Beirut, Beirut

by Sonallah Ibrahim

  The scorch marks extended to a shop selling candy and cigarettes, from which wafted the fresh scent of coffee beans. A group of ball-shaped glass containers of identical size were set out in front of the entrance, containing different kinds of hazelnuts, shelled almonds and peanuts.

  Two young men, carrying weapons, accosted me at the entrance to the building. They insisted on searching my shoulder bag, and on using the phone in front of them to call Lamia’s office before they would let me go upstairs.

  I went up a few steps to the elevator, but it wasn’t there, so I opted to continue walking up the stairs, which had blast marks on the walls. When I reached the second floor, I saw “Dar al-Thaqafa Publishing” on a sign above an open door. A metal scaffold was erected in front of it. There was a worker on top of the scaffold busy adding layers of cement mixture to the ceiling.

  There was another worker inside painting the walls. A tall man with a gun hanging from his waist was watching him with an unusual level of attention. He only let me pass after I showed him my passport and he had inspected me. Then he handed me over to a plump secretary with a laughing face, who led me to an office at the end of a passageway to the right of the entrance.

  She knocked on the door and went in, and Lamia’s wide eyes gazed on me. She was sitting behind a metal desk at the end of a large office. She stood up with a smile, and walked around her desk. She extended her hand to me, and I shook it. She held my hand in a tender grip, as she led me to two small couches next to each other in a corner of the room. A small glass table stood between them. We each sat on a couch.

  She was wearing a green ensemble, made up of a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt that looked like shorts. My eyes took in her rosy skin and her soft, plump lips.

  She addressed me in a refined voice: “How are you?”

  “Good,” I responded, using the Lebanese word.

  “We like the Egyptian dialect, and we have no problem understanding it. Don’t wear yourself out imitating ours.”

  “What if I like the Lebanese dialect?” I asked as I pulled out of my shoulder bag the envelope containing a copy of my book manuscript.

  She took the envelope from me with straight fingers that had long nails painted the color of her skin. As she put it on the table, she asked, “What would you like to drink? Coffee, or something cold?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Bitter, or the way the Egyptians make it?”

  “The way you’ll drink it,” I replied, with my eyes on her lips.

  She stood up in an elegant movement, and walked over to her desk. She leaned over it with her back to me. She pressed the button for the intercom, and spoke into it in a half-whisper. I didn’t take my eyes off her firm, well-proportioned behind. Our eyes met when she suddenly turned around and walked back to her couch. In her eyes, I noticed the trace of a light smile.

  She sat next to me on the adjoining couch and crossed her legs.

  “Adnan spoke with me again today,” she said. “He sends his sincere apologies for the inconvenience we’ve caused you. He entrusted me to use my judgment in regards to your book.”

  “My fate is in your hands.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” she replied, laughing.

  “Did you know that I saw you a few days ago?”

  “Where?”

  “I’ve forgotten the name of the place. A café near the American University. You were with a woman who was wearing a black dress.”

  “Aah . . . that was a friend of mine.”

  The secretary brought the coffee on a small silver tray and then left. I lifted my cup to my lips and swallowed a sip of bitter coffee, as my eyes ran over Lamia’s legs down to her feet and her long, full toenails.

  She noticed the direction of my gaze, and looked down at her feet. At that moment the telephone rang and she got up again. She walked to her desk, then walked around it so as to face me. She lifted the phone to her ear and listened for a moment, then pressed a button on the phone.

  “Hello,” she said, in the same whispering voice.

  I saw her eyebrows knit a little, as she listened without saying anything. Then she muttered a word I couldn’t make out, and slowly put the receiver back in its place.

  I occupied myself by looking at a glass bookcase that held copies of the firm’s publications in deluxe editions. She spoke to me from behind her desk as she gestured at the phone: “That was my friend, the one we were talking about. Unfortunately, I have to leave now. Would you like me to drop you off somewhere?”

  “I’m on my way to Fakahani.”

  She leaned over the intercom and pressed the button, then whispered two words into it. She took a small purse from the desk and straightened up.

