The School of War

by Najjar, Alexandre; Wilson, Laurie;

  ______________

  1. ‘Grenade’ in French also means ‘pomegranate’.

  The Shelter

  Eleven o’clock at night. The radio has just announced that bombing has resumed. I leave the house and travel the two hundred yards to the shelter. Along the way, I come across dozens of men in pyjamas and women in nightgowns filing past in the darkness like ghosts. It is a surreal sight, like something out of a dream. The high school principal is dressed in a mauve bathrobe, the priest is wearing flannel long underwear, the baker is in an undershirt, the neighbour has forgotten her wig … All of these individuals, pulled from their beds by the war, converge around the movie theatre that serves as a bomb shelter. Away from their usual surroundings, without their usual attire, they are hardly recognizable.

  Descending the stairway that leads to the ticket booths, I take a quick look at the poster: Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, starring Clint Eastwood, who is featured on the poster wearing a poncho, squinting, with a cigarillo dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  The theatre is huge inside. The neighbourhood’s inhabitants push past one another. Each family occupies a small area. This evening the show is not taking place on the screen but outside.

  Two hours pass. I need to pee. I open my eyes. For just a second I wonder where I am – I see a dark room, a stage with curtains, and I wonder if I haven’t already crossed the border that separates life and death. All around me men, women and children are sitting in the seats sleeping, heads bent forward or leaning back, in an unearthly silence. The explosions, which are shaking the city from above, are hardly audible in here.

  The following day, as the guns have not yet been silenced, no one leaves the theatre. To entertain his ‘guests’, the projectionist shows the advertised film free of charge. His son passes out bags of popcorn. The movie begins in a packed house, piled high with knapsacks and makeshift beds …

  In this world, my friend, there are two kinds of people: those with loaded guns, and those who dig …

  I am surprised by Clint Eastwood’s line. The cowboy is right – there are those who bomb, and those who, either hopeless or fatalistic, dig their graves with their own two hands.

  The movie comes to an end amidst applause. I stand up and walk towards the backstage area to stretch my legs. My father has shut himself up in a tiny room that was used as a dressing room for actors when plays used to be put on in the theatre. He is sitting behind a washstand, facing a big mirror. He is writing.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m working … I have some files to finish up.’

  ‘The entire country has been devastated, and you’re working!’

  ‘If I stop writing, it will all be over for me.’

  I do not persist. I walk through the corridor that connects the artists’ dressing rooms. My brothers and sisters are there, wearing wigs and plumed hats, dressed up in embroidered doublets and crinoline dresses they found in the wardrobes.

  ‘Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou her maid art far more fair than she!’ one recites, down on one knee.

  ‘I can be forced to live without happiness, but I will never consent to live without honour,’ the other replies, sweeping his hand through the air.

  I shake my head – they’re living in another world. Shells are crashing down on the city, and my brothers and sisters are reciting Shakespeare and Corneille in the dressing rooms of a theatre-turned-bomb shelter.

  I continue my tour. Uncle Michel is stretched out on his raincoat. A few steps away from him, a large rat is watching him sleep. I yell out to scare the rodent away. My uncle doesn’t even flinch. He is snoring. I feel a lump in my throat. Seventy years old and forced to go to ground like a fox. I recall images of the London Underground during the Second World War that I saw on television – hundreds of old people lying on the bare ground. I clench my fists. How can this still be possible? Where is the international community? According to which criteria does it select the causes that are worth defending? Is it like the stock market? Is there a quotation for the value of human lives? The international community does not exist – it is an abstraction.

  A news flash on the radio announces thirty-seven deaths.

  In this world, my friend, there are two kinds of people …

  Roadblocks

  I went back up into the attic of my family home to come to terms with my past. I rediscovered part of my childhood there, thanks to some photographs arranged in a white album: my first bath, my first Christmas, my first communion … I see my uncles and aunts who have passed away, my maternal grandfather and grandmother who died during the war, and these memories tug at my heartstrings. I contemplate a picture of Uncle Jamil, the one who subscribed to Historia magazine and who would sing as the shells fell. I am sure that he continues to sing up there. But he must miss Historia.

