Brownies and Kalashnikovs Page 18

  1944: My father’s first day of work as an Aramco employee.

  1949: My father embarking an Aramco flight from Dhahran Airport to his first orientation year at the American University of Beirut.

  1950: My father interpreting for Crown Prince Sa’ud during his tour of Aramco’s industrial training department and refinery.

  1956: My siblings and I, newly arrived in Dhahran.

  1963: My girl scout troop. I am fourth from the left in the second row (the only Arab).

  1964: Me sitting on our car on my 13th birthday, in front of our home 4595-B on Fourth Street.

  1964: My parents.

  1965: My father and I at a history exhibition at Dhahran school.

  1967 : Me sunbathing in our front yard in Dhahran.

  1967: My siblings, my father and me outside Medina.

  27 July 1970: Adnan and I, outside the An Nahar newspaper office in Beirut. The photograph was taken by the Armenian photographer George Samarjian, who was later killed by a fireball during the civil war.

  January 1978: Munira (age 2) with Adnan, being introduced enthusiastically to the revered Bedouin sport of falconry.

  March 1981: Im Bashar and Abu Bashar.

  August 1987: Children see, children do. Ghassan (age 7) as armed militiamen at a checkpoint, with co-militiaman cousin Bashar (age 6), frisking youngest cousin Nadia (age 4).

  24 May 2000: Lebanese pride cloaks Amer’s shoulders on his graduation from Massachussets Institute of Technology (MIT), Boston, United States. The graduation took place at the same time as the Israeli Army’s routing from South Lebanon by homegrown Lebanese Resistance fighters, ending 25 years of occupation.

  16 June 2003: A celebration dinner at home for Yasmine and Rola’s graduation from the American University of Beirut, with guest of honor Mrs Catherine C. Bashour, their beloved former principal of the American Community School (ACS). Left to right: Amer, Munira, Rola, Mrs Bashour, Yasmine and Ghassan.

  8

  Hello … I Love You

  My summer vacation of 1970 was confirmed ended when my flight began its descent into Beirut International Airport. The MEA made a half circle over the Mediterranean Sea and approached Beirut. A thick black pall of smoke blocked the city from view underneath, from burning tires, the traditional manner of expressing rage in the Levant. I disembarked and climbed into a taxi with a driver dressed in black in mourning for the Egyptian president. As he drove me towards my university in Ras Beirut, he tearfully expressed his personal grief over the death of Gamal Abdel Nasser. No Arab leader has ever had such adulation. We passed through streets empty of traffic but full of angry men in black, armed with Kalashnikovs that they fired in wild bursts of frustration into the air as they thrashed about in rudderless confusion. My taxi driver fell silent as he concentrated on weaving in and out of alleys to avoid the acrid smoke from the fiercely burning bonfires … a presage of what awaited Beirut and Lebanon when the fury of such young men could no longer be contained – in just five more years. But on that day in 1970, the anger on the streets seemed to be an isolated event of massive outpouring of grief by politically and economically frustrated youths.

  My college lay in what was known as Ras Beirut (the head of Beirut). Its name was derived from the rocky promontory at the western tip of the city that juts out into the Mediterranean Sea. Lebanon’s mountains encircle the promontory in a protective backdrop creating an exceptionally beautiful panorama, a sweeping vista with incredible sunsets and a built-in weather forecast system. The only downside to this wide open vista is for the unfortunate pelicans that are genetically wired to cross this stretch of geography on their annual migrations from north to south and back again. Each year, their razor sharp V formations glide gracefully into the azure Lebanese skies heralding autumn and spring. As they dip closer to the temptations of the Mediterranean Sea’s fish, they turn into target practice for trigger happy urban hunters.

  Widely acclaimed as the hippest part of the capital and the whole of the Middle East, Ras Beirut was unique. Two major universities anchored it at both ends: Beirut College for Women (BCW) at one end and American University of Beirut (AUB) at the other. With their international academic populations, these two universities gave Ras Beirut a particular élan, a cosmopolitan fusion of Eastern and Western thought and culture. BCW shared many activities with AUB, which included the library, student lounges, party halls, and male students … pretty much erasing its “all girls” exclusivity. Many parents were mercifully kept in the dark about this.

