The Sea

1966 (part one of four)

JK stepped out of his second floor flat in a new building of four stories with a fresh, clean, white facade and green shutters. He bounded down the stairs into the glare of the sun, a sun set firmly in the blue sky like a jewel in a tiara. A warm spring breeze was blowing in from the Mediterranean, bringing with it the smells of sea life, the harbor and the markets of the dock area. Dressed in a crisp and neatly pressed suit of black, a starched white shirt and thin blue tie, JK was 19 years old and had the world, literally and figuratively in front of him.

The city was a nexus of international finance, education, tourism, shopping and haute couture and he was a young man with a self assurance and optimism about his future that matched his surroundings.

He began his long walk down the Corniche (the wide avenue and most fashionable street in the city) by heading west toward the water. "Ahh, the water" he thought to himself. The water that nurtured his childhood, his family, the city of his birth.

He recalled languid, hot days spent in the city to the north, the city of a 100 eras, the city of cliff diving, fishing, soccer and basketball, the search for urchins along the bottom of the sea and his large and loving family. But most importantly the city of the sea, the sea that had given life to his country and people for 5,000 years.

Walking down the Corniche was for him a window onto the entire world. Along the way were the majestic stone buildings of the most important banking houses in the world, the Swiss, American, British, French and Dutch purveyors of capitalism. There were also the most fashionable shops if not in the world, then certainly on the Mediterranean. Victorian era homes mingled with the brick and stone buildings of the last 2,000 years. Luxury cars mingled with horse drawn carts and always the flavors, smells and ghosts of the past mingled with the most modern and futuristic new machines and fashions.

All the delicacies of France could be found here, freshly baked croissants, the best wines, foi gras. There were Italian, American, German and Brasilian eateries. Every 4th building was fronted by a sidewalk cafe where the rich, nouveau and blue blood alike would sip coffee, drink wine, discuss the latest gossip from London, Paris, Monte Carlo and across town.

He overheard one dapper looking young man discussing a weekend ski trip to the mountains (the gorgeous mountains with their lush flora and fauna were only a 90 minute ride from the beach). The foppish one was boasting of his plans to ski on a Saturday and be back on the yacht for a cruise to Crete on Sunday.

All around him were the signs of a deeply spiritual life as well, Churches, Mosques, synagogues and Buddhist retreats. Always nearby were the hundreds of bookstores, libraries and magazine shops that helped distinguish the city as one of great learning and education.

No, his city and country were not perfect, there was still a sense of trivialize that was an undercurrent on the sea of tranquility and tolerance. There were still many poor people in the mountains, but J'S thought that with more time and wealth even these miseries would into oblivion.

It was thoughts of this future and of education led JK out on this sunny day. Full of optimism, he was to interview at the biggest and best university in the city and he was absolutely sure that his future and that of his family, city and country were as bright as the shining beam of light that lived in his heart and distinguished him among his peers as an especially bright, cosmopolitan, compassionate, honest and promising young man.

1976 (part 2 of four)

With hurried steps and his head tilted down and his eyes glued to the pavement with only the occasional glance up to keep a look out, JK walked east on the corniche away from the water and back toward his 2nd floor flat.

The only thing on his mind was the well being of his best friend M. He had met M at university in their freshman engineering class. M was from the mountains and came from a poor but hardworking family of olive growers but through his hard work and brilliant mind he earned a scholarship to the university. He was a tall, thin, handsome, black haired, blue eyed, princely looking man with a thin mustache under his strong patrician nose.

JK and M, although they were city and country became fast friends. They shared a common love of athletics, American cars, jazz music and the clean logic of math and engineering. Shortly after university they were both hired as engineers at the local telephone company. They spent their days designing the growing city's communications infrastructure and their nights at the clubs and cafes playing music, flirting with the girls and discussing the future.

JK even managed to help M get an apartment in his building. And they lived happily in their new lives. Three years later JK was married to J. She was a tall, raven haired beauty descended from a family of sea merchants that traced their family and business back 1200 years.

