Cathy Sultan's Blog, page 15

AND ON THE GROUND THERE WERE ORDINARY PEOPLE

This is an excerpt from A Beirut Heart, a memoir of my fourteen years in Beirut. In this particular scene it is June 3, 1982 and the Israelis have just invaded Lebanon. In our war-warped minds, we initially thought Israel was doing us a favor by wiping out the PLO which continuously bombed our neighborhoods. We changed our minds when the assault on Beirut went on for sixty-seven days.

I was at a luncheon hosted by a friend at her mountain home on June 3, 1982 when Israel invaded Lebanon. It was a seemingly peaceful, picture-perfect day. The sun was not too hot for those of us who wanted to sit in her exquisite garden and soak up its fragrance. The tall jasmine bushes were full of white blossoms, rows of red and yellow roses outlined the perimeter of the grass; and a fuchsia bougainvillea climbed the side of the staircase leading to the veranda. As usual in Beiruti gatherings, the women gravitated to one corner to talk and the men to another, everyone content to be in their own little group, all unaware of the Israel’s actions in the south.

When the news reached us, one of the well-informed guests, explained that the Israeli Army intended to advance twenty-five miles up the coast, stopping just south of Beirut. To judge from the number of guests nodding their agreement, far outnumbering the few who frowned disapprovingly, there was consensus on Israel’s actions. While I could see the necessity of clearing out the PLO who consistently bombed our neighborhoods and terrified our children, I felt uneasy about what we were agreeing with. I could not clearly articulate it even to myself; maybe it was the unsettling way in which we spoke of eliminating people as if they were vermin. I am ashamed to admit it now, but that was the prevailing attitude in Lebanon among the Christians in 1982. And our minds were very clear on the subject of Yasser Arafat. We were sick of him and his PLO. He had boasted one too many times that the road to Palestine led through Beirut. He and his PLO needed to be wiped out, so the Israelis were doing us a favor.

Part of me wanted to believe that, and as long as the Israelis conducted their nasty business in the south, and as long as our lives in Beirut were not endangered, we talked comfortably about someone else’s battles, someone else’s deaths. In retrospect, I cringe at the naiveté of our thinking; but that was how it was, it was civil war; and we were looking out for ourselves.

Israel used the attempted assassination of its ambassador to London as its pretext to launch the invasion into Lebanon. Ariel Sharon, Defense Minister at the time, led ‘Operation Peace for Galilee.’ In two days his troops had advanced all the way to Beirut. On June 6, Israeli warplanes began bombing West Beirut indiscriminately. The assault on the city lasted sixty-seven days.

After seven years of war, my family and I should have been immune to leaping up, tearing open the doors and staring in the direction of the latest explosion but there we were, night after night, sitting on our balcony, watching the bombs falling and the lights flashing across the sky. I had no sense those lights were coming from human beings.  It was more like Heaven fighting Hell. I stood there, slightly bent forward, with my arms resting on the railing. Gradually, it occurred to me that neither I nor my children should be watching this horror show; it was disgusting; it went against everything I believed in, yet there we were, staying and looking.

There were people under those bombs, and for every bomb that fell someone died beneath it. Every plane—indistinguishable against the dark sky except for a red light in the rear—had a pilot or two inside. Presumably they were young men in their twenties, terrified that something was going to fly into their plane and blow it apart. Maybe they had a ring on their finger and a girlfriend or wife back in Tel Aviv; maybe these young men still carried the smell of their wife’s perfume in their hair; maybe they were reservists called up the day before; maybe they were convinced they were killing ‘terrorists’ so it was all right to drop one-thousand-pound bombs over a dark city where they could not see their targets, if they had targets at all.

And down below on the ground where the bombs exploded were ordinary people, women cradling screaming babies in their arms, old people holding terrified dogs, a husband frantic because his wife and children had not returned from an outing. There was complete mayhem across the dark sky, and I was watching it all from my balcony.