  I peruse a series of class pictures. They take me back to my junior high school days, and above all to an experience I thought I had buried. It was an experience that taught me that Death is not a theoretical concept. It is a being made of flesh and blood, whose silhouette can sometimes be seen, whose breath can be felt and whose voice can be heard. During the war, I even shook its hand.

  That particular Saturday I had asked Moussa to drive me to Ghada’s house. Everything was calm on the front – both sides were counting the previous day’s casualties.

  ‘Don’t be careless,’ he said. ‘There’s quite a bit of tension along the demarcation line … hostages have been taken.’

  ‘I have to see her, Moussa. At any cost.’

  In order to avoid the bridge of death we agreed that it would be best to take the Badaro-Kaskas passageway. I took a seat in the Plymouth and crossed myself:

  ‘It’s in God’s hands.’

  Moussa took out his bottle of Johnnie Walker and took a swig before taking off.

  We travelled the first three hundred yards without a problem. But at an intersection Moussa suddenly stopped and cursed.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a moving roadblock,’ he stammered. ‘We’re done for.’

  Hooded militiamen had blocked the road with barriers and were checking all vehicles that ventured to take that route.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ I asked Moussa.

  ‘Yesterday evening our guys killed one of their guys at a roadblock. They’re probably out for revenge.’

  ‘They can’t just take us hostage like that, for no reason.’

  The driver glared at me, scowling:

  ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘Anyway, it’s too late – we can’t turn back now.’

  ‘True,’ he admitted, starting the car back up. ‘They might fire at us if we do.’

  He stopped again at the roadblock. A militiaman armed with a rocket launcher walked up to the Plymouth. He leaned over to inspect the inside of the vehicle, then barked:

  ‘Aal yamine!’

  ‘To the right!’ meant: ‘I don’t like the look of you. Just wait. You’ll see what I have in store for you …’ I shuddered. Moussa did not park to the side as the sentry ordered. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out the door to negotiate:

  ‘I’m a taxi driver. I’m doing my job … And my passenger is a student. For the love of God, let us through.’

  The militiaman walked around the car and approached me.

  ‘Roll down your window.’

  I obeyed.

  ‘Muslim or Christian?’

  He had asked the fateful question, as naturally as Aunt Malaké when she would ask at tea time: ‘With sugar or without?’

  I did not reply.

  ‘Muslim or Christian?’ he repeated, pointing an accusing finger at me.

  How was I to respond? It grew silent. I was tempted to lie. But, at the last minute, I got a grip on myself – the passage from the Gospels where Saint Peter denied Christ came back to me … Also, no sooner would I
have lied than I would have been found out – my religion was mentioned on my ID card.

  ‘Christian,’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘Get out.’

  My heart stopped beating. Moussa panicked. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked at me, aghast. I had no choice – I stepped out of the car. The militiaman signalled to the taxi to turn around and go back, then came towards me:

  ‘I crush little smart-asses like you,’ he yelled, pushing me with the butt of his Kalashnikov.

  I was penned into a wasteland not far from the roadblock, along with six of my fellow Christians. Our abductors roughed up a woman who was crying; they slapped an old man who was protesting. Paralyzed with fear, I was incapable of intervening. I closed my eyes – my thoughts went out to my parents, and to Ghada. I was angry at myself for not having followed Moussa’s advice.

  All of a sudden, the man in charge of watching over us took a few steps in my direction. He was wearing a combat uniform in fall colours and a black hood with slits for his eyes, nostrils and mouth. Observing him, I could not help but think of the men in the Ku Klux Klan – like them, this person veiled his face so as to be able to kill unexposed. Did he hope to hide his conscience behind his mask? His eyes, of which I could see only the pupils, were not those of a savage beast, but of a man. How did he end up like this?

