Leaving Beirut

by Ghoussoub, Mai;

  We never saw Noha’s mother on our screen, despite the promises of the ambitious blonde announcer. Later that evening there were reports that Noha’s mother had declared her forgiveness of her daughter. What’s more, she was very proud of her, and she was preparing candy boxes with pink ribbons for the funeral. It would be a celebration. One well-known patisserie that specialised in wedding cakes placed adverts in the papers, announcing that they were sending a multi-layered wedding cake which would have an icing-sugar heart on top, half in pink for Noha, and the other half in blue, representing her fiancé, the South of Lebanon. We never saw Noha’s father either, but various newspapers, as well as some political activists, had all heard him say that he would be happy to see Noha’s brothers and sisters follow her example. When we saw TV footage of her mother and father walking in the funeral processions, they were not chanting; they walked in silence, looking into nothingness. They were surrounded by prominent party and militia leaders who strained to make themselves more visible to the multitude of cameras that occupied every available space. Behind them marched a noisy demonstration, chanting the two slogans that filled the streets and avenues of Beirut in constant repetition: ‘With our souls, with our blood we would pay for you, oh Martyr.’ ‘Oh mother of the Martyrs, sing the song of joy; all of us here are your children.’ The human voices had to compete with the endless flow of bullets firing into the air. The bullets celebrating Noha’s wedding!

  After the funeral a lot of people didn’t feel like going home. A few dozen spent the night crying and celebrating Noha’s martyrdom around the Martyrs’ Fountain, a monument that had been erected a few months previously to glorify the power of spilled blood. A sculpture that left no room for abstraction, it stood in the middle of the square. It contained red-dyed water that moved in a circular motion. The young crowd that gathered around it that night vied with each other to get closer to the fountain, and fought for the privilege of being soaked by its waters. The people who lived near the monument did not dare come too close, but they heard the young people screaming, and were not sure whether the screams were from fear, joy or anger.

  A few weeks later the pictures of Noha that had filled the walls of West Beirut had begun to disappear under the pictures of new ‘heureux élus’, as all the martyrs were now being called. The ‘happy elect’. There were many such chosen people in Lebanon then – many men and a few women. Every militia claimed a growing number of dead, a longer litany of martyrs in the list of war victims. But the photos had to compete for space on the walls and the ‘fiancée of the South’ was fast disappearing beneath photos of newcomers. Often you would see her lips, or half her face, still visible under a new photo that had been hurriedly plastered over the top. On one occasion her picture was covered with red-painted slogans that spoke of death, even younger death: Beirut will fall only like great cities fall, after its last child.

  Words that kill and spill blood daubed over the faces of all the young martyrs. ‘We will trace our route through a sea of blood.’ So said a slogan that was painted over Noha’s face, completely obliterating her.

  Many nationalist poems were dedicated to Noha during the following month. She was not there to listen to them. In a little booklet that she had left in her room, she had copied, from the volumes on her older brother’s bookshelf, many poems that celebrated martyrdom for the cause of the nation. Among them were some that resembled the ones that were later to be written for her. In her childish handwriting she underlined the words of the earlier poets that seem to have marked her most deeply:

  Martyrdom is only for him who dies defending a right,

  and who does not care what happens to himself …

  The martyr is he who would pay with his youth for the

  glory of his nation,

  and whose name is valued only with gold …

  And she who chooses the grave for a home

  will gain a pride that no lived years can match …

  From the souls of the martyrs, a breeze emanates

  enchanting the beautiful places and eternally refreshing

  the souls of the living.1

  They are not dead,

  They are all alive.

