Guest Writer

The salty air, like the realization that she was back in Beirut, both complemented the nostalgia and stung as it penetrated her senses.  Looking off the coast she identified with the waves crashing against the shore only to be swept back into the inviting Mediterranean.  Their movement mimicked her tidal affection for this fated city.

It was not long ago that southern Beirut struggled to breathe under a canopy of mushroomed debris.  Memories of that summer continued to echo through the battered population.  Inflation, reconstruction and loss of security, all a result of the war, were now as much a part of daily life as breathing itself.

“But Jess there are safe places we can go, away from the fighting, and be together,” Murad pleaded over the phone.

“There are no tarmacs left at the airport, the last was blown up yesterday.  I can’t even get into the country if I wanted,” Jessica said.

The sound of planes incessantly breaking the sound barrier and producing unanticipated sonic booms followed by a rampage of deployed bombs would have been excruciating on their own.  But with each blast Murad in Lebanon and Jessica watching CNN transmitted images in New York felt the dagger of war further divide their already tenuous romance.  

Jessica did not want to blame that lost summer for the ultimate demise of her relationship with Murad.  Should I have flown to Damascus and drove through the Bekaa valley to be with him? She asked herself, knowing that was a potentially fatal option.  But now moments away from seeing Murad, actually seeing him, not just receiving a fleeting text message or three minute phone call, the emotional wounds of their extended time apart were miraculously healed.

Looking around Jessica recognized that she was not the sole survivor of the war, but, as is expected from a society where the struggle for autonomy is the blood that runs through its veins, the Beirut population endured.  The Corniche was still powdered with men smoking their afternoon hookah pipes and contributing a sweet aroma to the spiced cedar air.  Basking in the sun’s recharging rays and hoping to revive their joie de vivre they stared into the distance. 

Perhaps they were reminiscing over their once thriving metropolitan life.  Before the assassination of Prime Minister Rafiq al-Hariri the summer months meant endless prosperity for the country.  The hotels in Ras Beirut were over-booked.  The resorts scattered along the coast welcomed all who craved a vacation to waterfall-surrounded pools complete with bungalows, bars and an intimate view of the sea.  And once the sun set on the leisurely daytime activities these same people would head to the reconstructed downtown for the finest Lebanese cuisine.  This was Lebanon’s prime commodity, tourism, and it managed to keep the whole country afloat.

But sadly, and more realistically, their distant stares are unintentional.  These shop keepers look old, weathered, desolate, Jessica noted.  They are not part of the affluent vacationing population.  They make up the local community, a community devoid of disposable income and whose afternoon sales buy their dinner each night.  These men have seen a myriad of family members give up their lives in sectarian battles.  From their stares they do not see the mystical water as it flows to the shore.  The sun’s beauty is lost upon them and they do not consider the surrounding city.  What they do see is a past where sitting on this exact sidewalk they were happy and complete, surrounded by their now lost sons and brothers.

Their attitude seemed cryptically familiar.  Not reminiscent of a past venture to the Middle East, something much more recent. 

That’s it, she thought, New Yorkers suffering from Wall Street’s economic plague have the same cynical expressions.    

But how very different this site is, she observed, from Manhattan’s East Village sidewalks.  There, both women and men indulge in the summer sun together while discussing their loss of financial freedom, oblivious to each other’s gender.  Here she was all too aware of her feminine strut and the judging eyes that felt no shame while gawking at her silhouette. 

And now, in front of the lighthouse stood Murad.  His gaze caressed her reaction to this familiarly foreign society.  After all this time apart a slight yet potent shiver still slithered up his spine when he saw her.

Answering an invisible force Jessica raised her eyes to meet his in the distance, as if that very shiver emitted a magnetic current attracting her attention.  When their eyes met the canvas of Beirut life between them was muted. *  *  *

“We can never be together,” Jessica had said to Murad.

“If Romeo and Juliet found happiness together, so can we,” Murad, the eternal romantic, had protested.

“I don’t know if our star-crossed love is meant for a happy ending…and remember, Romeo and Juliet died before their real love story would have begun,” Jessica had said.

Immersed in a love so complete it touched her very core Jessica allowed herself to dream of a future with Murad.  She recognized that she could work on her Arabic, perhaps even learn the right conjugations for the masculine and feminine.  That would be but a small hurdle to cross for her love. 

