“So the Palestinians are to blame?” Evan asks.
“Yes, and no.”
“Meaning?”
“The Palestinians didn’t create the problem. Lebanon inherited an unsustainable political system from the French mandate, which gave most of the power to the Christians, particularly the Maronite Christians.”
“The Christians are the majority, aren’t they?”
“Maybe once they were, but their numbers are declining, and the Muslims have had a significantly higher birth rate for several decades. So they’re lobbying for equal power.”
“And where do the Palestinians fit in?”
“Arafat believes that the only way to force Israel to let Palestinian refugees return and to get it to agree to a two-state solution is to keep up military pressure. Since being booted out of Jordan and Syria, the only place he can do this from is Lebanon.”
“Okay, so why is he meddling in the problems between the Christian and Muslim Lebanese?”
“Because he’s a fool. Pierre Gemayel, the leader of the largest Christian party, the Phalangists, had originally supported the Palestinian cause, but now he is advocating that they should all leave Lebanon.”
Evan polishes off his sandwich and sits back to sip his coke and crack a few lewd jokes. He has already mastered the first lesson of his new profession—dissimulate your own knowledge behind buffoonish behaviour and people will speak freely around you. He appears to be just a boorish foreigner to the restaurant’s patrons who exchange views on what will happen next in Beirut. Their accent is rougher than the dialect that his Syrian grandmother had spoken when he was a child but still understandable. No one in Shemlan is onto his Arab origins, not even Marc. And he’ll be sure to be the last to pronounce a decent ‘ayn to keep it that way.
“Evan, shall we head back?”
“Lead the way. Maybe we’ll cross paths with that young sheila again.”
“Calm down! You have too many kangaroo hormones.”
Hoda surveys the supplies in Abu Walid’s desk—plenty of chalk, but a lot of the pieces are broken in two, some into even smaller bits. She’s heard of Abu Walid’s temper and wonders whether her class of Franjis could really be that bad. She takes out a piece of chalk and writes her name Hoda ‘Akkawi in Arabic on the blackboard. She then adds: ‘Akkawi is a person from ‘Akka, Palestine—Acre in English. If she only teaches her students one thing in the four weeks she’s replacing Abu Walid, it will be about ‘Akka and why she’s not able to return to Palestine, her country. Let the spies among them report back to their capitals that the Palestinians are steadfast.
“Hullo, are you lost?” comes a voice she’s heard before.
Hoda turns, still holding the chalk. She looks confident but stern. Evan’s face drops.
“You said you were from Australia, didn’t you?” Hoda says.
“Yes.”
“It is a country populated by criminals, isn’t it? Well, there will be no criminal behaviour in my class. Keep your eyes and remarks to yourself, and you might just learn a little Arabic.”
Great, a ball-breaker for a teacher, Evan thinks.
Marc stands at the door, not sure if he’s also going to be blasted.
Hoda’s stern look melts into a soft smile. “By your accent, you must be French. France is a civilized country. Ahlan wa Sahlan—Welcome! I am Hoda ‘Akkawi.”
And for the first time, Marc hears a distinctive ‘ayn.
“‘Akkawi as in ‘Akka?” he asks.
“Yes, that’s right,” Hoda says, smiling. “And your ‘ayn is perfect. Abu Walid has taught you well.”
Trust the French to seduce the teacher, Evan thinks.
As if she could read his thoughts, Hoda casts a disapproving look at Evan. He sits down and begins to shrink in his chair.
Marc offers his hand. “That’s right, I’m French. Marc Taragon. But my parents aren’t French. They’re refugees from Spain.”
Hoda smiles again. A refugee like me, she thinks, as she places her palm in his.
The all-male class filters in, each noticing that Abu Walid’s replacement is certainly a lot easier on the eyes than the old geezer. They soon also find her teaching a step-up. By the end of the class, most have mastered the pronunciation of ‘ayn by reciting ‘Akka medinah ‘arabiyyah fi Filistin—Acre is an Arab city in Palestine.
At one point, one of the Brits in the class puts up his hand to ask: “Can you take a few minutes to explain who’s who among all these religions in Lebanon. I find it quite confusing.”