She grew up in a loving family with six brothers and sisters. Her mother was a teacher and her father ran the family business. She spent her summers in Paris and spoke French with a Parisian accent.

A year later JK and J had twin girls. Two bushy haired, brown eyed beauties with so much spunk and playfulness that the neighborhood adopted them and helped raise them as well. The new family was prospering and happy.

Two weeks before today, J and the children went to stay with her parents, away from the city, to the peace and quiet of their mountain retreat.

As JK approached his apartment building he heard a whistle. It was faint at first, but it got louder and louder. "My God" he thought. "No, no, not that, not here, no."

As the whistle turned into a scream JK became terrified and froze.

Then a flash blinded him and he fell.

When he woke, he was covered in pieces of wall torn from the front of the building. He was bleeding from his head and a piece of metal had torn open a 4 inch gash in his right arm. He slowly struggled to his feet and before him he saw his home, or what was left of it torn to shreds. The entire front of the building had been ripped away, revealing the kitchen, living rooms and belongings of his friends and neighbors.

He pushed his way through the debris of the shattered front doorway and managed to climb the stairs to the third floor. He entered the doorway of M's apartment and with a sigh of relief he entered, he didn't see M. He then went into the bedroom for a final reassurance that M was not at home when the shell hit the building.

As he pushed the door open it fell off its hinges and slammed to the ground with a sickening thud. And then he began to cry. There on the bed, with his arms missing and his face half torn off was M. JK walked over to the bed, put his arms around M and cried, he cried for his friend, for their optimism and for the love of their youth. JK had always felt full and vital, now for the first time in his life, he felt empty and depleted. Finally he covered his friend with the burnt and torn sheet from the bed and walked downstairs.

At that moment he made the decision. He and his family had to leave.

The city was no longer a city, but an eternal urban battlefield. The shops were closed, the yachts found new ports, the tourists were gone, the banks had closed, the cafe life was over.

The nature of the ancient city, its vitality, its verve, its chic appeal were being destroyed. It seemed that only fear survived now.

Buildings were riddled with bullet holes. Bomb craters littered the streets. Tires burned and churned out a thick, suffocating black smoke. People only came out when absolutely necessary. The air was thick with fear, uncertainty, hatred and revenge. There were people from abroad in the city, as there had always been. But now they carried guns, chanted slogans and backed one of the six warring factions.

JK knew he had to leave. They had enough savings to flee, but not much else. He had his arm patched up. He hired a car and went to the mountains. When his wife came to the door to greet him, he fell to his knees and cried again. He cried for the past, the present and their future. She held him tight as he struggled to tell her what happened.

Two weeks later they were on a plane flying west over the sea. As JK looked down at the fading city, the mountains and the crystal blue font of his life and country, he prayed.

1986 (part 3 of four)

JK put the twins in the car. They were now twelve and starting their first day of sixth grade. They had blossomed into pretty young girls with their mother's silky, long brown hair, which they both liked to wear in pigtails. They were both excellent students and showed real aptitude for math and language, not suprising considering their lineage, after all, their father was a trained engineer fluent in four languages and their mother in three.

Neither of them had any real memories of the old city, only what they saw in the pictures hanging on the walls. Pictures of a stately city with palm tree lined avenues and rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. They saw pictures of grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles, some of whom they had only met once. And they had the stories, the stories their parents told them about their old life. The life before the war. The international paradise, the place named for the ancient word "to rise above."

They did remember the small cramped apartment they lived in for six years after arriving. They remembered that their father would get home from work at four, eat, sleep for two hours and then go to work again at seven, not coming home until two.

They remembered the way their parents both worked every waking minute, but never once neglected them. They remembered their mother reading to them in their shared bedroom, their father teaching them history, showing them picture books of the ancient wonders of the world and singing the songs of his youth to them.

Now they were at school. This was the only life they had ever known. They no longer lived in the cramped apartment. They lived in a spacious four bedroom house about fifteen miles from the city center, they were part of a new and vital culture and country. They were Americans.