  I placed my cup on the tray, and picked up my shoulder bag as I stood up myself. I followed her outside.

  The secretary was waiting for us. Beside her was the tall young man who walked briskly ahead of us out of the building. I walked over toward the elevator, but Lamia put her hand on my arm, saying, “It’s better if we take the stairs. Security precautions.”

  “Why?”

  “The elevator might be rigged to explode.”

  The young man went down the stairs ahead of us. Lamia leaned her head toward me and I breathed in her perfume.

  Gesturing at him with her eyes, she whispered, “It’s for security precautions, too, that I don’t go anywhere without a bodyguard.”

  Our companion went ahead of us to a late-model Chevrolet; in the driver seat was a chauffeur in a uniform with two rows of shiny brass buttons. The bodyguard held open the back door and waited until Lamia got in. Then he closed it and walked around the car while I followed him. He opened the other door for me, and after closing it behind me, he completed his walk around the car, and took the seat next to the driver.

  As the car set off, passing in front of the American Embassy and heading toward Hamra Street, I said, “You can take your time reading the manuscript. I’ll be staying in Beirut for at least ten more days.”

  “Very good,” she said, imitating the Egyptian dialect. “I’ll call you as soon as I finish it.”

  The car made its way through narrow streets crowded with pedestrians, then came to a stop in front of the Palestinian Media Bureau. I got out of the car and walked to the building where Antoinette’s office was. After the usual security measures, I went up. I found her waiting for me in the editing room, where she had finished loading in place the soundtrack and film reel. I took out my pen and paper, and immediately we set to work.

  The First Part of the Film

  Formations of warplanes carrying the Star of David on their sides. The planes make continual sorties over modest homes and extensive fields. Bombs explode in the middle of the fields. The houses collapse.

  Title card:

  In the first hours of 1975, Israeli attacks on southern Lebanon stepped up their intensity.

  A circle around a paragraph from the Israeli newspaper Maariv, dated January 31, 1975. Mordechai Gur, the Israeli Army’s chief of staff, announces: “We have to create a new geopolitical situation in the region.”

  The beautiful Lebanese tourist town of Chtaura. Snow covers the streets and the tops of trim-looking houses. A parade for Syrian president Hafez al-Assad makes its way through the streets of the town. The Lebanese president Suleiman Frangieh comes down the steps of his palace and walks forward to welcome the Syrian president.

  An official spokesman reads out to journalists an announcement about the meeting between the two presidents. The announcement confirms Syria’s readiness to support Lebanon in the face of Israeli hostilities.

  Title card:

  At the same time . . .

  Camille Chamoun stands before a long table surrounded by people sitting and standing. He raises a glass to his lips to toast the success of the Protein Company.

  Title card:

  The Protein Company was established with Lebanese and Gulf capital, a loan from the Shah of Iran, and technological support from a numbe
r of foreign companies. The founders chose Chamoun as president of the company. From Saeb Salam’s government, Chamoun obtained for the company a concession for a monopoly on fishing off Lebanese shores for a 99-year period.

  Protest demonstrations by fishermen and nationalist and progressive parties. Signs carrying various slogans, including “The big fish eats the little fish” and “Our sons are soldiers in defense of southern Lebanon”.

  The city of Sidon. A crowd of demonstration carries the Nasserist parliament member Maaruf Saad on their shoulders. The army fires on the demonstration.

  Headline from a Lebanese newspaper: “Maaruf Saad hit by gunfire”.

  Beirut. Several thousand Maronite students in a demonstration in support of the army. Signs demand the removal of weapons from the Palestinians.

  Headline from a Lebanese newspaper: “Death of Maaruf Saad”.

  An enormous demonstration raises up a photograph, draped in black, of Maaruf Saad.

  Headquarters of the Ministry of Defense in Beirut. A long, quiet passageway with closed doors on both sides. A senior officer emerges from one of the rooms and loudly slams the door behind him.

  Title card:

  The army refused to hand over to the court the soldier who killed Maaruf Saad or the intelligence officer who gave him the order to do it.

