Quill of the Dove

by Ian Thomas Shaw

  “Who?”

  “Her name is Hoda ‘Akkawi.”

  Marwan adjusts his binoculars. Three trucks are coming up the road from the south. They bear the cedar in a red circle insignia of the Lebanese Forces, the new identity that the Phalangists work under. He realizes that his small group could soon be outnumbered ten to one. He prays that the trucks will continue past the men now clearing the entrance to the back road. The trees hide those men from his sight, but he can hear the trucks come to a grinding halt. Then comes the distant muffled sound of boots hitting the ground.

  “Let’s go back to Bsarma,” a seasoned Marada fighter says. “We won’t be able to hold them off here.”

  “Go if you want, but I’m staying here,” Marwan says.

  The fighter confers with the rest. Two young fighters opt to stay with Marwan. The other four decide to return to the village and try to get word to Ehden to send reinforcements.

  Marwan turns to the two remaining fighters. They’re brothers still in their teens. One has been courting Najwa, Um Amin’s daughter.

  “Why have you decided to stay?”

  “It is better that we die here if it delays the Phalangists,” the younger brother says. “It’ll give time for our friends to evacuate our families.” The other brother nods in agreement.

  Marwan pats them on the shoulders. His decision is no different. He knows that falling back on Bsarma now would only allow the enemy below a free run on the village. He thinks of Hoda and Meryem. Will they leave with the other villagers? He should’ve given the departing fighters a special message for them. Too late. Perhaps, they can still hold off the Phalangists. After all, the enemy doesn’t know how many men he has with him.

  There’s a lull as the forces below cautiously probe their way up the dirt track. Marwan keeps his eyes fixed on the invaders. But for a moment, his attention lapses. He thinks of the time he lost, standing on the sidelines while Hoda was with Marc. If he’d only been courageous enough to ask her out when they first met at the university. Two years together are not enough. And now there’s Meryem in their lives.

  After they married, Marwan wondered whether he was only Hoda’s second choice and if Marc turned up one day, she would fall in love with him again. It bothers him that the priest had named the dead child Rami after his grandfather, and now all the villagers greet him as Abu Rami. The child was Marc’s son, not his. Each greeting is a constant reminder that he isn’t the first in Hoda’s life. He knows that it’s petty to resent the dead child for having to live this lie in his grandfather’s village. It’s a lie to protect Hoda, and he would live a thousand more lies for her. One day when she returned from her weekly visit to Rami’s grave, he confessed his doubts. She reassured him that her love was unconditional and that she’d never felt with Marc what she now feels with him. But his doubts continued to resurface, and lately, he’s felt Marc’s presence. He knows that this is irrational, but somehow it’s as if his rival is closing in on him. He banishes these fears and delusions from his mind. He must defend Bsarma with action, not thoughts or words. His family is there.

  The Marada commander is growing impatient with this famous journalist.

  “I told you. I don’t know any Hoda ‘Akkawi. Besides, you say she’s a Palestinian. The Palestinians know we don’t want them any more than the Phalangists do. Why would she come here?”

  “Let me stay in Ehden for a while,” Marc says. “I’m sure that she’s somewhere in the Koura.”

  “Look, I can’t have you running around here. If you’re caught by the Phalangists, they’ll force you to tell them what you have seen of our defences. You must go now!”

  A young fighter bursts into the commander’s office.

  “Pardon me, Sir. The Phalangists have taken Aaba and now control the main road to Kfar Hazzir. They’ve also discovered a backroad into Bsarma. Our men there are urgently asking for reinforcements.”

  “Are they defending the village?”

  “Yes, they have a few men in the hills who are trying to delay the Phalangists’ advance along the back road.”

  The commander turns to Marc. “You heard him. We have an attack to deal with. You must go now!”

  Marc grabs the man by the shoulder. “No, it’s taken me two years to get here. I can’t leave now!” The commander lashes back, smashing Marc’s face with his fist. Several of his men grab Marc’s arms. No one touches me, the commander thinks. He turns to his men.

  “Teach this Fransawi a lesson and then put him in a taxi out of here. Make it quick! We’re going to Bsarma.”