  The earth and the skies chant their names …

  the night covers faces and takes them away,

  but the souls prevail,

  for they are light.2

  Darken the lands with victims

  When the victims are spread to the horizon

  They all become alive.3

  In the centre pages of her booklet, with great care, she had copied the poem of Nizar Kabbani, a poet adored by all her girlfriends. It was his famous love poem ‘Gharnata’ (Granada) and around it she had drawn an elegant frame, made of garlands that ended with a different flower at each corner of the page. Kabbani, like many other poets, is expressing his nostalgia for the loss of Andalus. His nostalgia is triggered by a beautiful woman whom he meets in Spain, at the entrance to the Alhambra. In her black eyes he travels back seven centuries. He sees the Umayads’ flags flying. She guides him through the wonders of the Alhambra, and she tells him:

  This is Alhambra, the pride of our ancestors.

  Read my glory on its walls.

  Her glory! I caressed my open wound,

  and I caressed a second wound in my heart.

  If only my beautiful inheritor knew

  that those she is naming are my ancestors.

  I embraced in her when we separated

  a man called Tarek Ibn Ziyad.

  The young girl who had copied those words of passion and illustrious memory with such loving care was reaching for an absolute, and dreaming of eternity. What she may not have known is that many centuries earlier another very young woman, in the Andalus that had inspired her favourite poet, had given her life in a similar quest, and with the same fervour. Only this time, the young woman was called Flora. Her cause was Christian Spain. And her enemies were the ancestors of whom Noha’s poet sings. Listen to the story of Flora, Mme Nomy.

  The qadi was fingering his moustache, slowly adjusting it and curling its ends upwards. It had been a relaxed day, and soon he would leave the courtroom to join his friends. They would enjoy a glass of wine, and listen to poetry as they nibbled on almonds, dates and raisins. He found the delicate taste of wine far more enjoyable now that Cordoba was drinking it in vessels of fine glass the way they did in Baghdad.

  He looked around him with pride and satisfaction. His seat was made of soft leather and the chequered curtains that softened the impact of the sun’s rays were made of the best Persian textiles. Thanks to the poet Ziryah and his love for refinement, the people of Cordoba, at least the cultivated and elegant ones like himself, had abandoned their thick silver and golden goblets to drink heavenly sparkling wine from glasses that were delicate and transparent. The qadi lifted his perfumed silk robe and walked slowly across the soft carpet towards his desk. He would read a few pages of law before calling it a day.

  But he had little opportunity to concentrate. No sooner had he found the page that he had marked the day before than he heard the echoes of terrible screams approaching from behind the damascene door of the courtroom. ‘I need to see the qadi at once,’ said a thin, dishevelled young man, opening the door despite the clerk’s objections. With his other hand he was clutching the wrist of a young woman, and he dragged her forcibly behind him. ‘You are not my brother, I disown you, I hate you and your religion,’ screamed the young woman as she struggled hopelessly to free herself from the man’s grip. This was when the qadi realised that she could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. Her features were a mesmerizing blend of innocence and determination. The qadi made a sign to the clerk indicating that he should let them in.

  ‘Qadi, this is my sister Flora. An apostate. A renegade of Islam. The devil invaded her mind and she has converted to Christianity. She deserves to die beheaded and her body should be left to rot for all to witness the enormity of her crime!’

 
The qadi barely had time to digest the man’s words when Flora started to scream, in a voice that sounded much older than herself: ‘I am a Christian, my mother is a Christian, and I have nothing to do with your prophet and his so-called teachings. Yes, I pray to the Virgin Mary, because she is a saint, and she is pure and because Spain is Christian and was usurped by people like you and this so-called qadi. I hate you. Go ahead and kill me, for I don’t care for my body. My soul is longing to meet our Saviour. I will go to heaven. You and your religion of lies are afraid of dying because you will all burn in hell. I am a Christian. Try if you dare to take me away from Christ by torture and torment. I am happy to endure them all.’

  ‘Listen to her, Qadi,’ said the brother. ‘She is blasphemous, and I cannot bear it any longer. Our father – or rather, mine, for she does not deserve him – died recently, and I am her protector. I ask you to apply the law and have her executed.’

