The Beirut Conspiracy

by John R Childress

  “He’s driving well don’t you think?” Matt gripped the seat.

  “They said in the briefing packet that traffic signs are more like suggestions than rules.” Todd winced as they came to their first roundabout.

  Matt and Anne-Marie, a student from Boston College whose parents were first-generation Lebanese American, screamed with delight. Flying along at 120 kilometers per hour on the pothole-filled tarmac roads they survived the thirty-five minutes of exhilarating fear and screeched to a halt in front of the dormitory gates at the American University of Beirut.

  Matt said an excited goodbye to Anne-Marie and Todd then lugged his suitcases up to the second floor. He found room 24 and knocked. After a few moments a light came on. Then the door opened abruptly. Samir Hussein, in boxer shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt, smiled as he grabbed one of the suitcases.

  “You’re obviously my roommate. Come in. Let me give you a hand with those.” Matt liked him immediately.

  After they shut the door Samir hurriedly put on his trousers, stepped into well-worn sandals and threw on a white shirt. “Come on. You can unpack later. Let’s get a beer. There’s no curfew until the official start of classes.”

  The beer helped quench his dry throat and wash away some of the fatigue from the long trip. But what invigorated Matt even more was the little club, tavern, restaurant, whatever it was. The place stood atop a cliff facing the Mediterranean. He could hear the waves crashing below, even though in the darkness he couldn’t see anything except the myriad of stars in the sky. Arabic music, so different to his ear, played loudly over the speakers. The smells from the kitchen made him both curious and hungry. He looked around. He was the only Caucasian in the entire restaurant. This piqued his sense of adventure even more.

  Samir was Palestinian. Something Matt didn’t really understand, but he was a fount of knowledge about Lebanon, Beirut, and the University.

  “Can you tell me about the history of this place? I was too busy working this summer to do any reading.”

  “My friends were right. What Americans know about the world wouldn’t fill a shisha.”

  “A what?”

  Samir laughed and Matt smiled back. Both took long pulls on their amber beer bottles. “A hookah pipe, what we smoke in the Middle East when we are relaxing with friends after a meal. Okay. Let’s start with our school. The American University of Beirut, or AUB as everyone calls it, was originally set up by American missionaries under an educational charter from the State of New York in 1866.”

  “You’re kidding? It’s that old?”

  “It’s the premier center for higher learning in the Middle East. There’s a medical college, school of pharmacy, school of nursing, a teaching hospital, and all the academic departments of any modern university. I’m in the engineering department. How about you?”

  “I’m studying biology. Destined to be a doctor, like my father and brother. Man, this stuff is great. What is it?”

  “Hummus. A mixture of chickpeas, garlic, olive oil and pine nuts. You eat it with flat Arabic bread like this.” Samir broke off a corner of the round pita and scooped up a big glob of hummus.

  “What about the campus. It’s too dark to see anything. How big is it?”

  “This is a beautiful place, Matt. Let’s see, as I recall, it’s about 75 acres that sits on the Ras Beirut peninsula, overlooking St. George’s Bay. From the campus you can see the mountain range that runs the length of Lebanon. They have snow almost all year round.”

  “Snow? In the Middle East?”

  “Yeah. You can ski in the morning and swim in the Mediterranean in the afternoon.”

  “Now I know I’m gonna like it here.” Matt took another sip of his Amstel beer. Suddenly he felt a shove from behind. His beer bottle crashed to the floor. “What the hell.”

  “Hey Samir? What are you doing with a filthy American?” A small group of dark skinned youths, about Matt’s age, encircled their table.

  Samir jumped up, his 6 foot frame towering over the others as he spoke loudly in Arabic. They took several steps back. The leader, a thin fellow with a moustache and thick glasses, glared at Matt, gestured with his fist and walked away. The rest of the group moved on.

  “What was that all about?” Matt began to pick up the broken glass. A waiter appeared, smiled sheepishly and quickly cleaned up. A new bottle of beer appeared on the table.

  “Things are getting crazy around here.” Samir took a bite of his lamb kebab. “Some of the newspapers are trying to stir up anti-American sentiment.”