“Well, I’m not really paid to teach that,” Hoda answers.
“Please, just the basics.”
“All right. The population in Lebanon is divided into five groups.”
“Five? I thought it was just Christians and Muslims,” one of the students says.
“No, the population is divided among three groups who see themselves as indigenous Lebanese and two groups who came to Lebanon as refugees. The first refugees were the Armenians. They’re Christian and have been in Lebanon since fleeing their homes in 1918 in what is now Turkey. The newer refugees are the Palestinians, who are mostly Muslim. I am Palestinian, and my family has been in Lebanon almost thirty years.”
“And the indigenous Lebanese?”
“The population is roughly split between Christians and Muslims, with Muslims being a slight majority. There’s an important minority, which is neither Christian nor Muslim. We call these people the Druze.”
“Abu Walid is a Druze,” one of the students says.
Hoda hesitates. It’s not her place to comment on the religious affiliations of other teachers. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes, he said he came from a mixed Druze-Christian village in the Shouf Mountains. He didn’t tell us much about the Druze though.”
“Well, the Druze are often reluctant to explain their religion to others,” Hoda says. “I can tell you though they consider themselves to be an offshoot of Islam, although their beliefs are different from Muslims.”
Just as Marc was about to ask Hoda for an explanation of the role of religion in Lebanon’s power structure, the school’s headmaster walks in.
“Thank you, Hoda. We are going to close the school a little early today. There have been some unfortunate events in Beirut.”
Chapter
4
Beirut – April 1975
EVAN PULLS MARC ASIDE, as they exit the school. He grins and says:
“You didn’t waste any time, did you?”
“What?”
“You know I have first dibs on her. I saw her first.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bird, man, the bird. She likes you and she could teach you a lot more than just Arabic, but let me have a go first.”
Marc smiles at his incorrigible friend. Evan is the first Aussie he has ever met, and he wonders whether the whole island is like him.
Several classmates, all young British diplomats in training, file by them without a sign of acknowledgement.
Evan glares at them. “Those pommies—they’re a stuck-up lot. Mostly poofs, you know. They come looking for a Lawrence-of-Arabia experience.”
“What?”
“Yes, like in Lawrence’s little encounter with the Turkish Pasha in Deraa and again with his Bedouin boy servants. You’ve seen the film, haven’t you?”
Marc hadn’t but he had read the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, and had an inkling of what Evan was alluding to and just maybe what “poof” means. He adds homophobia to the long list of his friend’s shortcomings and is about to lecture Evan on the values of tolerance and sexual diversity when the headmaster turns the corner.
“Hello boys, we have a problem. Maybe you can help us?”
“Sure, what is it?” Evan asks.
“One of our teachers lives in West Beirut. Since noon all the local taxi drivers are refusing to enter the city because of the roadblocks.”
“Roadblocks? Set up by whom?” Marc asks.
“By all sides, but there have been reports of kidnappings, maybe even killings at the Phalangist checkpoints. The Maronites are on the warpath to avenge the four dead militiamen found at the port this morning. Our teacher is a Palestinian and a Muslim. It would be much safer if she travelled with you. I know it’s an imposition.”
“Well, Evan, you’re the one with the car,” Marc says. “If you want to help out, I can come along.”
“I don’t know. It sounds a little iffy and …” Evan stops in mid-sentence when Hoda steps from behind the headmaster.
“Is this the passenger?” Evan asks with a grin.
“Yes, Miss ‘Akkawi lives in Sabra camp, but you can drop her in the Fakhani district. She can make it home from there. Do you know where that is?”
“We can find it,” Marc says. “Mademoiselle ‘Akkawi, it would be an honour to take you to Beirut.”
A hard nudge from Evan’s elbow inflicts a sharp pain in Marc’s ribs. “Remember, it’s my car.” Evan then turns to Hoda. “As my young French friend has so gallantly offered, it will be an honour and a pleasure to see you home safely.”
Hoda looks at the headmaster who nods. She turns to Marc, ignoring Evan and says: “I’d like to leave now before it gets dark.”
