli immigration official shouts.
Marie steps up and Minh Chau is called over by another official.
The grilling goes on for forty minutes and each is given a thorough body search. A lone taxi is left in the parking lot, and its licence plate doesn’t match the one they’ve been given for their new driver. An Anglican priest who was on the bus steps up beside them.
“Don’t worry. I thought that this would happen when I overheard you say you were in Lebanon. I asked my driver to wait.”
“Thank you. That was very kind of you,” Marie says.
“Are you just headed for Jerusalem?”
“No, we need to get to Tiberias today.”
The priest converses quickly in Arabic with the driver.
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