  AUB and BCW had a mixture of Arab and international students who brought their politics with them. Each nationality had an active club (Turkish, Greek, Sudanese, Egyptian, Jordanian, Palestinian, Saudi, Kuwaiti, Bahraini, Cypriot, and Armenian, to name a few) and all had a go against their traditional enemies on campus at one point or another (for example the Armenians vs. Turks, Phalange Lebanese vs. Palestinian, etc.). The National Day of each country was an unabashed display of patriotism and partisan politics. This was the early seventies and students ruled. Many of the student leaders went on to become leaders of opposition parties in their own countries having honed the fine art of vocal … or otherwise … combat on AUB’s grounds. Education in this liberal multinational learning environment influenced the Arab students of AUB and BCW, giving rise to a distinct subculture and a manner of interaction that set them apart from other university graduates in the Arab world.

  Top co-ed preparatory private schools that taught in three languages, Arabic, English, and French, were scattered throughout this part of the city along with an Italian school and a German one. All these schools had sprung from foreign missions which had jostled for a foothold in this valuable western junction between East and West during the mid nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth with a new method of colonization through education. The education was excellent save for its fallout on the Lebanese identity. As no serious unified civics or history program or Arabic language instruction was imposed by the Ministry of Education on the private sector, private schools taught history and literature through the eyes and language of the Western colonizer, skimming vaguely over Lebanon’s connection to the Arab world. This further increased the on-going confusion amongst the Lebanese over Lebanon’s identity.

  Before becoming the ‘Street-of-all-Streets’ in the Arab world, Hamra, Ras Beirut’s high street, was filled largely with red sand, giant cacti and herds of goats who wandered past small grocer shops, sandwich stalls, and ‘Nouveautees’ (catch-all shops selling women’s, men’s, and children’s wear and underwear, gift items and cosmetics). As Ras Beirut became more cosmopolitan, the small shops were gradually replaced by ultra fashionable boutiques and sidewalk cafés … save for one particular grocery store off Hamra Street called ‘Smith’s’ where housewives, tourists, spies, professors, students and journalists have been its regulars for years. It is owned by the quintessential Lebanese, Patrick Smith, who has nothing Arab in his lineage. He only grew up in Beirut. His father was English and his mother Armenian. Nevertheless he and his sons, Nael and Tarek (close friends and classmates of my children, who accepted the Arab pronunciation of their last name as ‘Smiss’), turned the store into one of the landmarks of Ras Beirut. Smith’s can be seen as a reflection of Ras Beirut, one could say of Lebanon itself … so tiny and unassuming on the outside, but once one enters its doors, one becomes an involuntary but integral part of a refined mixture of humanity and alluring epicurean delights from the East and from the West.

  Hamra’s cafés brimmed with bon vivants, wine, wit and laughter. The academic, political, and social register of Lebanon gathered in these places, where political discourse and gossip flew from one table to the next, to reappear in a column of one of Beirut’s trilingual daily newspapers. Bookstores owned by Palestinian Christians overflowed with controversy and academia. It was from such an eclectic milieu of thinkers and poets that most of the books read by the Arab world were born. These books with random titles such as Ibrahim Salameh’s
Funeral of a Dog were published and printed under the protection of the only Arab government that allowed freedom of the press. Such freedom of thought turned Lebanon into a safe-haven for those periodically out of favor with their political regimes in adjacent Arab states. And as each tiny oil-rich and almost population-free sheikhdom gained a seat in the United Nations, it turned to the creative minds of the Lebanese for the necessary paraphernalia of a nation: a national anthem and flag.

  One very popular meeting place to eat and talk was ‘Faisal’s,’ across the street from AUB. It was a home away from home for students, professors and journalists with a daily lunch such that their mothers might cook. Its two head waiters, Amin, a large pleasant-faced maitre, and Anwar, as serious as Amin was not, had divided the restaurant into zones of influence. If no seat was available for an Amin adherent, he or she preferred to starve rather than be caught eating under Anwar’s hegemony. As for the other cafés dotting Hamra Street, there was the ‘Horseshoe’ café (shaped like a horseshoe), dark and brooding like the poets and philosophers it attracted; and the ‘Modca’ on Hamra Street, the glitziest and most modern of the sidewalk cafés, where politicians, Communists and exiled Arab thinkers spent most of their waking hours.

