The School of War

by Najjar, Alexandre; Wilson, Laurie;

  ‘Yes, he’ll live, but with the bullet.’

  Twenty years later, the bullet is still there. I have gotten used to the foreign body that resides in my own body. Removing it wouldn’t change anything – the war inhabits me in any case.

  Water

  I observe Abou Georges, the gardener, as he waters the trees: apple trees, pear trees, mulberry trees, fig trees … Protected by his straw hat as wide as a sombrero, he is not in danger of getting burned by the August sun that is making me feel dizzy. He trudges through the mud; water from the rivulets runs through the irrigation canals that criss-cross the orchard. I am mesmerized by its gurgling – it sounds like laughter.

  It was during the war that I learned to appreciate the value of water. Waiting in line with an empty can, I came to understand that it is as vital as the blood that runs through our veins. Before the war, I used to waste water recklessly; I did not think it was of any value. I scorned the odourless, colourless liquid and, to be honest, I preferred soda and alcoholic drinks.

  One day, at the height of the fighting, the water disappeared from our faucets, and we did not know why.

  ‘There’s no more water,’ my mother announced.

  ‘No more water?’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘No more water!’

  My mother turned on the faucet. There was a humming sound, but no water.

  ‘No more water!’

  I panicked. How could I live without water? Most of my daily rituals depended on that one element: water. How was I to drink, shave, wash my hands, brush my teeth, rinse my hair, take a bath or rinse out the toilet bowl? I was angry at myself for having scorned water, for having denied its benefits, having underestimated its virtues, and, for years, having subjugated rather than venerating it.

  We organized ourselves as best we could. ‘We’ll just have to make the most of things,’ my mother decreed. We started by turning to bottled mineral water. We quickly abandoned this excessively costly method, however. Like all of the neighbourhood’s inhabitants, we went and stood in line at the spring that was located in the middle of a basin that had been built during the French Mandate. Until then this basin, which adorned one of the city’s main squares, had been no more than a decorative monument like any other. During the shortage it was stormed by a thirsty population. We would wait for an hour or two under the blazing sun to be able to step over the basin’s coping and wade through the water, our trouser legs rolled up, to fill our blue jerrycans … To prevent riots, a militiaman kept watch over the line, making sure everyone remained orderly – only his comrades-in-arms were allowed to go against the established procedure – and forbidding any one person from filling more than two cans at a time. ‘Make way for the next person,’ he barked over and over. The first time, my mother vehemently protested:

  ‘I have five children to bathe.’

  ‘And I have twelve,’ someone from the crowd retorted.

  She didn’t insist. But the following day she found a solution: she handed two blue jerrycans to each of my siblings. For three weeks, the entire family went and stood in line at the spring every morning. Each of us filled two cans and carried them back to the house; Uncle Michel took over from there and emptied the water into the big reservoir on the roof. Water flowed from the faucets once again. But we changed our ways: we learned to conserve water.

  One day, at last, a neighbourhood shopkeeper bought a tank truck and began to provide households with a fresh supply of water that he collected at the foot of the mountains after the snow thawed. The situation improved.

  What has stayed with me from this period? The memory of heated arguments in the long lines, of blue jerrycans whose handles scraped my fingers and which I courageously carried back to the house and, above all, the flavour that my fatigue gave to the water: it tasted like honey.

  The Corpse

  ‘Do you remember your first corpse?’

  Uncle Michel talks about my first corpse as if it were my first kiss.

  ‘Yes. I was nine.’

  That morning, the chabeb (the young fighters) caught a sniper. Anxious to make an example of him, they tied him to the back of a Jeep by his left foot and towed him through the streets of Beirut, honking. Thinking it was a wedding convoy escorting newlyweds, which always proceed amidst a chorus of horns, I stepped out onto the balcony. At first, I must admit, I found the sight of the man being dragged by his foot amusing. But by the third time around, the game began to seem barbaric to me – the sniper’s skin had been scraped against the asphalt, and he left a trail of blood in his path.