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Gate A-4

Originally posted on Live & Learn:

Gate A-4 By Naomi Shihab Nye:

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well— one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her . What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, shu-bid-uck, habibti? Stani schway, min fadlick, shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be…

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SHE WATCHED HIM LIFT THE WHIP

She’d never felt so scared. Images of Khiam prison flooded over her—the torture box, the table and stirrups, the probing instruments and dangling wires. She didn’t want to die. Not like this, not alone in some hell-hole like Khiam. She peed on herself.

When the Jeep came to a halt, a strong-armed man yanked Sonia out and tied her hands behind her back. She heard a metal door open. She was pushed inside a building and made to walk. She assumed Camille was just behind her, but soon realized her shoes and the guard’s were the only ones smacking the floor. When she tried to slow her pace, her escort shoved her so hard she almost fell; he pulled her up and pushed her forward. Her pulse quickened. She felt dizzy. A creepy clamminess crawled over her scalp, down her neck. She gasped for air.

“I can’t breathe,” she cried out.

“Shut up,” the man yelled.

He relaxed his grip on her shoulder and shouted at her to stop. Another metal door opened and she was led into a room. Someone untied her hands. She could barely massage them before hands forced her into a straight back chair. She had no time to adjust her short skirt, to at least pull it down a bit to better cover her thighs. Gruff hands twisted her arms around the chair frame, tied her wrists together and removed her shoes. The burlap sack flew off and she looked around the room, blinking.

She sat before a man with hollow cheeks and pallid skin. His eyes were sharp and piercing, his hair cropped, like Kamal’s. He stood and approached. His rancid body odor filled her nostrils. Repulsed, she instinctively jerked her head back.

“Where is Judge Camille?” she asked.

“He has been taken elsewhere.”

“Why can’t he be here with me? Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

As if on cue, from some other part of the building, she heard Camille yelling, “I demand to be with her.”

“Sorry Judge,” said a male voice. “Under the circumstances, that isn’t possible.”

Camille asked, “Circumstances…what circumstances?”

She strained to hear the response.

“We suspect she is…” and the voice faded as Camille was led away.

“I demand to know why I am here,” she said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

“Israeli spies don’t ask questions,” said her interrogator, talking into her face, his breath reeking of nicotine. “They answer them.”

“I’m not an Israeli spy.”

“Two days ago you were seen walking with an Israeli we know to be a spy. You carried on a lengthy conversation. He kissed you before he

turned and walked back to his car.”

“That doesn’t make me a spy.”

“At the very least, it makes you a collaborator, which makes you just

as guilty. What is his name?”

“Kamal…at least that is the name he used with me.”

“Why are you in Marjeyoun?”

“I’m working on a story. I’m a journalist.”

“Does Judge Camille work for Israel, too?”

“Neither of us works for Israel.”

“You are lying!” he shouted then rushed back to his desk. He pulled open a drawer and slammed it shut. He opened another and another until he found what he was looking for. When he returned, Sonia saw the whip in his hands. “One more time…is Kamal your boss?”

“No,” she shouted. Wide-eyed she watched him lift the whip.

This is an excerpt from The Syrian. Available for purchase here.

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YOU’RE A SHIT, SONIA!

Sonia slept poorly. She had been responsible for Ali’s death. She’d let him stand alone on a highway, with no protection, when she knew both of them were targeted for assassination. You’re a shit, Sonia, but then you already knew that. Ali trusted you while you thought nothing of shamelessly and repeatedly betraying him.

And then there was Andrew, the man she had hoped to finally get her hands on, gone as well since Miss Goodie Two Shoes had decided to get a divorce. Ali deserved it, of course, given his despicable behavior. But then Elie, even in his youth, had shown a disturbing streak of dishonesty. Of course it was precisely that same wily nastiness that he recognized in her, and which led to their long affair. Somehow the behavior he so cleverly concealed from Nadia during their brief two year marriage was the same craftiness Sonia had used time and again with Ali.