  The qadi lifted his finger to bid them be silent. He had been taken unawares, and needed a few seconds to assess the situation. This woman must be one of the new zealots that were fighting against Arab rule in Spain. They were a very small minority, a small group of fanatics. People were happy in Cordoba, and the Christians had no real complaints. These fanatics were shouting to the wind. Poor girl – look at her, she is so young, so innocent …

  ‘Ahem,’ said the qadi, coughing and adopting an authoritative tone, ‘You, Flora, should be severely punished for the miserable words that your lips have uttered. You do not seem to know what you are saying. I forbid you to say one more word in this court. It seems that you are repeating words that you do not even understand, and …’

  ‘Oh yes I do,’ she interrupted. ‘I mean every word I say. You are thieves, your religion is that of the devil and your prophet is a false one, an imposter.’

  ‘Execute her at once! My family will not tolerate an enemy of Islam in its midst. We brought her up as a good Muslim, and she learned the Koran and practiced the teachings of our Prophet – God be with him – until the Christians perverted her mind and soul. She thinks Jesus is God, and she practises rites that are despicable. We do not want her among us. She is a disgrace to our family and our religion. Qadi, you know better than I do that the penalty for apostasy is death.’

  The qadi walked towards them, looking angry and severe. He knew that the girl should be punished, and if the people outside the court had heard this silly woman’s terrible insults against the Prophet and his religion he would have had no choice but to sentence her to death. But he was a man praised for being wise and fair, and the city was an example of peace and prosperity. Christian merchants were prospering. Christian functionaries were well paid. Those who did not want to pay the dhimma tax could easily convert, and many did. People were free to make their own choices. Thoughts ran through his mind. This woman is acting in the most foolish way, but my heart feels pity for her. She is too young to die, and the last thing I want is to create martyrs for those fanatics.

  ‘Your sister will be punished. She is sentenced to be beaten. Once she has received the lashes she deserves, I will send her back to you. Keep her under good surveillance. Teach her again and again the virtues of our religion. God is merciful. Go now. It is late and the court has to close.’

  The qadi ordered his clerk to take Flora to her punishment. He felt like being on his own for a while, and realized that he was in no mood to join his friends for reading poetry.

  Flora did not stay in her brother’s house for long. She ran away soon after, and sought refuge in a convent where she knew she would meet the great Eulogius. When she saw him for the first time she was possessed by every word he said. As he spoke, he tried hard not to look at her. They shared the same faith and the same hatreds. His speech was a revelation. She absorbed every word he spoke. She was carried away by his urgent pleas to his fellow Christians. ‘Our strength is in our enthusiasm for sacrifice. Self-denial is the source of peace to the real Christian. The Arabs have perverted our learned men, so that instead of reading the holy scriptures they spend their time trying to acquire the arts of poetry, romance and elegant style. Great Christian minds have abandoned theological commentaries for the so-called delights of contemporary literature. Look at the decadent trappings that the occupiers are bringing into our country, into our simple Christian homes and our modest souls. It is time to save the souls of our fellow Christians. To regain our lost dignity and impose the glory of God and his son Jesus Christ on our land and among our people. We look forward to meeting death and perishing under their torments, for the taste of death will be sweet and the martyrs are saints, for they feast in heaven above us.’

  Eulogius felt more inspired and his words became more passionate as he sensed the impact that his preaching was having on the beautiful Flora. Her beauty was nothing but the reflection of the purity of her heart and the nobility of her soul, he told himself. Looking deep into her radiant face, he paused and said: ‘Virginity is the flower of the seed of the church. The virgin is the bride of the eternal King, always a spouse, always unwed. The bodies of virgin martyrs are like Christ’s temples, and God’s spirit dwells within them. The soul of the martyr shines with charity, is sharpened with truth and brandished with the power of a fighting God. Martyrdom is the highest of delights, for it means eternal glory.’

  A deep sense of peace took hold of Flora, for now she knew what her fate would be – the bride of the eternal King and Eulogius’s disciple and companion. Her vocation was to die spreading the beautiful words that she had just heard. She, like Eulogius, was burning with love of the truth, the one and only truth, that of the Holy Trinity, and with hatred of all lies and decadent acts. She would speak out loud about them, and throw them in the face of the qadi and his likes.