  He took me by the elbow and pulled me aside. What did he want with me? Were they going to kill the hostages? Why were they starting with me?

  ‘I know you,’ the man whispered. ‘We were in school together.’

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He held a finger to his lips.

  ‘What are you going to do to us?’

  ‘We have to avenge one of our guys who was killed yesterday at a roadblock like this one.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘You have to pay for the others.’

  ‘Can’t you help me?’

  My classmate grew silent and thought for a minute.

  ‘Escape through the back,’ he finally said. ‘I’ll say you ran away.’

  ‘Just tell them that we’re friends, that we used to play together.’

  ‘They wouldn’t understand. To them, a Christian and a Muslim cannot play together.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Go on, get out of here.’

  I squeezed his shoulder.

  ‘Go, run!’

  I took to my heels. I ran as fast as I could, without ever looking back. Only today do I finally dare to turn back. What became of the old man who was protesting, and the woman who was moaning? Have they forgiven me for fleeing?

  My class pictures are spread out before me. Black and white photographs, yellowed with time. My fingers wander across the shots that look like postcards sent from another country. They are of schoolchildren in grey smocks, smiling at the future … Which of them is the militiaman who pens in hostages in a wasteland? There is no way of knowing – all their faces exude innocence. But I obstinately continue to search – I must find the eyes of the militiaman among the dozens of eyes fixed on the photographer.

  I place my index finger on each of my classmates. What has become of them? There are those who have left, those who have stayed.

  And the assassins.

  Gas

  A long the road to the museum, I stop to fill my tank. I park my car at a service station.

  ‘Five gallons!’

  The attendant is Egyptian. He is wearing orange coveralls that make him look like an astronaut. He hurries over, clears the pump, lifts the hatch to my gas tank, unscrews my gas cap, then inserts the adjustable-flow nozzle into the tank. The metre very quickly reads ‘5’. The Egyptian shuts off the pump. I pay, get back into my car and take off.

  ‘Amazing,’ I say to myself, looking at my watch. ‘Three minutes for five gallons of gas.’

  The last time, during the war, the process had taken eight hours. At that time, due to the shipping blockade, the country was experiencing an unprecedented gas shortage. To get around and to his office my father would while away the hours in the endless queues that formed at the service stations. In the oppressive heat – many drivers stripped right down to their undershirts – he would wait his turn, his hands folded together on top of the steering wheel. To avoid being short of gas he often stocked cans of it on the kitchen balcony, much to the dismay of my mother, who was afraid that the slightest spark would set off a catastrophe. To fill the tank of his car with the stocked gas, my father had two techniques: the funnel and the rubber hose. For the funnel, he would ask me to hold the object firmly in place above the gas tank while he poured his precious yellowish liquid into it; for the hose, he would stick one end of it in the can, take the other end in his mouth, suck forcefully to pump out the gas, then plunge that end into the tank; as if by magic, the gas would be decanted. Some days the crisis reached alarming proportions. Thieves would scour parking lots, breaking open gas tanks and, thanks to the rubber hose technique, extracting the gas of others.

  One morning, my eldest brother, who prided himself on being good in chemistry, advised us in order to save gas to add water and mothballs to it, one pound of mothballs to one litre of water. The result was immediate and acute: our father’s car spent two weeks at the mechanic’s!

  We discovered the virtues of walking and biking. Tyres that go flat, chains that fall off, painful falls in streams … none of these discouraged us. As for Uncle Michel, he bought a donkey. He tied it up in the back courtyard and did not hesitate to use it to get around town. ‘You’ll see,’ he would say. ‘Soon everyone will be copying me.’ Giving in to my requests, he allowed me to accompany him. He sat me down behind him and advised me to put my arms around him and hold on very tight so as not to fall off. Responding to his signal, the donkey set off, twitching its ears. The ride was pleasant – lulled by the sound of hooves on the road, I sat up above the cars around us and enjoyed an incomparable view over the city. As we turned the corner, we found ourselves in front of a service station that was swarming with people – three queues, each a hundred yards long, converged on the pump. Having run out of patience, the motorists were gesticulating, yelling, swearing. The attendant was doing his best to ward off the onslaught.