  ‘Dakhilkon! Khalsoune!’

  I can still hear his groans, his desperate pleas. He held his hand to his mouth to let the militiamen know that he was thirsty. The Jeep stopped. A sinister-looking man got out. He had a red bandana tied across his forehead. He unscrewed the cap of his canteen and poured a few drops of water between the lips of his prisoner. I was touched by this gesture. But just as the sniper swallowed the liquid, the militiaman, in one swift movement, drew a knife and slit his throat. I saw him brandish the severed head, then put it on the hood of the Jeep. Decked with this trophy, the vehicle started up and resumed its procession through the streets of the capital.

  How could anyone forget? Hundreds of kids witnessed it, like me, and had sleepless nights, unable to rid their minds of this image.

  ‘And you, Uncle Michel?’

  My uncle shakes his head and puts his hand, yellowed from nicotine, on my shoulder.

  ‘My first corpse was my grandfather’s. He was lying on a big canopy bed. There were dozens of candles burning around him. He was wearing a black suit, a polka dot tie, and well-polished shoes. My grandmother had powdered his cheeks to give them some colour, and she had done such a good job that upon seeing him I felt as if he were still alive.’

  He runs his hand through his white hair, then sighs:

  ‘I said to myself ‘I mustn’t wake him.’ I tiptoed up to him so as not to make any noise, and I kissed his hand. My grandfather was handsome. Even dead he was handsome.’

  The Radio

  The city is being rebuilt. Yesterday there were tank tracks, today bulldozer tracks. Beirut is a Swiss-cheese city: its buildings, roads and sidewalks are riddled with holes. Its walls bear cracks, like scars.

  I park my car and turn towards Françoise, a friend who has just arrived in Lebanon.

  ‘Here is the famous Martyrs’ Square,’ I tell her, pointing to a deserted esplanade.

  The square is not what it used to be. Here, the magnificent Martyrs’ Monument once stood imposingly, on a white marble pedestal. Blown to pieces by shell explosions and snipers’ bullets, horribly mutilated, the four bronze statues of which it was composed presently lie in wait in a restoration workshop. The most beautiful of them represents a man – or is it a woman? – holding a flame, much like the famous Statue of Liberty. During the war, violent fighting took place here, in the very spot where the statue stood, before the eyes of this creature whose bronze body has long borne stigmata. I miss it – without it, Martyrs’ Square is nothing more than an esplanade without a soul.

  I start the car back up and drive along the coast. Phoenicia, Saint-Georges, Riviera, Bain Militaire, Raouda, Raouché. The Pigeon Rock stretches across the waves, under the languid stares of soda vendors and Sunday fishermen. There are crowds all along the cliff road: marathon runners wearing headphones; obese walkers; skaters perched on their roller-blades weaving with ballerina-like grace in and out of those strolling along; men eyeing the beautiful women who stream by; idle people killing time … All of Beirut gathers along this seaside avenue every weekend. Workers mix with bankers, women wearing chadors with short-skirted nymphets … Differences are blurred, swept away by the sea wind that blows along the cliffs and tousles the palm trees.

  ‘Move along, you slug.’

  Stuck in traffic, I am suffocating. The heat is unbearable, the car exhaust and the dust from neighbouring construction sites defile the air. />
  ‘Turn on the radio, it’ll help you relax,’ Françoise advises me.

  The radio.

  ‘You know, I haven’t touched a radio in seven years.’

  ‘You talk about it as if it were a drug,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘During the war, the radio orchestrated our every gesture, our every move, our lives.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Radio programs were constantly interrupted by news flashes that advised us to take precautions, to go to the bomb shelters, to not take such-and-such a road … The messages indicated the precise location of the falling shells; sometimes they even predicted the gunners’ next target.’

  ‘And you lived according to the rhythm of the news flashes?’