  And so she did, despite the warnings issued by Cordoba’s council of bishops against fanatical acts of pointless provocation. This time the qadi had no choice: Eulogius was attracting a growing number of disciples and Flora was becoming a legend in her lifetime. The khalif, Abdel Rahman, had run out of patience with these zealots who were insulting everything that Muslims held sacred. He had only one choice: to apply the law. Flora was beheaded on a cloudy day in the autumn of 851, along with her companion Mary. Flora’s name was later to appear in the list of Christian saints: Saint Flora, the Virgin-Martyr.

  Ten centuries apart, the quests of Flora and Noha had a similar taste of dreadful passion, a taste of eternity and blood. Had I not been your student, Mme Nomy, would I too have taken passion and high principle to a dreadful end? Had I not been your student, would I too have run the risk of confusing my own quest for justice with the sensual elixir of danger? The literature that you taught me to love helped me understand what an overwhelming aphrodisiac the proximity of death can be. I read Georges Bataille after the war. I never approached these things directly, but only through the filter of literature. But now I can look them straight in the eye.

  1. Khalil Mutran, Lebanese poet who resided in Egypt.

  2. Nicholas Fayad, commemorating the deaths of the six martyrs killed by Jamal Pasha in Lebanon in 1916.

  3. Yousef al-Khal, Lebanese modernist poet.

  Traitors and Conquerors

  ‘The youth of the poet listens to history through the doors of legends.’ So says Victor Hugo, your favourite poet, Mme Nomy, in his Légende des Siècles. The legends narrated to us by the chronicles of al-Andalus, Islamic Spain, are prime material for the extraordinary encounter between Muslims and the West – an encounter that has invaded modern memories and shaped the nostalgia of the Arabs of today, just as it continues to feed Europe’s tormented relation with its ‘other’.

  Many peoples met in Spain and fought over its mountains and groves. Two powerful faiths competed with each other, tolerated each other in good times and clashed in mutual hatred at times of overheated fervour. The splendour of what was known as Arab civilization in Spain is a cry of hope for the Arab poets and the Arab historians of today. That was the era when ‘we brought ref
inement, prosperity and knowledge to the West’. The closeness of this encounter meant endless wars as well as happy and fruitful exchanges. It was an arena for both palace intrigues and absolute loyalties; it bred as many heroes as it manufactured traitors. It exalted intelligence and sophisticated tastes, except when some outburst of religious fanaticism and excess broke through the prevailing wisdom and toleration, spreading blood and making martyrs on the way. In those days heroes and traitors were innumerable, and in a way they were interchangeable, depending on the author of the chronicle concerned, or the period in which their history was recorded. Honourable princes and cowardly governors, heroes and scoundrels, were a daily reality in every province and every street of Moorish Spain, feeding the legends and the moral beliefs of those who go rummaging in history for lessons for today.

  Arab civilization was undoubtedly far superior to other civilizations of its day. Arab advances in the fields of philosophy, science and literature were deeply beneficial to Western civilisation. In the end all this collapsed, but it left us with an incredibly rich written legacy. And we could use it in order to do what the poet does in his youth: listen to history through the medium of legend.

  We could, for instance, look at the legend of the conquest of Spain by the Muslims, a legend that mixes righteousness, stirring victories and betrayed loyalties with virginal virtues revenged.

  The story of the beautiful virgin Florinda has entered into the mythology of the Arabs as a symbol of Spain’s need to be conquered. Florinda, daughter of Julian the governor of Ceuta, was sent by her father, as was the custom among the princes and counts of the state, to the court of King Rodrigue, a timorous and ambitious king, in order that she become acquainted with the customs and the etiquette of the aristocracy, and be trained in elegant and refined conduct.

  The king was expected to protect these aristocratic young guests and obviously – in the case of young girls – to defend their honour. But the king seems to have found Florinda irresistible.