“Ok, ok, when I go back to college I’ll take an Arabic class,” she said through her agonized laugh.  He knew her one true weakness, when he brushed his hand over her the soft skin of her ribcage it sent her into the most endearing convulsive laughter. 

But this time they didn’t follow their routine.  Jessica did not lock her fingers with Murad and did not pull forward to tease him.  Instead of kissing him she would always stop just short and as he would plunge forward to breath her in she would pull back, for she too knew his one true weakness.  This time it was Murad who stopped, abruptly and unapologetically. 

“Go back to college?  That’s not the plan.  We’ll live here and you will care for the house and our children and I’ll work,” Murad said, confused that he had to be so explicit about their future.  How could she think it would be any other way?

Back in America the idea of college was not a goal for Jessica but the next logical step in her student life.  It was a concept so ingrained in her that she almost thought Murad was joking, until his stern expression said otherwise.  Infuriated by his chauvinism Jessica leaped out of bed.  There was no crescendo only boiling anger, and this waterfall of rage navigated her through the next moments.

“That’s how you see me, as a caged animal in your idyllic future?  You say you love me, but you don’t even see me.  You’re in a relationship with the idea of romance, not with me.  I refuse to martyr myself for you.  I leave for America next week, please don’t come see me off or send messages through your friends.  We’re better off ending things right here, right now,” and she meant it.* * *

Now, walking towards him Jessica was content that the scene of their last meeting was only a residual memory of her adolescent restlessness.  And this afternoon, with the sound of a distinct Fayrouz love song fighting the static of an old stereo, Jessica was far more aware of her naked arms then her raw emotions.

“Look at how these Americans dress when they come to our country,” a woman said warningly to her daughters, unaware that this American was in fact Lebanese and understood both what she said and the depth of her disapproval.  When the scolding hot sun shot through Jessica’s window at seven a.m. she dressed in a loose sleeveless shirt knowing the sun’s insufferable heat was only to intensify through the afternoon. 

Hoping that Murad would come to her rescue Jessica gave him their ‘come save me’ glance.  Playfully enjoying her discomfort, Murad shrugged as if he didn’t understand what she meant.  It was this precise way where he could simultaneously infuriate her and bring her to laugh that made Jessica fall in love with him.

The memory that they wanted different things and decided not to have a future together was quickly eclipsed by something far more toxic.  It was the musky scent he left on her skin after their night together.  It was

the rush of adrenaline his eyes ignited when he looked at her across a room.  It was how she lost the strength to keep a straight face at the mention of his name.

 Jessica felt each moment that passed since the last time she saw him.  She was actually antagonized by each passing moment without him, each second, each minute, each excruciating hour that they lived apart.  She questioned whether pursuing her American Dream was worth giving up Murad.  But now, walking towards him, none of her past decision mattered for here he was again not even trying to hide how she awakened his carnal desires.

Needing a distraction from both his presence and being a fixture of uncomfortable glares Jessica looked towards downtown.  She grew up surrounded by pictures of Beirut’s green line dividing a Christian East from the Muslim West.  But that line was now, thankfully, erased.  What were once buildings adorned with holes the size of bullets to holes the size of humans, and all sizes in between, were now perfectly molded pastel-colored structures.  This, however, was an eerie perfection that Jessica assumed only covered the city’s splintered heart.

“What took you so long?” Murad asked when Jessica was finally within earshot.

 “Well…if you came to meet me half way it wouldn’t have taken so long,” Jessica said with a wink.

“I’m not talking about your walk along the Corniche to meet me,” Murad said.

“Neither am I,” Jessica said.

 Looking at her Murad noticed a new and distinct confidence.  This was no longer the Jessica who rejected her Arab identity, the girl for whom he used to translate Arabic songs.  He believed the soul of Arabic society was found in the music and wanted her to both understand this and to feel like it was a part of who she is.  This Jessica looked at the city with an understanding of its history of struggle.  She had managed to close the culture gap between them by educating herself on Lebanon’s past, but Murad knew he couldn’t do the same for her.  The last thing he wanted was to understand the difference between a Western society of tolerance and acceptance and Western governments that continued to rape his land.