  ‘Hey! There’s Uncle Michel with his donkey!’

  Forgetting their quarrels, the drivers turned towards us. Some began to yell out loud hee-haws, others burst out laughing, pointing at us. My uncle did not flinch. He continued on his way, chest out, head held high, noble and proud like a desert emir on his steed.

  ‘Ignore them.’ he said to me in a low voice. ‘They don’t know what the time they’re wasting is worth …’

  One Shell All

  ‘Tonight’s football game is between Liverpool and Manchester United. Both teams are on their way out of the locker rooms now, preceded by the referee …’

  Football has always been my passion. Moreover, during the war, it was the passion of an entire people. How could I not think of that time while watching this game? The year is 1982. Spain is hosting the World Cup. Lebanon is being set ablaze, battles raging on every front; the population is fired up about the teams in the competition. Strangely, the country’s loyalties are divided: on one side are those rooting for the German team, the symbol of rigour and discipline; on the other, those rooting for Brazil, the symbol of virtuosity and extravagance. I remember my neighbourhood on the eve of the 1982 World Cup kick-off: the streets drowning under a flood of green and gold – or black, red and yellow banners; apartment buildings decked in flags; on the walls, graffiti glorifying both teams; on car windshields, portraits of the players … It was during the opening game that I came to understand the extent to which the belligerent groups took an interest in sports – not a single shot was fired during the entire Argentina-Belgium game. For a full hour and a half the heart of the war stopped beating. The guns held their breath. On the radio, news flashes ceased to list the names of casualties. The same phenome
non occurred the following day, then throughout the competition, as if the war suddenly fell in tune with the sport. Before and after the game, the shells fell at a dizzying rate; during the game, peace and quiet reigned. It was an unbearable ritual: a reprieve from death and the illusion of peace within the space of two half-times. The intensity of the fighting to come often depended on the outcome of a game – the west side of the capital was rooting for Brazil, and the east side for Germany, and when one of the two teams emerged victorious the fighters supporting it would display their elation by bombing the enemy camp.

  Hidden away in the bomb shelters, their eyes riveted on little television sets that, due to a lack of electricity, were plugged into car batteries, the population forgot everything and became worked up upon seeing the twenty-two players fighting over a ball. Even women got caught up in the excitement, urging on the men wiggling their hips in their shorts on the football pitch, insulting the referee or giving free reign to their euphoria. When the final whistle blew, before the artillery battles resumed, some fans, unable to restrain themselves any longer, would go out into the streets to express their satisfaction at having won or would drive back and forth through the neighbourhood in their cars, their hands glued to their horns. Sometimes scuffles would break out, which would come to an end when the fighting resumed.

  The referee’s whistle signalling the kick-off for the Liverpool-Manchester United game tears me away from my memories. How many human lives were spared during those rare moments when the guns were silenced? How many deaths avoided thanks to Brian Robson and his team-mates?

  Alcohol

  The clock in the living room chimes six times. I settle in on the terrace, a bottle of arrack in hand. The sun is sinking below the horizon. It is bathed in a pool of light, a bit like Monsieur Jabbour, Uncle Michel’s childhood friend, who was found in the middle of the road, bathed in a pool of blood, a hole between his eyes. He was wearing a blue shirt, the colour of tonight’s sky which is turning red. ‘There is something immodest about watching a sunset,’ Uncle Michel used to say. ‘It should be allowed to die in peace.’ Try as I might to assure him that it was OK because it would be back the next day, there was no convincing him – he would twist his face into a grimace. He would scratch his forehead, then declare in a solemn voice: ‘You have to be naive to believe that the sun that disappears is the same one that will return tomorrow – every passing day sees the death of a sun.’