  Leaders of the nationalist and leftist parties around a round table. In the middle of them is Kamal Jumblatt. Journalists record Jumblatt’s announcement: “. . . Assassinating Maaruf Saad had several goals: terrorizing the people’s movement, manufacturing intercommunal discord, and drawing the Palestinian resistance into Lebanon’s internal struggle.”

  Israeli planes drop bombs on South Lebanon.

  Tel Aviv. An American luxury car carries Charbel Qassis, leader of the Lebanese Maronite religious orders, in his black clerical robes. A gold cross dangles from his neck.

  Title card:

  Father Charbel Qassis arrived in Israel on April 5.

  Charbel Qassis waves with a hand adorned with diamond rings and jewels. A close-up of his plump face and full lips. He says: “What do the Muslims themselves think? Are their husbands more virile than our men? On Mount Lebanon we have men who can each have ten or twenty children.”

  Beirut. The Supreme Islamic Shiite Council building in the Hazmieh neighborhood, the Maronite stronghold in Lebanon’s capital. The building’s graceful entrance. Twenty thousand Shias are gathered around the building.

  Title card:

  In the first week of April, the Supreme Islamic Shiite Council elected Imam Musa al-Sadr president for life.

  A medium-sized bus, empty of passengers. Bullet marks on its sides and windows.

  Title card:

  On the afternoon of Sunday, April 13, 1975, this bus was on the way back from an event commemorating the victims of the Deir Yasin massacre. The bus was carrying a number of residents of the Tel Zaatar refugee camp, both Lebanese and Palestinians. When it reached the Ain El Remmaneh neighborhood, the Phalangist militia opened fire on it, killing twenty-six passengers – most of them children – and injuring twenty-nine others.

  Bodies covered with Palestinian flags.

  Jamil Street. A Volkswagen driven by a young man. The car reaches the Church of Our Lady of Salvation. Bullets are fired on the car from inside the church.

  Mar Maroun Street. A speeding Fiat carries a number of armed men wearing the hatta, the checkered headscarf usually worn by Palestinians and the inhabitants of southern Lebanon. A number of armed men attempt to stop the car, but it forcibly drives right by them. The car’s passengers exchange gunfire with the armed men. One of the armed men falls to the ground. One of the passengers is struck, too.

  The roof of a tall building. Three young men behind mounted machineguns. The guns rest on the edge of the roof. Near the young men is a pitcher of water and a tin plate. One of the young men is wearing platform shoes. The second one is wearing a leather jacket. The third has wrapped a military belt around his waist.

  A distant shot, seen through the gun-sight of a machinegun. The gun-sight moves, searching for a target. The two crosshairs, in the shape of a cross, follow a moving body. The body gradually approaches the point where the crosshairs meet, and is revealed to be a middle-aged man running quickly. The gun-sight moves away from the man a little, settling on a point behind his feet. A bullet is fired. The gun-sight moves back to the man. It follows him as he runs. Another bullet is fired at a point in front of him. The man falls to the ground, quaking in fear. He gets up suddenly and continues running. The gun-sight focuses on the man’s hand. A bullet hits him, injuring him. The man puts his good hand on the injured one and keeps running. The gun-sight shakes in a dance-like movement, searching for a new target. A bullet hits the man in his leg. He falls to the ground. The gun-sight comes to rest on his stomach. A bullet hits the man in his stomach.

  Sandbags along the sides of empty streets. A storefront with a sign above it saying “Original Mercedes Parts. Authorized Factory Dealers and Distributors”. A wrecked car in front of a closed store.

  The asphalt around a demolished gas station. Small signs on the walls with only a single word remaining on them: “Super”. On the ground, a young man with disheveled hair in a shirt and pants, lying on his side. He drags himself forward, blood flowing out of him.

  The burned interiors of the domes of the al-Majidiya Mosque near the Wood Merchants’ Wharf. A burned corpse showing marks from the rope that tied it up.