 “Seeing you again is like drinking from an oasis in the middle of the Sahara,” Murad said.

 Jessica recognized she was on a fool’s errand to control her heart, her impassioned heart, from falling again.  During their time apart Jessica, infected with regret, transformed her remorse into curiosity.  Consumed by an ache far more powerful than she could handle Jessica educated herself on the history of Murad’s land and culture.  If I understand what shaped who he is then we’ll have a realistic chance to be together.

 “Now that I’m with you again the past few agonizing years…”

  “You have to speak louder Jess,” Murad said “I lost most of my hearing during the barrage on Baalbeck during the last war.”  He wished that this was the worst of the news he had to deliver.

Feeling like his interjection sullied this sentimental moment Jessica felt discouraged from repeating herself.  After a few silent beats she started again.

 “Being with you now…”

 “Murad, Murad!  Sorry I’m late,” a girl exclaimed at an exaggerated volume, clearly understanding his hearing issues.  She had long, very long, deep brown hair and complementary deep brown eyes, set deep in her sweet face.  But her perfectly sculpted nose, a product of Lebanese plastic surgery, screamed that she wasn’t deep herself.

“Hi, Jessica, so nice to finally meet you,” this girl said in a regular tone.  “Murad goes on and on about you, about this American friend.  I’m Fadia, his fiancé.”

Those last two words, like bullets speeding out of gun, paralyzed the blood that once strengthened Jessica’s quest.  From this disquieting stillness came the clarity, her heart did in fact fall.

Published in The Independent Monitor June 2009 issue.

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From afar, my eyes were drawn to that familiar vital orange color in my memory. I realized immediately what I was looking at. Suddenly I found myself in front of a pile of Jaffa’s oranges! It was summer of 1982, I was stroll through a Sunday market in Amsterdam during a short visit to the city to attend an all-Europe convention of the Palestinian graduates, I,  myself  was just graduated as a medical Doctor from the University of  Padova-Italy and about to return to Lebanon. The plan was to get married to my fiancé, A’bir, Who was working as a nurse for the Red Crescent in the Shatila refugee camp near Beirut. We were marrying at the end of summer. My mother was waiting anxiously, I was the youngest and the last one of her nine children to get married, then, her self-imposed duty of getting all of us          granted our high education and starting our own family,  will be completed, a burden that she had to carry alone since father’s sudden death 15 years ago.

I walked toward the stand stunned, blood rushing in my veins, Its color changed to orange. My heart became a juicy Jaffan orange pumping orange blood…. It was an orange waterfall loaded with vitamins, rushing in all directions, granting me strength and launching me like an arrow toward Jaffa despite the years of humiliation and the Diaspora. The orange waterfall flooded out of my memory and poured generously over the pile of oranges- A cycle was completed.

I could read the word Jaffa typed in English black letters on the shiny  fruits, which were arranged eloquently in a shape of a pyramid, I had a hard time believing what I was seeing, Spontaneously, I extended my hands to hug the oranges, like a lost child being brought back to his parents. I stopped my hands before touching them. ‘What am I doing!!’ I asked  myself, ‘to allow myself to buy an Israeli product! Me! Violate the boycott!!’ 

‘I would never allow myself to this under any circumstances’. My hands retreated unwillingly, while my eyes sank passionately into the oranges, a Living extension of the memory- the last phase of the cycle just completed.

‘Here!’   The seller’s voice interrupted my daydreaming. He was offering me an orange. I pulled my gaze off the luscious fruits and looked at him surprised, ‘You don’t have to pay for it’ said the man, ‘This is a present ‘, ‘A present?!’  I asked with amazement, opining my hands to catch the Orange which was already in the air. ‘Thank you!’ I said, hugging it to my chest, ‘Thank you!, I went back to the Hotel still hugging my orange. I took it with me to bed. Secretly, under the cover, I smelled it and kissed it repeatedly, felt its tender skin in the dark, fogged it with my breathing. It gained more sweetness and tenderness.  Full of passion and ecstasy, I was drowned in a deep sleep with my orange.

