I met Samira Fakhoury one evening in Hammana, a small town overlooking Beirut. The locals had gathered in the library to tell true stories by candlelight, and Samira was the first to speak:
Our villa is located outside the village, a bit isolated. In this April of 1976, Hammana was emptied of the Lebanese army. In principle, there is an arms depot and a barracks of 300 soldiers, but the army has disbanded and the depot has been emptied, people have come in to take weapons and ammunition. Hammana is left to itself and to gunfire.
That night, it was a misty night, not very cold, but no moon, and naturally without electricity as for several months. It was my husband, our four daughters, and our niece, so five children between sixteen and seven years old. Suddenly, a car drives up the path. We had closed everything, but our candles were shining.
Four car doors open at the same time, knocks at the door. We extinguish the candles. But our house has a glass front. In times of violence, it offers no protection. I silently take the four girls into the only room that had no window to the outside, between the dining room and the kitchen. My husband goes up to the second floor, steps out onto the balcony, and very cordially, with much politeness, says to the men: tell me what you want from us, which party you are from, to know if I should open the door for you.
Then, there is a snicker from below.
You want to joke, says the voice, you don’t know that we can take you down like a bird, right away, and blow up your house.
My husband replies very calmly: oh really, that’s your decision, alright, I’ll come down to sort this out with you.
He gets down on the ground and crawls to us: don’t be afraid, fear nothing, he tells us, I will shoot you all before they lay a hand on you.
And I, in my heart, say God help him, help him to be able to do what he says. Then silence, the four car doors open and all lights off, the car drives away.
My six-year-old daughter, stuck to me, was like a block of ice. I pulled her and she couldn’t move.
The evening ended around a farewell drink and Samira signaled to me. The story had a continuation:
I was saying that our house is isolated, and we also had, very close by, the empty houses of my sister and my parents under our watch.
The Syrian army had placed its cannons right in the field in front of us. There was the width of the road between us. The 135 cannons were bombarding Beirut and we, the Lebanese of Hammana, were waiting for the Lebanese retaliation. We no longer had the children. After the episode with the militiamen, we had decided to send the girls away, but to stay nonetheless, because otherwise, if we left, we would have had nothing left, the three houses would have been devastated. We had to keep an eye on them.
Despite our presence, my sister’s house was occupied, but not my mother’s.
My husband said: there is a lady, an old lady, you cannot occupy the house.
The officer said: but we will consider her as our mother.
And my husband said: would you want your own mother to be in a house that your army occupies?
Then they didn’t dare.
There are trees in front of our house, poplars that in spring form like cotton flowers. It dirties everything, it bothers everything, and my husband says every year: I’m going to cut down those trees!
And I say no because it is these trees that protect us from the sun all day long. We cannot live without trees. It was a permanent subject of dispute between him and me.
That day, same song: I’m going to have those trees cut down! And I shouted: no no!
The Syrian officer passed under our window, then he knocked on the door and said: it’s the first time I hear your voices. Are you arguing?
I said: yes, he is going to divorce me.
Then the officer said: how Mr. Michel! That’s not possible, you have a wonderful wife, no no, I wouldn’t allow it, you need to think more before, you shouldn’t be so quick in your decisions!
I said: do you know why he wants to divorce me?
And he: I don’t want to get into your...
And I: no no, I want to explain to you. Do you see those trees?
He said: yes.
I said: it’s because of those trees.
He said: ah.
Then I explained to him: do you see all those flowers? They are going to fall like cotton, it bothers him...
He said: Oh really?! Is that the reason!?
I said: yes that’s the reason.
He said: but it’s simple, we will pick them now, before they bloom.
The trees are three stories high. He gets up, goes to the balcony, and calls his men.
He calls them: Hayawen! Animals!! Then they all respond at the same time. Animals, do you see those trees? Do you see all those flowers that are still in bud, that look like clusters? Do you see them?
They said: very well.
Then he said: you will take turns, you will pick all those flowers, all those clusters.
I would have liked to take a photo of all those men climbing in clusters, three by three, on each tree. There were four trees and they climbed three by three. I didn’t dare. It wouldn’t have been nice.
When I think of this story, I am reconciled with everything the Syrian army has made Lebanon suffer, and I tell myself: that officer still had a heart, he was worried for our couple.
François Beaune - “True Stories from the Mediterranean” published by Éditions Verticales under the title “The Moon in the Well”
Photo credit ©djedj - Pixabay