The drive out of Beirut airport was enough to convince me that I was not in Kansas anymore. As soon as we got on the highway, a world of chaos enveloped me. Cars were dodging each other at every angle, their drivers beeping their horns and yelling out profanities in their attempt to overtake everyone possible. I realised immediately that the speed limits and marked lanes on the Lebanese roads were a suggestion, not an enforced rule – no cars were driving according to an average speed or the limits of a lane. I hadn’t enough time to comprehend the scene before me, when my brother pointed out the policeman on the motor bike -driving the exact same way as the remaining citizens. Yes, Kansas, or in this case, my home in Australia, was definitely a long way away.
My mother hadn’t seen her family for 11 years, and it had been over 20 since she and my father had fled their war-torn homeland for the blessings of Australia. But the civil war had been over 16 years, and the country that was historically known as the ‘Pearl of the Orient’ had been rebuilt even more beautiful than the jewel from which it took its name. The plane was flying over the mountainous regions of North Lebanon when this beauty became apparent and when my nerves disappeared. But after an 18 hour flight, I was much too concerned with our landing than the view; after all, my return trip home would allow me to appreciate the vision that had my mother’s eyes welling up in tears, my sister panting and my father controlling his longing and excitement. Still, the little bit of desert, the lush green cedars atop glorious mountains, and the specks of remaining ancient castles bordering the Mediterranean Sea was enough to convince me that such natural beauty was rare.
Back home, I had not been excited about my trip, even though any overseas trip had been a long time coming and welcome given the stresses of work and uni. Still, I had not been overcome by the excitement that had gripped my family for weeks. Perhaps this was to be my premonition, but I am a person criticised for my nerves and worse still, a cynic – I did not believe in signs.
My place of residence in Lebanon was the village from which my parents both hailed – a tiny town in North-Lebanon that did not warrant a name on any Lebanese map. Situated 20 minutes north of Zgharta, the closest major town, Kahef El-Malloul (cave of trees) was a place whose star attraction was the ‘raseef‘ or footpath, which was funded by a renowned Lebanese newspaper chairman who shared the name and blood of the villagers, but who had escaped the village life for the cosmopolitan air of Beirut and the prosperity of London. In this small Lebanese village, the raseef was the equivalent of a town square for the youth – every summer night they’d gather in their groups of boys and girls and walk up and down the foot path that stretched throughout the village, eyeing each other, arguing and flirting, and gossiping about the rising or declining number of sweethearts who walked the raseef hand in hand under the clear summer night sky.
I had only been in the country a few hours when the invitation to walk the raseef with the young girls (unmarried Lebanese females were still girls, as they were perceived to be maidens instead of women) was extended to me by one of the females in my age group. My grandfather’s house was buzzing with relatives and villagers coming in and out to welcome my parents’ brief return to their homeland, and I expected my grandmother to scold my leaving on the first night, particularly because Lebanese culture prides itself on hospitality and respect towards guests. But, too busy serving kahwa (strong Lebanese coffee served in tiny cups, about the size of an egg cup) and sweets to welcome her daughter’s family among her guests; she did not notice my slipping through the crowd to entertain myself with some potential friends in my new surroundings.
Natalie, the girl that came to collect me, looked me up and down as we walked out the front gate, and sweetly asked if I would like to change. I was in a studded t-shirt and faded jeans, wearing a pair of bright green Converse Chuck Taylors with mismatched shoelaces in objection to my mother’s rules that I must dress “more feminine” during our holiday. One step on the raseef indicated why – all around me, girls as young as 12 were dolled up in dresses or tight jeans, with perfectly manicured French-tip nails, blow-dried hair and make-up fit for the races. Their shoes were chunky platform stilettos emblazoned with studs, their earrings could have weighed a kilo. My explanation that I was comfortable didn’t seem to resonate with any of them for the remainder of raseef walks on my trip, but then again, their vanity (even while at home) didn’t resonate with me either.
It was no wonder then that my nights out with the girls never went according to plan. Not only did I have to accustom myself to their party lifestyle, which began past midnight and lasted till six am, but their devotion to their grooming meant we were always late for everything. One morning, they promised me a breakfast of Mana’eesh (a staple Lebanese breakfast dish, comprised of a pizza-like base topped with Oregano and other herbs, and available in both cheese and tomato mince flavours) but didn’t come collect me till almost noon. Their obsession with appearance became quite difficult to handle, especially when a trip to the beach was delayed by about two hours so one girl could find her bikini, refusing to swim in a one piece because it was not ‘sexcee’. It seemed that in Lebanon, everything slowed down to a ‘you only live once’ mentality – people would savour every aspect of their lives.
My mother explained that the civil war had changed people – death came so close that life’s worth increased so much in everyone’s eyes. Whereas Australians worked to save their money and invest, Lebanese worked the minimum, spending it big on lavish dinners, fancy clothes and showing off – never minding that they were in debt. I wondered when my parents’ mentality had changed so much. In Lebanon, traditional rules didn’t matter anymore. Girls could stay out as late as their male counterparts, study and travel, and dress without restriction. Their world had changed, but the one that my parents had left had gone back with them to Australia – it seemed particularly strange that we ‘Western Lebanese’ were considered backward.