What a wonderful present to my beloved on our wedding A’bir, herself came from a Jaffan family. In fact, her father named her A’bir, it means fragrance, after the orange blossom fragrance in the orchards of Jaffa. He told us a lot about them; the distinctive flavor of their oranges and the beauty of the shrubs loaded with fruit, the pure orange color, the opacity of dawn when they’re covered with the tender dew. The sweetness of the blossoms fragrant at twilight, like the blossom of a virgin getting ready for her wedding night.  Although that virgin was taken hostage and raped brutally before the wedding that never happened.

A’bir’s father was seven years old when his father squeezed him and the rest of the family into a small boat, fleeing towards the shores of Lebanon, leaving their homes and their orchard, just as Jaffa fell into the hands of the Hagana forces. ‘When are we coming back to Jaffa?’ asked the child. ‘When things settle, son, it shouldn’t take long’.

That was more than fifty years ago and ever since then the orange trees of Jaffa have been waiting for those who planted them to return…and according to Imm Fayez, A’bir’s Grandmother, the blossoms were dried out on the trees by a divine power in the year of the Nakbah.

Jaffa’s oranges became a symbol, embodied in our longing for a homeland, which we were prevented from returning to, but it lives in our memory, an eternal fantasy woven with strips of imagination and longing.  And A’bir, for me, she is a symbol of that symbol…my love for her and my longing for the homeland, re-engaged one with the other like two rivers plunging loudly south towards Palestine …

Sitting in the plane in the way to Beirut, I leaned back, closed my eyes,  while sneaking my hand in a hand bag on my lap, felt my precious treasure, I smiled, proud of myself, bringing to the one I love the unattainable, I imagined her face lighting up once she lays her eyes on it.

A voice of the flight attendant shuttered to peaces my ongoing fantasy:  ‘May I have  your attention  please, due to the violent events in Beirut we are forced to change course, we will be landing in Nicosia, Cyprus, our KLM agents will assist  you to reach your final destinations upon arrival’

I was stuck in Cyprus for a while, before I set a foot in Lebanon, off a small fishing boat in a night with no moon, barely; escaping the Israeli blockade along the Eastern shores of the Mediterranean, as we snuck ashore.

By then, the Israeli invaders had entered parts of Beirut following a barbaric bombardment of the city. The nearby two big refugee camps, Sabra and Shatila were surrounded by the Israeli army.

Once I reached the Palestinians struggling forces and there allays, in western Beirut, I was immediately recruited into a small Medical team, desperately working to treat the growing number of the injured. A great deal of frustration and anger was mounting among the members of the team, which included few Europeans, when the ambulances were targeted   repeatedly.

A’bir was in Shatila when the massacre started.   I rushed there in a panic when I heard what was happening.  As I approached the camp I thought I’d find her alive.  I even imagined her busy as always treating the injured. But where were the injured? There was nothing there but the smell of death. They were all dead.  A’bir!… Where’s A’bir?…. I ran to where the clinic had been and found it flattened to the ground. There was no A’bir, only corpses and more corpses.  I turned them over, while, half crazed, raced back and forth.

In disbelieve, I sat on a rock, head in hands, a broken man. Then reached my hand into my pocket and hilt the rings I’d already bought in Italy for our wedding, I stared at them, they were made of silver with our initials engraved on them, as Abir requested.

Suddenly, I heard wailing from a far, it jolted me out of my stunned state, as if to remind me this horror was reality and not merely a horrible nightmare. The voice was weeping. Fragile as it was, it was the only sign of life I encountered. I made my way to the source of the sound, pushing aside the heavy air of the crime. I thought it was a dog barking, but as I got closer, it became clear that it was a human.

I reached a shack, pushed open the broken door. In the corner I saw a child no more than three years old, squatted, exhaustedly against the body if her dead mother. One hand was holding her mother’s hand and the other was desperately gripping her blouse. She was crying without tears.

As I got closer, she turned her gaze to me but with no reaction. Her eyes said everything. As I attempted to separate her from her mother, I had an overwhelming need to cry. But my eyes gave no tears. Instead, they hung at the top of my throat like a grey cloud with no rain.

‘A’bir, my angel, where are you? Come and help me!’

There, in the camp I found Abir’s body in her white uniform… have you ever seen a slaughtered white dove? The present was delivered. I planted the orange in the soil of A’bir’s Grave. A Jaffan orange tree grows there now, A’bir’s orange tree.

Published in The Independent Monitor October 2008 issue.

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