  My taxi approached the uphill climb to my dormitory Nicol Hall on BCW’s upper campus, bringing me closer to my final destination and to Adnan. My parents’ warnings to stay away from Lebanese men had been dashed to the wind after I met Adnan while walking late one afternoon near the American University of Beirut area with my close friend from boarding school, Hana Azzouni. Engrossed in deep conversation we had strolled past Adnan while he was having his shoes polished in the traditional Levantine way by a shoe shiner. Two hands had surreptitiously stretched out behind us to tug gently on our shirt collars stopping us and momentarily our hearts, in our footsteps.

  “Adnan!” Hana had smiled in relief, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” “Aren’t you going to introduce me?” he had smiled back, looking straight at me. I was hooked from that look.

  At the giant wrought-iron gate of BCW, the doormen greeted me with excess cheer as they opened the gates to allow the taxi to drive through. I soon found out why the excess cheer. Waiting for me at the door to my dormitory was Adnan with a big welcoming grin and a dozen fragrant pearly white zambaqs, my favorite flowers. Persuasive, witty, impulsive, and fiercely patriotic, Adnan was undoubtedly Mediterranean in both looks and demeanor. His wavy brown hair, large expressive hazel green eyes and playful smile gave him a light-hearted air that magnetically drew random strangers to strike up conversations with him. As I walked closer to those eyes and that smile, Dhahran and Saudi Arabia were relegated to a distant slot of space and time far, far away.

  Sidon by the Sea Our first date had been to his hometown, Sidon, lyrically known as the ‘Bride of the South.’ We drove there late one afternoon along the meandering southern coastal road accompanied by the powder blue of the Mediterranean Sea and its sky. The heady, uplifting fragrance of orange blossoms heralded our entrance into Sidon as citrus orchards in their first flush of spring appeared along both sides of the road, escorting us into town. But as we drove further, the colorful citrus groves were abruptly replaced by drab, gray buildings which took over the sides of the road, apartments built in haste and economy to accommodate a rapidly growing population. Adnan quickly assured me, this was not yet Sidon … just the outskirts of an expanding town. Sure enough, after he swung onto a palm-tree-lined avenue that ran along the coast, a visual feast materialized before us.

  The Mediterranean Sea came into view once more, lapping softly against rickety sidewalk railings to our right. To our left, venerable Ottoman-era houses in white stone lined the waterfront, flanked by grand buildings from the French mandate era, long past their prime, yet still elegant with finely carved balustrades and small compact balconies enclosed by intricate wrought iron. Mosques from the early Islamic empires that spoke of a long and continuing history stood at the ancient gate of old Sidon. Beyond the ‘Lower Gate’ (as the Sidonians referred to it) Roman archways were visible, framing cobbled streets and winding alleys that led to houses of wood, which seemed to lean on one another for support. The houses, replicas of which I had seen in Medina with trellised wooden musharrabiyeh-enclosed balconies, encircled a piazza with a marble fountain, once refreshing in its cool gush of water but now spouting a small sad trickle. Fishermen’s cafés lined the sidewalk along the water’s edge filled with a hodgepodge of old and young men laughing and playing cards, drinking tea or gazing pensively out to sea puffing at their narghilas. Facing them was the fisherman’s harbor which we smelled before we saw.

  Fish fresh from the sea were displayed on roughly-built wooden stands and the usual cheerful repartee of haggling filled the air. Behind the fish market I saw the brightly-colored fishing boats of Sidon, traditionally handed down from father to son through generation upon generation. Some were going out to sea, some coming in to shore, while others were in dry dock on the gravelly shore for waterproofing and a new paint job. Any fishermen not involved in these activities sat on the beach near their boats repairing fishing nets spread in a wide circle, anchored by their toes. This was the heart of Sidon, and these fishermen were the true Sidonians. As Adnan greeted the men, I noticed an egalitarian banter that transcended the usual social barricades between the haves and the have-nots in Beirut. “This is Sidon,” was Adnan’s simple response to my comment. “These men have known me since I was born and their fathers and grandfathers have known mine from birth … and it goes back for centuries. The majority of these fishermen you see here have been Sidonians far longer than they have been Lebanese and they are proud to be Sidonians. Maybe a number of the people that you see are illiterate but you won’t find a single Sidonian among them who doesn’t know Sidon’s ancient history, geography and genealogy by heart. It’s not surprising that Sidon has been mentioned in the Bible as full of fat and contented men.” Nodding towards the well-endowed fishermen, he added dryly, “Some things never change.”