  “But why?”

  “The Vietnam War and America’s blatant support for the Zionists and Israel. Examples of American imperialism. I’m afraid all this rhetoric will only create more anger and take the focus away from the real issue.”

  “Which is?”

  “The return of the state of Palestine to its rightful peoples. Some groups have even held protests at the American Embassy. It’s just outside the AUB campus. So far they have been peaceful but I’m afraid it could turn ugly soon.”

  “Well I’m not going to let it spoil my year. Besides I don’t care much for politics anyway. Tell me some more about this place.” A drop of olive oil ran down his chin. “God this stuff is good.”

  “Did you know that Beirut was founded by the Phoenicians around 3000 B. C? Its location on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean, sheltered by a large sweeping bay, made it a perfect launching place for their ships. Whole fleets ventured forth, explored new lands, and traded with other civilizations.”

  “Wow! 3000 BC. That’s as old as the Egyptians.”

  “The Phoenicians were clever, intrepid, and commercially minded. They amassed a great deal of wealth as well. And they left a monumental legacy to the world.”

  “What was that?”

  “They invented the alphabet, my friend. In addition the Phoenicians invented glass making and excelled in producing textiles, carving ivory, and working in metal, stone and wood. As a result of their ingenuity and trading fleets Beirut became a thriving port and the crossroads between the exotic East and the developing West.”

  “I should have paid more attention in my history classes.”

  Samir pushed his lamb around the plate. “However all this wealth and power came with a price. Inevitably, over thousands of years, numerous civilizations invaded the country-Egyptians, Hyskos warriors from Asia, Alexander the Great, Marco Polo, Romans, Muslims, Crusaders, Ottomans, and most recently the Shiites. But what’s amazing about this country and its people is that throughout centuries of conquest and foreign domination, the Lebanese culture held steadfast to two things: their determination for independence and their predominantly Christian beliefs.”

  “Samir?”

  “What.”

  “I met an amazing woman this evening. A gorgeous red haired beauty with seductive green eyes.”

  “She was Jordanian.”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “She has to be Jordanian, Matt. What am I going to do with you? I’m talking about real history and culture and all you can think of is a woman.”

  Matt grinned. “What say we get some sleep?”

  “You won’t sleep. The green-eyed goddess has you firmly in her grasp.”

  “Not yet,” said Matt. “Not yet. But I hope it won’t be too long.” He stood up from the small table. “Thanks, Samir. It’s been an absolutely great day but I’m totally exhausted. Let’s get some sleep. But tomorrow I’d like you to show me some more of this magical city.”

  It was Samir Hussein who first introduced Matt to the mysteries of the Souk, also known as the covered bazaar. “This reminds me of the Souk in Jerusalem where I grew up,” Samir said as he took his new American roommate on a tour. “The souk is the heart and soul of every Middle Eastern city. This is where political ideas are born, discussed, argued, and often acted on.”

  Matt felt like he had been transported back in time. The narrow passages and dark alleyways of the covered bazaar engulfe
d him. Samir showed him of the different areas within the Souk. The spice market and its aroma assaulted his nostrils. Matt’s mind reeled with exotic images of camel trains and cargo ships, all brimming with trading goods bound for the coast of Lebanon. Samir was still talking.

  “Marriages are arranged here and disputes settled. World events are discussed in every shop and at every intersection. All forms of business are conducted in these narrow alleyways. In fact, the Souk is the center of news and information. Modern governments have tried to shift these activities to more formal institutions, like courts and houses of parliament, but the Souk is still the center of life for most Middle Easterners.”

  “Why are the shopkeepers and customers always arguing with each other?” Matt felt uncomfortable at the belligerence that seemed to be erupting from nearly every stall.

  Samir laughed. “They’re not arguing, they’re negotiating. It’s a custom in the Middle East. Unlike the States where prices are fixed, here they are fluid. Bargaining is a way of building relationships. A person who negotiates well is respected. At the end of what seems like a heated argument to you, if both the buyer and the seller are pleased with the price, the relationship deepens.”