Their father had abandoned engineering. At first he worked in restaurants and on loading docks, then as a bookkeeper and finally as night manager at a jazz club.

After saving enough money he opened his own business. He was now in the import/export business. He succumbed to his history and became yet another international merchant. The 2,000th generation of his people to do so.

The family was happy, prospering and fast becoming a part of their new country. Yes, they struggled and suffered in the beginning, but JK's eternal optimism, honesty and work ethic raised the family above their problems. They made good friends, had a lovely home, ate good food and traveled.

But there was still one void in their lives. The hole left in their hearts by the troubles of their home land, of the eternal city they left behind.

They received a letter from J's parents. It read as follows.

May 20, 1986

Dear JK, J and our lovely grandchildren.

We hope all is well with you. We pray for you all everyday and we know God is looking out for you. We want to thank you again for inviting us to come and live with you. But as you know, we are happy here.

Yes, life is more difficult now than it has been in our lifetimes, but we are quite safe here in the mountains. Retirement agrees with us. Father is happy feeding his chickens, tending the olive trees and hiking in the mountains with his grandchildren. I am content to absorb the beauty of the mountains, our little farm and contemplation of a rich life. Thank you for sending us the money.

I only wish the rest of the people of our country could do the same. Things in the city have reached their absolute worst. The streets are minefields of death, destruction and chaos. One never knows who is friend and who is enemy. Only in our country could a civil war mean North fighting South, West vs. East, East vs. South and North versus West, with agitators and armies from three other countries thrown in for good measure.

I don't know if this will ever end. The country is bankrupt, the cities ruined, the people all look like ghosts. The only consolation is that the north is still virtually untouched and JK's family is safe.

The paper reported today that more than 200,000 civilians have died in the war so far. In a country of four million, every family is affected.

But, I will keep praying for you, the country and the world. Surely there is an end to this madness. I only hope it is not the complete annihilation of everything.

Your loving mother,

R


1991 and 2005(part four of four)

1991

The war was over.

Over the course of fifteen years, what started as a civil war between rival political and religious factions turned into a nexus for all of the problems of the troubled region.

First came the PLO, which served to upset the balance of power in the country, and bringing with it the violence and terror it so skillfully deployed on Israel to the south. After seven years of civil war, between the Christians, Muslims, Druze, Nationalists, Pan-Arabists, PLO and the Syrians, Israel invaded. They decided that Beirut was not quite far enough away for the PLO to be.

The invasion was devastating. Rolling through the southern countryside and the Bekka Valley the Israelis arrived on the doorstep of Beirut, where they began an unrelenting shelling of the city. The nadir of evil occurred when the Christian militias were given permission by Israel to enter the Palestinian refugee camps of saber and Shatila. Thousands of men women and children were butchered in their beds. That was in 1982. Hundreds of thousands of Israelis protested and the new "Peace Now" movement was born. When they were finished, and the PLO had left for Tunis, the anarchy of the previous seven years resumed.

The Americans sent peackeepers into Beirut to "restore order." They left with their tails between their legs after a bombing at their barracks killed nearly three hundred Marines. That was 1983. But the horror was not nearly over.

For seven more long, bloody years the daily power struggles, kidnappings, firefights, assassinations and crushing of all hope would continue. The chaos allowed even more insidious forces to enter the country. Iranian backed Hezbollah in the south, the Syrians in greater numbers and power in the cities.

All this time Lebanese kept leaving the country. They had been doing so since the 1890s, but never in these numbers. They were busy setting up solid communities around the world where almost universally they prospered. There was always something in the Lebanese blood that led them to become great businesspeople and merchants and story tellers, first in their country and around the Mediterranean basin, and then in the 20th century in the great cities of the world. Especially in Paris, London, New York, Los Angeles and Montreal and in Brasil, Germany, Australia, and the Gulf countries did their presence make an impact.

Lebanese quietly assimilated into all these cultures and rose to the very top of business, entertainment, cultural and political circles.