  ‘We hung on a faceless journalist’s every word, dependent upon that bird of ill omen. Tish tik tish tik … The jingle that announced the news flashes terrorized us – it meant that a shell had fallen or was about to fall. It was the harbinger of death.’

  Françoise pulls a pack of Gauloises blondes cigarettes out of her pocket, takes one out and carefully lights it.

  ‘We didn’t have a choice. Can a blind man get by without his cane? In the bomb shelters, at school or at work, people were always listening to the radio; without it, they were completely lost.’

  ‘Did the station have a name?’

  ‘There were at least a dozen stations. Every little group had its frequency, and in the end, this led to a battle of the airwaves that was as violent as the ground battles.’

  ‘A psychological war.’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘If you will. A war where there was no room for truth, where all lies were fair play as long as they discredited the adversary.’

  Françoise blows out a stream of smoke and says:

  ‘Come on, there are no more shells. Turn on the radio.’

  I fiddle with the buttons on my car radio. Majida Roumi’s voice resonates:

  Aainaka layalén saifiya …

  ‘What is she saying?’ Françoise asks.

  ‘She’s saying that “your eyes are like a summer night …”’

  The song is interrupted.

  Tish tik tish tik …

  The infamous jingle rings out. Having lost my breath, I slam on the brakes. Françoise goes pale.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she stammers.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, turning up the volume.

  I feel as if I have been catapulted back seven years. I can see myself lying on my bed next to my radio, listening attentively for the latest news from the front, unable to fall asleep.

  ‘We interrupt this program to announce that …’

  The journalist’s voice is as monotonous as ever and reveals no hint of emotion; it gives me goosebumps.

  ‘… Pope Jean-Paul II will visit Lebanon next May. This information has just been confirmed by the Vatican. It will be the Supreme Pontiff’s first official visit to the Country of Cedars …’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Françoise, who didn’t understand the announcement – broadcast in Arabic – cannot keep still.

  ‘Where did they fall?’ she whispers, her eyes bulging.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The shells!’

  ‘There are no more shells, Françoise. It’s the Pope.’

  The Candle

  War takes us back to the Stone Age. Crouching in the corner of a house – in a corridor, a stairwell – or in a bomb shelter, we forget about comfort, gaining a new appreciation for the simple things in life. Take a candle, for instance. What does a candle mean to a city dweller who lives in London, Paris, Barcelona, Munich, Milan or New York? What purpose can it possibly still serve for such a person? In times of war, a candle is priceless. It is light – the only light that we can hope for when shells force us into hiding, depriving us of power.

  This morning at the Notre Dame des Dons church, upon seeing the candles burning on the altar, I became lost in these thoughts. As Beirut was being bombarded by gunfire, such a candle, with a flickering flame, was our sole means of combating the darkness. We learned our lessons by candle-light; played our card games alongside a candle; stole our first kisses after blowing out a candle … When the power was cut in the middle of the night, the same cry would ring out everywhere:

  ‘Chamaa!’

  ‘A candle!’ Groping around, the youngest among us made his way to the kitchen, blindly opened a drawer and pulled out the precious object.

  ‘And the matches?’ he cried out.

  ‘Near the oven.’

  He closed the drawer and, eyes opened wide, hands reaching out in front of him, he moved towards the oven.

  ‘Well?’ we yelled impatiently.

  We heard a crash.

  ‘I broke a plate, but I found the matches,’ he said in a reassuring voice.

  Then came the crackling of a match. He warmed up the candle to soften the base, pressed it into the middle of a coffee cup and came back, his head held high, brandishing the makeshift lantern that brought light back to us.

  When, tired of it all, I would lie down near a candle, I would watch its flame flicker, heeding even the most gentle whispers of the wind. A candle flame is playful: it sways its hips, stretches, contorts itself, a bit like a belly dancer. As it burns down it projects ghostlike shadows on the walls. It exudes tears that slide down its hot body and congeal, just like pearls. As it nears the end, the flame resists with all its might in the midst of its limp, decayed wax body, then silently expires, swallowed up by the newly returned darkness.