  “But that’s not fair. What if you don’t know what a reasonable price for an item should be? You could get screwed.”

  Samir’s dark eyes watched him. “If you learn anything from your year in Lebanon, Matt, it’s that life isn’t fair. You’re blinded by the American concept of all people being created equal. The truth is, people aren’t equal. Some are more gifted than others, some are born to rich families, some to poor shepherds, some are lazy, some dishonest, some kind, some cruel. It’s the same the world over, only in the Middle East the differences are starker.”

  Matt said nothing.

  “Is everybody in the US as naive as you?” grinned Samir.

  “I just assumed the whole world thought like we do, only they were a little behind in technology…”

  “My father has a saying: If you don’t understand your enemy, you can’t defeat him. Ignorance of one’s enemy is a fatal weakness.”

  Matt was about to ask why everyone in the Middle East seemed to talk about enemies rather than allies, but a shop caught his eye.

  “Wow, this is a cool stall,” Matt said, changing the subject. They squeezed into the tiny space where leather-bound volumes of all sizes and colors were piled high on brightly colored carpets. “I’d like a journal to record my experiences this year.”

  “Now you are talking more like an Arab-we are great believers in keeping journals to record our thoughts and our conversations with God. The written word is sacred, and learning to read and write is an important milestone in the life of young Arab men.”

  Samir greeted the shopkeeper in Arabic. “Here,” he whispered to Matt, “I’ll help you negotiate a price. Pick out two journals, one you like and the other you don’t like. It’s the way to get the best price, by negotiating for one against the merits and defects of another.”

  Matt never knew anyone could talk as fast as Samir and the shopkeeper while they were haggling. It was the verbal equivalent of a long, intricate wrestling match, with the two opponents in close contact, circling and shoving and pinning each other, and when it was finally all over, they stood back, shook hands and smiled. While the shopkeeper poured tea, Samir handed the journal to Matt, beaming at the reasonable price he had wrangled.

  On the third day, Matt met Maha on the AUB tennis courts.

  “Whoa. I’ve never played on clay courts before. We don’t have many back in the states. It’s slippery.” Matt chased a return from Maha, slid on the ochre surface and tumbled into a heap at the baseline. Her giggle reached his ears and he began to laugh as well.

  They abandoned the court and spent the next three hours sitting under a large banyan tree overlooking the Mediterranean. “Isn’t this a beautiful campus? I just love it here, so different from Jordan. So peaceful.”

  “Tell me about your life, Maha.” Matt listened as a whole new world was revealed to him.

  During Matt’s first week at AUB, he and the fourteen other American students were invited to the College Hall offices of the President of the University, Dr. Samuel B. Kirkwood, for a reception marking the official start of their junior year abroad. The students were from all over the States, from elite universities like Harvard and Stanford, to small choice colleges like Oberlin and Sweet Briar.

  “So why are you here?” A lanky, sandy-haired student sat next to Matt at the back of the reception room at College Hall. Matt stared at the expensive Nikon camera around his neck, complete with a professional flash attachment.

  “It’s a long way from Seattle and my father. Besides, isn’t this the most exotic place you’ve ever seen?”

  “It certainly is. All the ruins, the Cedars, the snow covering the mountains. And those dark alleyways in the bazaar. I’ve already shot ten rolls of film and it’s only the first week.” His voice had a nasal quality. “By the way, my name is Theodore Janus, from Ohio State. But everyone just calls me T.J. What’s yours?”

  “Matt Richards. Harvard.” Matt immediately noticed the limp handshake.

  “That’s a pretty expensive camera you got there.”

  “I’m a Geology major, but my real passion is photography. Dr. Mitchell is the head of the Geology Department and he already said I could use the darkroom any time. I’m looking forward to touring the entire country and taking pictures of the land and the people.” He caressed his camera. “You into photography?”

  “Not really. But I’m looking forward to seeing your pictures.” Matt moved away slightly, uncomfortable at how close T.J. was sitting. “Think I’ll get a beer from the refreshment table. See you around.” Matt moved quickly across the room, nearly bumping into another student.