  On a more serious note, Adnan continued, “Sidonians are impatient with deceit. Only those who have been accepted as truthful by the Sidonian community survive … and these men never forget. Another ingrained Sidonian quality is their lively and fearless curiosity.” Again he nodded at the fishermen engaged in animated conversation at the top of their lungs across the table from one another. “In the First World War, the British navy besieged the coastal towns belonging to the Ottoman Empire and Sidon was bombarded for several days in a row. Everybody in Sidon who had a rooftop terrace or had a neighbor who had a rooftop terrace ran up there to watch the bombardment. The British commander marched into Sidon in a huff and demanded to meet with the Mufti, my great uncle. He wanted to inform him that in all his combat years he had never seen such foolhardy cheek in the face of danger and formally requested that everyone clear out from the roof tops so they wouldn’t get killed. The Sidonians accepted evacuating their rooftops but not their city. The notables of the city refused to pull out to the hills for security and only the children and old people were relocated to the surrounding villages farther away from the shore. Sidon has been burned down seven times by its own people who burned with it rather than be captured. That’s how much we Sidonians love our city.”

  Adnan had just finished this statement when he suddenly raised both arms in greeting to a heavy-set white-haired man who got up from his seat amongst a group of fishermen gathered around a table drinking tea.

  “Abu Mustafa,” Adnan called out happily, “It’s so good to see you.” Abu Mustafa hugged Adnan and shook my hand energetically, looking to Adnan for introduction. “I’m going to let you figure out where my friend comes from. Fadia, I’d like you to meet the most important personality in all of Sidon, Mr. Maarouf Sa’ad. Abu Mustafa, this is Fadia Basrawi.” Guessing where any Lebanese comes from is a favorite pastime amongst them and a necessary detail before any conversation of consequence can take place.

  “That’s easy,”
Maarouf Sa’ad, answered in his rich baritone voice, “She’s obviously not Lebanese from her demeanor,” (I hadn’t said a word outside of the polite greeting). “Her name puts her as a Palestinian.”

  “Well, what if I tell you that she’s from Saudi Arabia?” Adnan interposed laughingly.

  Maarouf Sa’ad took a long look at me and replied, “Okay but she’s mixed. She’s too white to be a pure Saudi, am I right?”

  “Yes, my mother’s Syrian,” I answered.

  “All the better,” he chuckled heartily. “So you’re a mutt like me, my mother’s Egyptian. Look, my dear,” he patted me paternally, “the best minds come from mixed breeds. Mutts survive the harshest conditions and the same applies to humans.”

  “Keep her,” were his parting words to Adnan as he shook hands with us, giving him a thumbs up sign, “And remember,” he winked at me playfully, “Mutts rule!”

  “You’ve just met our mayor, the most compassionate, generous, and patriotic man in Sidon,” was Adnan’s heartfelt reply to my query about Maarouf Sa’ad’s identity. “He’s dedicated his life to helping the Sidonian poor and the Palestinian refugees and not just for politics and glory. Every penny that goes into his pocket is spent lobbying for their rights. The Popular Nasserite Organization that he has established is probably the only genuinely democratic political party in this country. He has the credentials to vouch for his genuine patriotism for the Arab cause,” Adnan puffed with pride, “Sidon is the first city in Lebanon to elect to parliament, a man from the rank and file. Maarouf Sa’ad was a policeman and a gym teacher, a wrestler as you may have noticed from his physique. Palestine is his rallying cry; he fought for it in 1948. One of his greatest achievements is undermining the power of the feudal families of the South that sleep in the same bed as the ruling Maronite Establishment.”