  Hoda watches the villagers pack provisions for their trip to the escarpment to the east of the village. Even if the Phalangists take Bsarma, they won’t risk following the villagers up the escarpment. This has been the village’s escape route for hundreds of years, and everyone knows what to do. Hoda has made her decision to wait for Marwan. Several other villagers, including Um Amin and her daughters, have decided to stay as well.

  Hoda looks at a photo of young Marwan on the wall. It was taken by his grandfather. She now realizes how deeply she loves him. How foolish it was to waste the years with Marc when she could’ve been with Marwan. In her mind, there’s no doubt that Marc has abandoned her. If not, he would have found her by now. She knows that her husband would never abandon her. The fighters returning from the hills have told her that he’s there right now defending Bsarma, defending her and her daughter. She feels a tug on her leg. Meryem is looking up, her eyes drowsy and her hair tousled. How she resembles her father!

  Elie’s men are only fifty metres up the back road when they come under fire. This confirms what he suspected. The road must lead right into Bsarma. It’s his lucky day. If his men can take two villages from the Marada in a single day, Beirut will take notice. Since Tel al-Zaatar, he’s risen through the ranks to company commander. Now he has greater ambitions.

  Marwan has the Phalangists’ lead man in his gunsights. He hesitates. It is never easy to take a man’s life. But he thinks of Hoda and Meryem and squeezes the trigger. Pats on his back from the young fighters.

  “You got him, Marwan!” they shout. Their joy is brief. A hail of bullets strikes down both of them. Marwan is now alone. He returns fire. His aim is deadly. One, two, three Phalangists fall under it. Then a bullet rips through his left shoulder. He breathes hard and continues firing.

  Elie pulls his wounded men to cover. Four boys, all from his home town of Bikfaya. Losing more men to this ambush isn’t worth it. Today, they’ll liberate Bterram instead.

  The reinforcements from Ehden emerge from the trees, firing in the air to proclaim their victory. Hoda picks up Meryem and rushes to them. On stretchers are the two brothers, one of them Najwa’s fiancée. The young girl weeps hysterically by his side. Her mother desperately tries to console her. Then the hand of Amal, Um Amin’s youngest daughter, pulls Hoda’s arm.

  “This way. Marwan is over there!”

  They scramble past the militiamen to a stretcher laid on the soft green grass. The doctor beside it looks up at Hoda.

  “Your husband is still alive, but not for long. I can do nothing more for him.”

  Hoda kneels to the ground with Meryem still in her arms. She mouths the words, I love you. Meryem crawls out of her mother’s arms. Marwan motions to Hoda to bring Meryem closer. To his loved ones, he whispers the simple poetry of Nizar Qabbani.

  Before you came

  The world was prose

  Now poetry is born

  Chapter

  56

  Bsarma – Spring 1982

  THE VILLAGERS BURY MARWAN next to his grandfather and Rami. Hoda carries Meryem in her arms during the funeral procession. People swarm around her to offer their condolences. The commander from Ehden speaks to her of Marwan’s courage. He asks her where she’s from. Beirut. Beirut is big. Where in Beirut? Hoda turns away from him. She notices several Marada fighters watch her as if to say they know who she is, have always known. One walks up to the commander and whispers i
n his ear. He then steps forward toward her. But Um Amin stands in his way and tells him to let Hoda be.

  Tom joins Hoda in the funeral procession. She takes his arm and walks with him. He tells her that he is leaving Lebanon. The road to Beirut via the Beka’a Valley has just re-opened, and he wants to get out before it closes again.

  Hoda knows she can no longer stay in Bsarma. Nothing will happen to her today or tomorrow or perhaps for weeks. But she knows that suspicions will grow, and they may come for her when the allure of being the wife of a hero wears thin. She says softly to Tom: “Take me with you!”

  Tom looks at her uncertain what to say.

  “Take me to Beirut,” she says. “My parents are there.”

  “Okay, I can do that, but are you sure? Do you really want to travel with an American? There are still a lot of checkpoints.”

  “Yes.”

  “I leave tonight.”

  “We’ll be ready.”