  The candle is perhaps the most striking example of the incredible generosity of things, and of the ability of certain objects to love. It lives and dies for the person for whom it lights the way. Could there be a more beautiful expression of love?

  Grenades

  ‘How are the tomatoes looking this year?’

  ‘They’re going to be beautiful – you’ll see.’

  Every time I come across Abou Georges in the vegetable garden, I am reminded of a crazy scene that I witnessed, then took part in, during the war:

  One morning, woken with a start by the sound of a gunshot from the garden, I jumped out of bed and, barefoot, ran to find out what was happening. The sight before me rendered me speechless: I saw Abou Georges, pale, brandishing a road sign with a hole in the middle at arm’s length and, facing him, Moussa, revolver in hand.

  ‘Moussa! Have you gone mad?’

  The taxi driver turned towards me, and with a big smile said:

  ‘It’s nothing. Just target practice …’

  ‘Target practice on the gardener? Where do you think you are, the Wild West?’

  ‘It’s perfectly safe. I have good aim.’

  Moussa had convinced poor Abou Georges to act as his target, and had replaced William Tell’s apple with a road sign. Before I had time to reproach him for his act, he dragged me over to his Plymouth. He winked at me, held a finger up to his moustache, and opened the enormous trunk of his car. Strewn around inside were Kalashnikovs, rocket launchers, guns, cartridge belts …

  ‘Take your pick,’ he ordered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take your pick. I’m offering you the weapon of your choice.’

  ‘Where did you get this arsenal?’

  ‘The militia … … Go ahead, pick one.’

  ‘No way.’

  Moussa insisted. But he finally gave in to my intransigence.

  ‘At least let me give you a small gift.’

  He dug around in the trunk.

  ‘Here,’ he finally said, placing an object wrapped in newspaper in the palm of my hand.

  He said goodbye to Abou Georges, disappeared into the Plymouth and took off. Intrigued, I felt the package and, without further delay, unwrapped it. My heart stopped – it was a grenade. Up until then, for me, the word ‘grenade’1 had always referred to the pulpy fruit with red seeds from which Aunt Malaké knew how to extract a sweet syrup. At school I had learned a poem by Paul Valéry:

&nbs
p; Dures grenades entr’ouvertes

  Cédant à l’excès de vos grains,

  Je crois voir des fronts souverains

  Éclatés de leurs découvertes!

  (Hard pomegranates, split open

  Yielding to your overabundance of seeds,

  You seem to be sovereign brows

  Bursting with their discoveries!)

  The grenade I had in my hand was different. It resembled a large egg with a rough shell, topped with a pin that made it look like a key chain. I weighed it in my hand – it was much heavier than an egg. With its cast iron, carefully shaped body and its frog-green colour, the grenade reminds us that we must never trust appearances. How can the fact that such a small object can cause so much damage be explained?

  Moussa’s gift left me feeling perplexed. What was I to do with a grenade in my house? Where could I hide it? I decided to keep it in my dresser, near my bed. But an idea crossed my mind: what would happen if the cleaning woman were to open the drawer too abruptly? Just how sensitive was this grenade?

  For two nights, I was unable to fall asleep. The object was a burden to me, I was obsessed with it. Should I throw it out? Yes, but where? How could I throw such a dangerous explosive into the trash? What would happen if the garbage truck were to crush it, or if an alley cat were to inadvertently pull the pin? Who could I turn to for advice? To keep the object was unthinkable, and to get rid of it impossible. I ended up going to Moussa’s house. He was taking a nap – I awoke him.

  ‘What? Is the enemy attacking?’ he cried out.

  ‘No, no. I just came to return your gift.’

  ‘You don’t want it anymore?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, putting the grenade in the palm of his hand.

  Moussa studied me with a look of dismay. He set the object upright and, frowning, pressed down on a button above the release lever.

  ‘But it’s a perfectly good lighter,’ he said, watching the little flame that had just shot up.