“Of course,” Marc replies, giving Evan a hard shove to the back. “It’s this way.”
When they reach Evan’s car, Hoda sits in the back. Marc is about to sit in the front passenger seat when she says: “Could you sit with me. I’d feel safer that way.” Evan winks at Marc.
The headmaster’s wife rushes up from behind him. The plump, middle-aged woman presses something into Hoda’s hand. She then bends over to whisper in the young woman’s ear. Hoda nods obediently. Marc looks at her, but she avoids his glance. “Can we leave now?” she asks.
Evan is eager to test out his new Peugeot on the mountain road from Shemlan down to Aley. He’s an excellent driver, but like most right-handdrive car drivers, he occasionally looks the wrong way at intersections. Marc sits back and takes in the breathtaking mountain scenery. That is until Hoda removes her hijab, unbuttons the top two buttons of her blouse and takes off her long skirt to reveal a pair of tight-fitting jeans.
She leans toward him to whisper: “If the Phalangists stop the car, tell them I’m your wife. It’ll be safer that way.”
Before Marc can respond, she slips a gold ring on her wedding finger. Marc is impressed by Hoda’s directness. He hasn’t met many young Muslim women, but she is definitely different. He silently relishes his new marital status.
Evan eases on the brakes as they approach the sleepy Druze town of Aley. Straddling the Damascus to Beirut highway and perched at the top of the descent to Beirut, Aley is a stranglehold for getting in and out of the capital. Marc can feel Hoda tense up. But militiamen just wave them through. As Evan accelerates past the checkpoint, Marc breathes a sigh of relief and looks at Hoda. Her chest rises and falls as she struggles to regain her composure.
“Are you all right?” Marc asks.
“Yes, I’m fine. For a moment, I was worried the Druze might mistake me for a Maronite Christian. I changed my clothes too soon.”
“The Druze have no quarrel with women.”
“I wish it was like that. But when their leaders give an order, the Druze execute it without mercy. One day, they’re the gentlest of people, the next day killing machines.”
Evan smiles in the rear-view mirror. “Lovers’ quarrel back there?”
Hoda struggles to hide her own smile. Marc feels both warm and embarrassed. An awkward moment passes before he borrows a textbook from Hoda and gives Evan a hard tap on the head. “Keep your eyes on the road!”
“Hey mate, that hurt!”
“Next time, it will hurt a lot more.”
Hoda turns away to conceal her delight. There is now a pleasant complicity among the three of them. As the descent into Beirut begins in earnest, Evan negotiates the multiple bends with the skill of a racecar driver. When they reach a flat stretch again, Marc and Hoda begin to relax. He asks her how she learned French. From her Aunt Meryem, she replies and then begins to recount her Jewish aunt’s tragic journey from Algeria to Palestine and then to Lebanon.
Chapter
5
Nicosia – January 2007
IN JUST THREE hours, Taragon covers the outbreak of the Lebanese civil war until the first Israeli invasion in 1978. Marie sits entranced as the veteran journalist speaks of his personal encounters, and often friendships, with most of the young Lebanese and Palestinian leaders of the day. What fascinates her even more is Taragon’s cogent analysis of the behind-the-scenes manoeuvres that resulted in the full-scale confrontation of the PLO and its allies with the Christian militias.
Taragon explains how the Lebanese order, brokered by the country’s notables, disintegrated, and younger tougher leaders emerged in all the communities. Syria and Israel enrolled these young cubs in a vicious proxy war. And ordinary Lebanese and Palestinians became mere pawns in a power struggle of the large egos of small men.
Taragon is unsparing in his criticism of Arafat, the most cunning of the new generation of leaders. Without regard to the welfare of the Lebanese, Arafat has made the PLO the master of all Lebanon south of Beirut. The devastation that the 1956, 1967 and 1973 wars inflicted on the Arab world had convinced their rulers to keep a tight leash on the Palestinian fighters in their countries. Lebanon was the exception. The political vacuum there unshackled the fedayeen, and the Israelis’ worst nightmare of a truly independent Palestinian army on their borders became a reality.