Still, I relished the attention that stemmed from the villagers’ hospitality and fascination with my foreignness in my first week. There was an outing everyday, and constant dinners that they would never let me pay for. My evening walks on the raseef saw many young guys, some from surrounding villages, asking my permission for a walk on the raseef, a chat about my stay or an invitation to watch him play soccer.
The enlightening experience that came with my carefree holiday ended with a dramatic phone call one morning when I was on the way to Zgharta. I noticed immediately that my best friend in Australia was not calling to see how my holiday was going – the tone in his voice betraying a fear I had not heard before. “Are you safe? Where are you?” he asked. Giggling, I asked him what had gotten him so fired up. When I repeated his words out loud, my uncles reaction told me that the events in question warranted more than concern – Israel had just bombed Beirut airport, destroying its runways and in the process, leaving me stranded in a country I was not accustomed to, under the threat of death.
Death came so easily to Lebanon over the next few days. Hezbollah had kidnapped three Israeli soldiers and was using them as hostages, and Israel, refusing to bow to their demands, had bombed various regions in southern-Lebanon in an attempt to secure them in a limited spot. At first, the Lebanese people discussed the occurrence as they would any political matter, expecting it to tide over in a matter of days. But as the days turned into weeks, it became apparent that the Lebanon was once again caught in the midst of war. Not knowing how long it would last, people all over the country immediately went about reclaiming their debts and withdrawing savings from banks. Supermarkets ran out of food basics such as bread, flour, potatoes and sugar, with villagers accumulating multiple 40kg bags for storage.
The streets, so lively and loud only a week before, had become bare. Gone were the old Lebanese men walking around with vats of Kahwa in their arms calling for shoppers to take a break, gone were the street-side kiosks of sweet corn and kebabs, gone were the young Lebanese having the time of their lives in the chalets at the beach. The hope of going home unharmed had also gone. The raseef was no longer a haven of fun and young love. It had become a deserted place where we’d occasionally like to distract ourselves, only to run back into our homes for cover at the sight and sound of Israeli helicopters. I was angry at myself for coming to a region of the world that was known for its dangers. No matter how much I read about Lebanon being the liberal speck among a region of ultra-conservative religious countries, I was still fearful of its location. Now, it had threatened my return home, the opportunities to graduate from the last semester of my degree, the lives of my loved ones and my life itself.
St. Elias’ feast day came to Kahef El-Malloul and other Catholic villages with much excitement, despite the circumstances of the day. Old men and women gathered in the village square to make Hrissa (a dish of wheat and rice made on Holy days) in large, cauldron-like pots. Enough to feed the entire village, the Hrissa had us all forget about our impeding danger. Dolled up in my best dress, I sat in the square with a few girls and guys that had become my friends or flirting buddies respectively. When one of them jokingly said that I wouldn’t return home for a while, his words had hit too close to home. I yelled at him, burst into tears and ran back to my grand father’s house to be alone, ring my friends and pray constant rosaries while crying. I had taken my anger out on my parents and their homeland, the people that were so hospitable to me, and on Lebanon, my very own blood.
I was not alone for long, and my aunt, sensing my pain, drove me to an internet café in a nearby village. I frequented this café over the next few days, pouring over Australian news sites (I felt the Lebanese news to be very biased) and seeking advice from the Australian government on an avenue out of the horror I’d been enduring. I was on my way home when a bomb struck a nearby village, sending people shrieking, windows flailing and the earth shaking. I was running down to my grand father’s house when I saw my mother in the middle of the street, tearing out her hair and screaming for her children. I realised that she was living this nightmare too, and my attitude changed.
The Australian embassy had closed up and fled the country by then, but we weren’t alone. The government didn’t neglect the plight of its citizens, and soon enough, we were called and offered positions on an evacuation ferry to Cyprus. The government representatives had explained that it would mean limited hand luggage, but the shoes and bags I couldn’t bring back home weren’t racing through my mind. Our route to the ferry docks passed a Hezbollah stronghold, driving to the docks would be a guaranteed death sentence.
We paid our way out of the country using the money our grand parents had given us as gifts for jewellery. On our tiring trip through Syria, where we waited over 26 hours for a plane, our energy was sucked away, but the promise of a happy ever after kept us strong. But for me, this happiness was tinged with regret. My mother was crying silent tears; a happy reunion in her childhood home was cut tragically short after only a week. History was repeating itself – Lebanon was becoming plagued by a battle of outside sources and internal factional divisions, and the cedar was shedding the blood.
Literature and word of mouth had promised me that there was a lot more to Lebanon than meets the eye. I was not sure I had let it prove itself to me. But as the plane rose up into the air, I noticed that the view below my window was harsh. There was no Mediterranean sea, ancient castles or renowned cedar trees. Despite the tears that were tarnishing my sight, I knew that the flat landscape before me didn’t reflect the ancient natural wonders of the Pearl that even the Bible spoke of. I had told myself to appreciate them on the way home, but like most of my plans, this did not come to fruition. I could have learnt a lot on the trip, but I had arrived as a bundle of nerves and left as somewhat of a refugee. In between, I had criticised rather than embraced, realising when it was too late that I could have appreciated a whole lot more.
Cover Image by Jennifer Hayes on Flickr
Article images by Adaptorplug, all except beach image, by DC Digital Photography