  A large oil painting of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus in her lap after he had been taken down from the cross, with daggers of grief lodged in her heart. Bullet holes are visible all over the painting.

  The main headline of the al-Nahar newspaper: “Agreement for ceasefire, withdrawal of forces and removal of barricades.”

  A circle around a paragraph from an article by Pierre Gemayel in the Phalangist Party newspaper: “Lebanon is the most beautiful land on earth, and the best country in the Orient. Unfortunately, this situation began to deteriorate four or five years ago, when a flood of foreigners of unknown identity and affiliation began to make their way into Lebanon.”

  A circle around a paragraph from an article in Syria’s al-Thawra newspaper: “The Palestinian uprising does not stand alone in the face of its enemies. United leadership between Syria and the resistance is the answer.”

  In front of Lebanon’s parliament building. An armored car marked “Lebanese Internal Security”. A number of officers. A Mercedes carrying a flag. Inside the parliament building. The members are assembled. The prime minister, Rashid al-Solh, is speaking: “It is clear that the Phalangist Party bears full responsibility for the massacre and the reprisals that followed, as well as the victims and material and moral harm that has descended on the country as a result.”

  Parliament member Amin Gemayel runs up behind the prime minister and pulls him by the arm, trying to assault him.

  Washington. Henry Kissinger is in his office on the seventh floor of the State Department Building, talking to an American journalist: “The situation in Lebanon resembles the one in Jordan in 1970. All you need to fix it is for Syria to send in a brigade.”

  A wide hall, at the back of which is the Sunni mufti of the Republic of Lebanon, Shaykh Hasan Khaled. He has a white turban on his head. On his right sits the Syrian foreign minister, Abd al-Halim Khaddam. On his left is the Shii imam in his black cloak. Next is the Syrian army’s chief of staff. Then there is Kamal Jumblatt, with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed. To the left of the Imam Sadr is the leader of the Sunnis of Tripoli, Rashid Karami, and beside him Saeb Salam, the aged leader of Beirut’s Sunnis, with his Havana cigar.

  A circle around a news item in a Lebanese newspaper: “Saudi Arabia has placed 40 million lira at the disposal of Saeb Salam to fight heresy and Communism.”

  The main headline of another newspaper: “A new government headed by Rashid Karami with Camille Chamoun as interior minister.”

  The main headline of anoth
er newspaper: “Israeli attack on the refugee camps in the south. 11 killed and 60 homes destroyed in Rashidiya.”

  Beirut. The Maslakh-Karantina district. Adjoining tin-sheet shacks. Palestinian and Lebanese flags. Another shot of the same location, now turned into ruins. A group of the bombs that were dropped on it. One of the bombs is the same shape and height of a teenager. Another bomb has on it the symbol of Saudi Arabia, consisting of two crossed swords above the slogan “There Is No God But God”. The dazed face of an old woman looks out from the ruins. A barefoot little girl in an embroidered dress is carrying an infant in her arms; she sits down beside a smashed wall. A middle-aged woman covers her head with a sheer white headscarf that she has tied around her neck, letting one end of it down over her chest. She weeps, with her hand on her cheek. Beside her is a girl who looks like her, who is crying as well. A family runs in the street. The father has a bundle on his back and clutches a child with each hand. A third child walks ahead of them. Among them are several young men wearing the Palestinian checkered hatta headscarf. They smile for the camera as they raise their fingers in the victory sign. Beside them are corpses covered in Palestinian flags.

  The main headline for the al-Safeer newspaper: “Imam al-Sadr announces the creation of regiments of the Lebanese ‘Amal’ militia to defend the south. The imam explains that it is committed to realizing the demands of the dispossessed from all religious communities, ending sectarian distinctions, and defending the Palestinian revolution.”

  A young man carries a machinegun on the roof of a building. He is wearing a white undershirt with the word “Amal” painted on it in European letters.

  A long shot of a street. Two oil barrels on the open street, with several armed men on each side of them. There are not many pedestrians. The armed men stop them and check their ID cards. They detain some and let others go. They blindfold the detainees.