And then Kamal came along, the enemy she enjoyed sexually and now thought she loved−but who in all likelihood she could never have. So, my dear Sonia, in the span of two days, you’ve lost two men and conceded one, each of whom you loved in your own peculiar way. Will others come along? Of course, she thought. They always have.

The sound of excited voices stirred her. A glance at her watch told her she had gotten about five hours sleep. She lingered in bed and reflected some more on Ali’s death. It was inevitable, she decided. Sooner or later, his reckless behavior would have gotten him killed.

Before making her appearance, she stood at the top of the stairs, scanning the scene below. The loud chatter came from the dining room with everyone apparently still seated around the breakfast table discussing the news of the Israeli attack. When she walked in she was happy to see the newly arrived Yousef and Tony. They stood and came to greet her. Each of them hugged her and whispered their condolences. She knew from their previous meetings that both were a bit taken by her so she was pleased by their attention and affection even if it was meant to honor Ali.

Sonia then went to Elie, seated at the opposite end of the table.

“How are you doing?” she whispered in his ear. It couldn’t have been easy…what Nadia had to say last night about a divorce.”

He tiled his head to look up at her. “All things considered, I’m not doing too badly. It didn’t come as a surprise, and frankly, I asked for it. But you know me better than anyone, don’t you, Sonia? We’re a pair, you and I, bad to the core.”

This is an excerpt from The Syrian, available for purchase hereAmazon

THE MANGLED BODIES, THE WIDE-EYED FACES OF TERRIFIED CHILDREN

Sonia knew war intimately. She’d seen the mangled bodies, the smoldering ruins of buildings, the wide-eyed faces of terrified children. Yet she was shocked as Leila showed her around Khiam prison, now a museum. The one-story building was painted white with Arabic graffiti scribbled on its walls. Concrete square boxes lined one side. Leila had been kept in one of these 36 by 36 inch torture chambers in sweltering heat and bitter cold for weeks at a time—hands tied behind her back, knees to her chest, feet pressed against the wall.

Sonia passed through a heavy metal door so rusty she could taste it. Dozens of padlocked cells with small sliding windows lined either side of a narrow corridor with bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. She ran her finger along the wall and brought it to her nose, recognizing the sickly-sweet smell of blood and the salty, sour milk order of sweat.

A special room had been reserved for women with stirrups, gruesome tools spread out on a side table and traces of blood splattered on the floor. As she walked in, Sonia felt the spirit of a female voice call out to her. She remembered the woman; she’d interviewed her in one of her war zones. As the woman had described it, her feet had been secured in place and her legs forced apart. She had screamed when a sharp object was repeatedly jammed into her vagina. Her voice echoed in Sonia’s head.

From another cell, a desperate voice called out to her, this one much younger. When she slid the small metal window open she saw, in her mind’s eye, a young girl lying on the floor naked from the waist down, a pool of blood between her spread legs, whimpering.

Leila lead Sonia to yet another room where men had been hung by their wrists and beaten until their skin turned raw. Others has been forced to lie naked over a stool, chest and genitals exposed to electric wires and cigarette burns. There was a drawing on the wall of a hooded man, on his knees, hands tied behind his back, upper body forced forward.

Sonia began to hyperventilate. She turned around and rushed outside. She stood in the courtyard and concentrated on breathing deeply letting the gentle breeze and the sun revive her.

As she and Ali drove Leila back to her house, Sonia thought about what would happen if certain Lebanese authorities should discover the nature of her liaison with Kamal. The thought of inevitable torture made her feel like vomiting.

After they dropped Leila off, she said to Ali, “Take me somewhere beautiful. Sweet Jesus, I want to forget what I just saw.”

This is an excerpt from The Syrian. Available for purchase here:

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THE INDIGENOUS PALESTINIANS AND JEWS OF ANCIENT CANAAN

Peace between Israelis and Palestinians does not require them to agree on the events which comprise their respective histories. Instead, it necessitates a mutual acknowledgement of the injustices each has suffered.