While the country was dying an ugly, bloody death, the life of the Lebanese abroad prospered and grew at levels unprecedented in their history.

Beirut, that 4,000 year old bastion of trade, learning and culture, that city founded by the Phoenicians (the only Cannanite tribe to survive the times of the Old Testament) and enriched by the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Crusaders, Turks, French and Americans was now a smoking, flaming wreck, the last fires of war were slowly burning out.

The very word Beirut had become the definition of a wasted, ruined, dangerous place.

How many times have you heard someone say, "it was like Beirut in there"?

But now the war was over. What was left?

The Hezbollah terroists in the Bekka Valley. The Syrians exercising de facto control over the country's politics. About 300,000 dead. The country referred to as part of THE LEVANT (a rising above) because of its rich culture and history was thoroughly exhausted of all its resources, human, spiritual and material.

JK made his first trip back in this year of 1991. What he found broke his heart. Immediately the pain of the day he found his limbless, faceless friend ruined on that bed came back to haunt him. It was as if the entire country had lost its limbs and had its face torn away as well.

His in-laws had died three years before and it was up to his brother-in-law to bury them and dispose of their estate. They sold everything, including the houses, land and personal goods. Fifteen years of warfare had reduced them to precarious living conditions and they needed every penny.

JK went to the place where his old flat had stood. All that was left was the foundation and a pile of rubble. But even then JK's eternal optimism buoyed him. "At least there is still a foundation" he thought to himself. "And from a good foundation all things are built." His old engineering mind created a picture in his head of what he would build there. He would make it look just like the old building with its curved roof and broad window shutters, only this building would have all the modern amenities.

He was further encouraged to hear that a wealthy ex-patriate who had made his billions in construction and media was considering a return to the country to try and help rebuild. He was a man with enough influence and respect from all the old warring factions and enough connections in all the world capitals to get the job done.

JK once again walked down the Corniche, going West toward the sea. It was a very different scene than that of 1966. Shuttered shops, burned out buildings and bullet riddled cars. The stench of fear and death replaced those of the sea life, pastry shops and dock markets. But he kept walking until he reached the water. When he got there he took of his pants and shirt, peeled off his socks and ran into the sea, the sea that gave him, his family and his country life.

2005

Over the course of fifteen years the city was rebuilt. The Corniche was filled once again with pastry shops, cafes, high society matrons, Christians, Muslims, Parisians, Americans and long lost sons and daughters of the land come home on pilgrimage. Many of those who left came back to retire, or bought summer villas on the beaches and in the magnificent mountains.

Still standing in those mountains were the grand Cedars of Lebanon, the symbol of the country for 4,000 years.

The banks had returned, investment was pouring into the country, the nightlife and social life were dynamic again. There was even a Hard Rock Cafe downtown.

JK took his wife and their twin daughters and son-in-law back for a late winter visit. One girl was a teacher married to an Italian man from Bergen County New Jersey. The other daughter was divorced and a successful trader like her father before her.

They walked down the Corniche on a bright sunny day. The kind of sunny day where all the colors seem hyper real, like an Impressionist painting. The wind was blowing steadily toward the sea and the palm trees were swaying.

They had lunch at a local French restaurant and then started walking west on the Corniche, toward the sea. Suddenly they heard sirens and saw flashing lights. A long row of black Mercedes limousines and Hummers came barreling down the street. They stopped at the light and watched the impressive line of cars pass.

A blinding light, an ear drum shattering boom and they were all thrown ten feet back.

They were all alive, but bloodied, wounded, crying, screaming, groping, hugging.

The man who had come in 1991 and helped rebuild the country was now dead. His car was upside down on the side of the road. It was later reported that two dozen were killed and 200 wounded, JK and his family among them.

Once again they were on the plane going back west. Below them was a city that had been deflowered, but whose roots had managed to help it blossom again. Now, a petal had been ripped away.

They looked down at the sea and wondered how much life it had left to give.