  The trip takes longer than expected. Tom is right about raising suspicions. Most of the militiamen think that he’s CIA, but no one wants trouble from the Americans. After some lengthy questioning, Christian, Muslim and Druze militiamen let the couple through.

  Tom insists on driving Hoda all the way to her parents’ house in Sabra. Even the Death to America banners with gigantic photos of Khomeini in the poor Shia neighbourhoods don’t deter him.

  They pull away from the checkpoint at the entrance to the camp and drive toward Bir Hassan Street. As they pass Akil’s old olive oil shop, she shudders. Is she doing the right thing?

  They miss the turn-off at Café al-Awdah.

  “Stop!” Hoda says. “Can you back up to the corner?”

  Tom shifts into reverse.

  “Thanks, turn left here,” she says.

  They pass some young men returning from the mosque. She recognizes a few. Akil’s friends. But they no longer wear the skullcaps and dishdashas. Instead, all are in the army fatigues and keffiyehs.

  Tom is speaking but not to her.

  “How are you doing there, Meryem?”

  Her daughter looks up at the big American and claps her hands.

  “Hoda, are you nervous about seeing your parents again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they know about Meryem?”

  “No, they don’t even know that I’m alive. I couldn’t take the risk of contacting them when we were in Bsarma. Besides, explaining that I married a Christian isn’t an easy thing.”

  “Do you intend to tell them now?”

  “Yes, I’ll have no choice when they see Meryem. Turn here. It’s the third house on the right.”

  “Should I stay with you?”

  “No, let’s say our goodbyes here.”

  As Tom pulls in behind an old blue Peugeot, he can see the curtains of the neighbours’ windows open. He walks to the trunk and opens it to take out Hoda’s old canvas suitcase, a gift from Um Amin. Hoda is now at his side. Her hair is covered with a white scarf. It’s the first time that he’s seen her in a hijab. She steps forward and presses the silver crucifix into his hand. “Take it, Tom. I won’t need it now.”

  He feels a tug on his pants. A tiny voice speaks. “Tom come?”

  “No, my love. Tom must leave,” Hoda says.

  Meryem wraps her arms around Tom’s leg. “No, Tom come!”

  He bends down and lifts the young girl high in his arms. He whirls her around. She spreads her arms, and screams in delight: “Airplane! Ana Tayara—me airplane.”

  “Hoda?”

  Hoda turns to see her mother walking slowly toward her.

  “Mama!”

  That night in Sabra, Hoda writes the first of many letters to Um Amin. She tells her that reuniting with her parents has proven much easier than she had thought. Their love for Meryem is immediate and unconditional. At first, they assume that Tom is Meryem’s father, but Hoda quickly clears that up. And Tom is free to be on his way but not before, at her mother’s insistence, he shares a modest meal with them.

  In the morning, Abdullah’s wife, Hedaya, comes over with her son, Munir. When she sees Hoda, she runs over to embrace her, and Munir walks cautiously up to Meryem. The two children look curiously at each other. Hoda places her hand on Munir’s shoulder and says: “Munir, this is your cousin. Meryem, say hello to Munir.”

  Meryem holds out her tiny hand, but when Munir reaches out to shake it, Meryem pulls it away. She raises her arms and cries out: “Ana Tayara! Ana Tayara! Lift, lift!” Munir looks at his mother who nods her head, and dutifully he lifts his young cousin high into the air.

  Hoda and Meryem spend every day with Hedaya and Munir. The young boy proudly assumes the role of his cousin’s protector, especially after they tell him that Meryem is named after his grandmother. In the morning, they go to the market to take new orders from the vendors for the oranges that Abdullah sends them from Mieh Mieh. Supplying citrus to the Sabra merchants has become an important source of income for the whole family. Even Munir has set up a small stand in front of their house where he sits like a pasha counting out coins.

  When Abdullah finally makes it back to Beirut, he immediately embraces Meryem. With one hand, he lifts her high into the sky, and she responds by flying like an airplane. Hoda walks up to Abdullah. He throws his free arm around her shoulders and pulls her tight.

  “I’m so honoured that you named her after my mother.”

  “Abdullah, your mother taught me so much. Now I will teach my daughter to be like her, strong, wise and open to the world.”