In August 2005, the world witnessed an extraordinary event when, after thirty-eight years of occupation, the Israeli government pulled 7,800 settlers out of the Gaza Strip without any serious incidents. Many of the soldiers, sympathetic to the settler movement and the violent protests, did not want to be ejecting fellow Jews from their homes. Yet they performed their duties admirably and with great care so as not to harm the civilian population. The world saw the power of moderation transcending the forces of extremism, something which has rarely been seen before in Israel.

As I watched the coverage on television, I imagined how wonderful it would be if that same moderation was extended to Palestinian civilians at the military checkpoints. In my mind’s eye I saw an Israeli soldier apologizing to a Palestinian man twice his age for having to carry out a body search, or to an old woman obliged to wait hours in a long line in the hot sun. For one fleeting moment I dared dream of a day when both peoples would dwell side-by-side in peace. After all, Jews and Arabs are both indigenous to the Holy Land, and since ancient times have lived as neighbors, and often as close relatives through intermarriage. Why then in the 21st Century is our thinking not more sophisticated; why can we not create the same amicable living conditions that existed for long periods in ancient times?

The Palestinians are ethnic cousins of the indigenous Jews of ancient Canaan, and have shared a presence in this land for thousands of years. From prehistoric times this tiny area of the Middle East has witnessed a twisting continuum of factions, with one city or state rising and then falling. Empires have come and gone. More significantly, the fleeting power of people and ideologies has emerged and disappeared, sometimes almost with a trace. Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Macedonians, Romans, Israelites, Philistines, Crusaders, Arabs, Ottoman Turks, and finally the British, can all claim strong historical connections to this land either through bloody warfare or benign conquest.

The multitude of ruins in the Golan Heights—contested since the Amorites first dominated it in the 3rd Millennium BCE—and Tel Megiddo—a town in northern Galilee where historians believe more battles have been fought than anywhere else in the world—bear witness to the vulnerability of the most powerful armies. Time after time the inhabitants have been slaughtered, driven into exile or subjugated under a new political power which held sway for a few centuries.

Who are the rightful claimants to this ancient land? Does the Jewish claim that they were driven out by the Romans two thousand years ago override the Palestinian Arabs’ claim that as descendants of the inhabitants of ancient Canaan, they too have a right to this land?

This is an excerpt from Israeli and Palestinian Voices: A Dialogue with Both Sides. Available for purchase here:

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MIDDLE EAST TENSION AT ITS BEST

Middle East Tension at its Best

August 24, 2015 by Rick Polad

Set against the Israeli-Hezbollah war in Lebanon in 2006, the plot of the Syrian mirrors the deceit, tension, and intrigue that has been the history of the Middle East for thousands of years, a perfect setting for a romantic thriller.

As Nadia is about to declare her missing husband dead and marry her new love from America, her best friend, Sonia, tells her that her husband is still alive. But Sonia’s motives are other than friendly. Even though Nadia no longer loves her husband, she feels responsible for him and sets out to free him. In order to do that she has to bargain with the head of the Syrian secret police, a powerful and dangerous man who has been wanting Nadia for years.

The Syrian is fiction, but Cathy Sultan blends fiction with history as she weaves her characters through the history of the time, something she knows firsthand as told in her book Israeli and Palestinian Voices, a collection of interviews and first-hand experiences in a region gripped by religious fervor and fanaticism.

The Syrian is a well-written, fast-moving thriller of romance, betrayal, and intrigue that will keep you turning the pages and wanting more, even at the end—there’s a sequel in the works!

Available for Purchase here:

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YES, THE BOMBS MAY KILL YOU

“Camille, how in the name of Christ did all this shit start between Lebanon and Israel? In the States we’re told that Israel is a victim of Arab aggression. You said Israel had invaded Lebanon four times. I’m confused.”