  “If you can dribble a soccer ball and crash into people at the same time, then you’re just the guy I’m looking for.” He juggled his drink without spilling it. “My name’s Brian Walker, Berkeley.” Their handshake was firm and each recognized the other’s athletic abilities.

  “Pele came to Harvard once, but saw me dribble, score from 75 yards out and he caught the first plane back to Brazil.” Matt grinned. “Name’s Matt Richards, from Harvard.”

  “Okay, big shot. We’ve got a tryout with the AUB soccer team on Saturday. It should be fun. What’s your major?”

  “Biology and Medicine. My dad’s a heart surgeon, and my older brother’s already in med school. So I’m next. What’s yours?”

  “Political Science and official Berkeley radical. My dad’s a big corporate lawyer helping the fat capitalists exploit undeveloped countries.”

  Matt threw up his hands. “I’m ready to play soccer and drink some beer. But if you want to talk politics, I’m the wrong guy.”

  “Deal.” During the next several months at AUB, Brian, in spite of his outspoken political views on Vietnam and American ‘imperialism’, became an integral part of Matt’s school and social life.

  “Who’s the gorgeous blond over there?” Brian asked, pulling Matt’s sleeve and pointing in the direction of three female students huddled together.

  “Only one way to find out.” But his mind quickly centered on the thought of Maha, her red hair and green eyes. “I’m not a blond man. She’s all yours.” They walked up and introduced themselves, holding out fresh Amstel beers for the three women.

  As they found out later, Susan Miller, a tall, blond-haired beauty from Michigan State was escaping an abusive boyfriend and indifferent parents and thought it would be interesting to spend a year in Beirut. She reminded Matt of the spoiled daughter of rich parents-he had met plenty of them during his two years at Harvard-but he liked her nonetheless. And Brian liked her even more. She and Brian became inseparable and formed a part of Matt’s regular group for weekend trips and skiing in the mountains above Beirut.

  “Hi, my name’s Anne-Marie Khoury, from Boston College. We shared a taxi our first night, remember?” A d
ark-haired Middle Eastern looking young woman reached out for one of Matt’s cold beers. “Any man bringing cold beer is either a mind reader or a saint.”

  “He’s neither,” said Brian, laughing. “He’s a Harvard man.”

  Matt called over Todd Cummings, and they all sat down together. The official activities weren’t scheduled to start for another twenty minutes.

  “Are you Lebanese, Anne-Marie?” asked Todd.

  “Sort of.” She put down her beer. “My grandparents immigrated to America from Lebanon in the late 1800s. Thought I would come over here for my junior year. Curious I guess. I’m studying medicine and hope to become a doctor.”

  “Me too. Guess we’ll be in several classes together.”

  They exchanged light talk for a few minutes, then Anne-Marie began an emotional discourse on the plight of Palestinian refugees who had been relegated to living in squalid camps in southern Lebanon. “It’s a grave injustice. Their homes, their homeland, given to the Israelis by foreign decree, for God’s sake.”

  “Ah. Sorry folks. Beer goes right through me. See you later.” When Matt looked back, Todd and Anne-Marie were deep into an animated discussion. He headed for the refreshment table. T.J. intercepted, his Nikon and flash swinging.

  “Oh, Matt. This is Dr. Mitchell, the head of the Geology Department.” T.J. stepped back as Matt moved to the buffet table. “I was just telling him about you. He’s also one of the scuba diving instructors, so if you want to learn to dive while you’re here, he’s forming classes in two weeks.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Matt.” He was overweight and gay. “Beirut is a remarkable place. It’s got some interesting terrestrial and marine geology. The Med’s like a bath tub and the marine life is spectacular.”

  Matt smiled politely and begged off. He stuffed a rolled grape leaf into his mouth. Garlic and olive oil filled his senses. “This is going to be a more interesting year than I first imagined.”

  Dr. Martin J. Thomas, advisor to the American students, stepped up to the lectern and welcomed the students to the American University of Beirut Junior Year Abroad Program. Matt moved into the large hall to listen.