Marie reaches over to turn off the recorder. It is time to ask him. She reaches into her handbag for the photo.
Taragon looks at his watch then abruptly stands up.
“I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I have to meet someone in Kyrenia. Please forgive me. We’ll meet next week in Istanbul.”
“But …”
Taragon hands the barman a wad of Turkish lira, much more than just for the meal. The younger man leans forward to whisper in the journalist’s ear. Taragon nods. Marie now has the photo in her hand. He touches her shoulder and looks directly into her eyes. He displays a seriousness that paralyzes her from saying what she has rehearsed so many times.
“Marie, it would be better if you stayed a little longer here. Ibrahim has finished his work. He’ll be here in a minute and can accompany you back to the checkpoint.”
“Why? It’s only two hundred metres away?”
“I’d feel safer if you went with Ibrahim. On the other side of the checkpoint, we have a friend called Spiros. He’ll take you back to your hotel in his taxi. Please don’t take any taxi but his and don’t try to walk back to your hotel. Nicosia is normally a safe city, but we have reasons to worry.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“Some people don’t like what I’m doing.”
Taragon vanishes down the staircase. The photo is now damp with the sweat of Marie’s hand. She shakes her head a little, surprised by her inaction. She sought him out to show him the photo, to ask a simple question, but his mere presence has overwhelmed her. Now she must wait another week to uncover the truth.
Marie moves to the edge of the roof to catch a glimpse of Taragon as he exits the restaurant. Instinctively, she senses something is wrong. A man wearing sunglasses stands in a doorway on the opposite side of the street—the same man she saw at the checkpoint. And it dawns on her—the broad shoulders, the height and wavy blond hair, it’s the voyeur from across the hotel’s courtyard. Turning the corner, an older man joins the watcher, and both stare in Taragon’s direction.
Marie starts to shout to warn Taragon, but her vocal cords freeze.
“Don’t say anything,” a voice whispers in her ear.
She turns. Ibrahim’s beautiful smile greets her.
“Don’t worry about Marc. Everything is fine.”
“But look! Look at those men! They were at the checkpoint!”
“We
know. But Marc knows what he’s doing.”
Marie cannot hold back. “What exactly is he doing?”
“He will tell you himself. But don’t worry. Uncle Khalid has everything under control. Those men are Israeli spies. I ran a check on them. Uncle Khalid will detain them until the boat leaves.”
“Uncle Khalid?”
“Yes, Khalid Murat, our uncle. He is the new chief of police,” Ibrahim says with a proud smile.
There is a warmth, a connection, perhaps the making of a conspiracy between Marie and Ibrahim. More importantly—there’s trust. She feels safe. She knows that Taragon will also be safe. Marie reaches out to take Ibrahim’s hand. “On y va?”
Chapter
6
Nicosia – January 2007
TARAGON WALKS ALONG the seafront in Kyrenia. The war hasn’t touched the beautiful port city. At the east end of the old harbour is the Girne Kalesi, a 16th-century castle built by the Venetians over a previous Crusader fortification. He notices a few boarded-up homes, abandoned by their Greek-Cypriot owners. Taragon reflects on the irony of meeting at a café called Chimera. For the Greek Cypriots, it denotes a mythological combination of a goat, lion and serpent; for the rest of the world, a fanciful illusion. Chimera—a fitful double entendre for their peace initiative. Indeed, it will take the stubbornness of the goat, the courage of the lion and the cunning of the serpent to convince the world they’re not pursuing a pipe-dream.
Taragon arrives at the café and looks for Jonathan Bronstein, the man he is to meet. The café’s employees busily prepare for the evening meal. Most of the tourists are Turkish Cypriots working in London. When they can save up enough to escape England’s dreadful weather, they come back for a cheap holiday stay with their relatives. But the new government is determined to attract more European tourists to lessen its dependence on Ankara. Taragon wishes it luck. Turkish Cypriots certainly need to shake off the shackles of the Turkish military, but more importantly, they need to make peace with their Greek countrymen.
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