“Forgive me, but you Americans know nothing of what goes on outside your country. And when it comes to the Middle East, it’s even worse. What gets reported in the States as truthful narrative isn’t anything of the kind.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“Never mind—I’ll do my best while you’re with me to explain the realities here. The trouble began in the late 60s, early 70s when Yasser Arafat and his PLO began cross-border attacks into northern Israel. As was their right, the Israelis retaliated, but each time with more and more force until they finally created a permanent military presence here. It was out of resistance to that occupation that Hezbollah was born.”

Andrew looked around. “It’s a strange and humbling feeling to vaguely understand some of this from the news at home, and then come here and find it all alive, flesh and blood, real conflict—not just news.”

He wondered what kind of naive idiot he must seem to this old man. “The US says that Hezbollah is a terrorist organization. Is that true?”

“It depends on who you ask,” said Camille. “Israel calls them terrorists because it wants a reason to destroy them. Remember George Bush’s war on terrorism—‘you’re either with us or against us?’ He declared that any group the US didn’t like was a terrorist organization. Well, Israel got in the act. They demanded the US declare Hezbollah a terrorist group and insisted it give up its arms. If you ask the vast majority of Lebanese about Hezbollah, they will tell you that they’re a home-grown resistance movement born out of a twenty-two year illegal Israeli occupation. They argue that Hezbollah should never give up its arms because they are Lebanon’s only deterrent against another Israeli attack.”

“And where does the Lebanese Army fit into all this?”

“Our army isn’t capable of defending Lebanon against an Israeli attack. The leadership is weak and divided. Aid packages from the US are laughable. They are a pittance and look like toy guns compared to the military aid Israel receives and they are already one of the most powerful armies in the world. That’s why there is popular support inside Lebanon for a non-state resistance movement like Hezbollah, which is capable of facing off with Israel.”

“What a complicated mess,” Andrew said. “Why does Israel want to attack Hezbollah?”

“It was Hezbollah who threw Israel out of south Lebanon in May 2000 after their twenty-two year occupation. No Arab force before had ever dealt Israel such a humiliating blow, but that’s just part of the equation. Geopolitically, there’s a much bigger issue at play—the proxy war between the US and Iran. Using Israel to attack Hezbollah is an indirect attack on Iran, since they are the ones who back Hezbollah. But the real target is Syria.”

“What’s Syria got to do with all of this?”

“Syria is the conduit between Iran and Hezbollah. In order to weaken both Iran and Hezbollah, Israel and the US must destroy Syria. There’s also a religious component here. Syria is ruled by Alawites, an offshoot of Shiite Islam. Iran and Hezbollah are both Shiite.”

“Ah, yes, religion again—messing everything up.”

“In this case, it’s an inter-Islam war, which is even more worrisome. Saudi Arabia and the other Gulf nations, mostly Sunni, support the US and Israel’s attempt to destroy the three Shiite entities. They fear a Shiite revival and want to maintain their Sunni dominance over the Islamic world.”

“So if a war begins, I’ll be caught right smack in the middle of it.”

Camille glanced at Andrew. “And since you’re in south Lebanon and in Hezbollah territory, the bombs will drop near here and maybe kill you. It’s pretty straightforward.”

This is an excerpt from The Sytian. Available for purchase here.

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TRAGEDY IN SOUTH LEBANON

Israel is a difficult and dangerous subject to write about; difficult because most Americans do not understand the complexities of the region, in particular the politics of the Levant; and dangerous because it is assumed in the US that any criticism of Israel is not only biased in favor of Israel’s enemies but is also anti-Semitic. No one who undertakes to tell the story of this small geographic hot spot enjoys such a label. This author is no exception.

I undertook to write Tragedy in South Lebanon to stress that all wrongs, whether committed by the US or its allies, must be evaluated with the same criteria used to judge Hezbollah, Hamas and others. International law applies to not just a few powerless nations and resistance movements. If left unchecked the actions of powerful nations will eventually erode a global mechanism that strives to maintain stability and security through a balance of power that is based on legitimacy and responsible behavior.