  She can see the tears in his eyes.

  “Hoda, we all thought you died, like Ghassan.”

  “Ghassan is dead?”

  “Yes, murdered on the road from Baalbek. There was nothing on him, but a Shiite fighter recognized him, and informed us a week later.”

  “Nothing was found on him? Not even a letter?”

  “A letter? No, there was no letter.”

  “And Marc?”

  “It took him several weeks to find a way to return to the Middle East after Syria expelled him. He came to see me right away.”

  “It hurt me that he didn’t look for me,” Hoda murmurs.

  “Oh, he looked for you. In fact, just a couple of months ago, he was looking for you in the Koura in the midst of the fighting between Gemayel’s men and Franjiyeh’s people. Marada fighters caught him asking questions in Ehden and nearly beat him to death.”

  Hoda pauses to take in all the information. It’s overwhelming. To think that Marc had come within a few kilometres of Bsarma.

  “I can contact Marc for you,” Abdullah says. “Right now, he’s in Afghanistan covering the Mujahideen’s Jihad against the Russian occupation. We have friends who can get a message to him.”

  “No! Listen, Marc is the past. Marwan was the real love of my life. He’s the father of my child. I don’t want to confuse things now. Swear to me, Abdullah, that you will never tell Marc where I am.”

  “Excuse me, Hoda. I must speak to Abdullah,” Hedaya says, interrupting.

  “Yes, Ruhi, what is it?”

  Hedaya hands her husband a small note. He glances at it and then looks over to the doorway where one of his men is waiting for him.

  “What is it, Abdullah?” Hoda asks.

  “I have to return to Mieh Mieh. The Israelis have crossed the border.”

  “An incursion?”

  “No, this time, they’ve crossed in full force.”

  Hoda embraces Abdullah. “Be safe!”

  As Abdullah’s car starts on the long trip to Mieh Mieh, Hoda’s father brings out an old transistor radio. He dials it to the Israel Broadcasting Corporation’s English service.

  “Can you tell us what they’re saying, Hoda?”

  She turns up the volume.

  A man with a South African accent says: “The Israeli Defence Forces have crossed into Lebanon to stop the shelling of our northern settlements. Operation Peace for the Galilee has begun.”

  By mid-June, the Israelis rea
ch the outskirts of West Beirut, and the inhabitants prepare for a long siege. Hoda writes to Um Amin about the many hardships that the city endures. The citrus shipments from the south stop immediately. Other food grows scarcer. The constant artillery shelling shatters any sense of normalcy. Both Lebanese and Palestinians feel abandoned by the world.

  That is until Marc returns to cover the story. In the evenings, Hoda listens to his voice on the radio, recounting the latest violations of the ceasefire and the fear and deprivation felt by the civilian population. But he also doesn’t hesitate to report on how Palestinian fighters are positioning their own artillery in densely populated areas, endangering tens of thousands of civilians. Of all the journalists, he takes the most risks to get both sides of the story. Despite what she told Abdullah, Hoda is tempted to see Marc again, if for nothing else to explain what had happened and to thank him for speaking up for the people of Beirut.

  Two months into the siege, the unspeakable happens. Arafat capitulates and agrees to the evacuation of the PLO forces.

  When the departure date arrives, the ululations from mothers, wives and sisters fill the streets of Sabra as the men climb aboard the trucks that will take them to the port.

  Hoda brings her parents their morning tea, unsure of what to tell them, afraid to alarm them.

  “What is all the noise outside?” her mother asks.

  “It’s nothing, Mama.”

  “Can you bring the doctor? Your father’s not well today.”

  “Yes, Mama. I will get him, but later. He’s still at the hospital.”

  It’s a lie. She knows that their only doctor, a prominent member of the Popular Front, is also leaving. Were he to stay, he would certainly be imprisoned when the Israelis move into the city. She’s heard though that Abdullah has refused to leave and is now hiding among the Druze in the Shouf, looking for a way to return to Sabra. When he does, perhaps he can find a new doctor for them.

  Hoda thinks about trying to contact Marc for help, but the multinational forces brought in to secure the evacuation of the fighters won’t let ordinary refugees from the camp enter the city.