I focused this book on ordinary people from both sides of the border who are overlooked by politicians and military leaders and who become victims of poor decisions made by the governments of both Israel and Lebanon. This is not biased reporting. This is honest reporting.

As one Goodreads reviewer wrote, “The title of the book is Tragedy in South Lebanon. It is not Tragedy in Israel. The author lived with her family in Lebanon, not Israel. Her family and friends and the innocent in her book were under attack in Lebanon, not in Israel, during the Lebanese civil war and during the four Israeli-Lebanese wars. I’m a former New Yorker who resides in Nevada. If New York were bombing Nevada where I now live, I would hold some degree of anger and prejudice against New York. So it is only natural that the author has some degree of resentment against Israeli aggression due to her personal experience with its bombs, missiles and rockets that had fallen on her community. She lost friends from those weapons of war. Considering her losses I think she was diplomatic in the way she viewed Israel and tried to balance her point of view.”

The summer war of 2006 between Israel and Hezbollah produced a human catastrophe in Lebanon that killed 1, 109 civilians and wounded an additional 4, 399. To a smaller but no less tragic extent, Israelis in the Galilee feared for their lives as Hezbollah lobbed some four thousand rockets on their towns and villages, eight hundred of which landed in residential or commercial areas. These attacks killed thirty-nine civilians, eighteen of whom were Palestinian-Israeli.

In documenting this tragic event I combine vital history and vivid personal interviews from both Israelis and Lebanese to relate the lives of the oft-ignored civilians of south Lebanon and northern Israel during that war. I chronicle how thousands of area residents have been victimized by the hawkish, shortsighted policy decisions of Israel, Lebanon and the United States.

I also take great pains to empathize with Israel’s paranoia and sense of insecurity, particularly with its still vivid memories of the Holocaust. I empathize also with the people of south Lebanon who feel incredibly burdened by the constant threat emanating from Israel. They still reel from the injustices inflicted on them by Israel’s twenty-two-year occupation and three previous invasions when they saw their lives, their freedom and basic human rights trampled on without so much as a yawn from the international community.

The Hezbollah leadership is equally criticized. It showed a callous disregard for its constituents in south Lebanon when it provoked a border incident that led to the July 2006 war. Did they stop to think that such a provocation could spell death and destruction for its people? Did it care or did it assume that it could ride the wave of broad support it enjoyed, thus taking advantage of an already disenfranchised people for its own political gain?

As if the senseless wars and tragic loss of life that has affected so many on both sides of the border were not enough, the Lebanese and Israelis also lack true statesmen capable of reversing this tragic trend. In their 2005 elections, both people thought they were voting in new leaders but got, instead, a rehash of the same old cast of characters, albeit in some cases sporting new clothes. These current leaders pursue the same failed policies of manufacturing wars for territorial gains and regional hegemony. Both Israel and Hezbollah willingly participate in a dangerous proxy war for the United States and Iran. The losers in this high-stakes game of warfare are, of course, the Lebanese and Israeli people.

Why did I try to document this tragedy? I wrote about these horrors so that our collective national and international memory can never say, “We didn’t know.” I tried to bring to light voices of ordinary people in Haifa, in Jaffa, in Bint Jbeil, in Beirut, Tel Aviv, in Gaza and the West Bank who scream, “Stop the horrors. We want to live in peace.”

In ancient times indigenous Arabs and Jews shared this tiny speck of land along the Levant. Together they worked the lands, reaping equally in its rich bounty. They were besieged by invading armies. They were slaughtered, driven into exile or subjugated under foreign powers. Yet, in spite of these challenges, they managed to live amicably as neighbors, often as close relatives through intermarriage. In large part, the success of their fellowship can be ascribed to leaders who recognized the need for solidarity over divisiveness and inter-communal conflicts, and knew how to encourage and nurture it. In their rush to instill modernity along the Levant, the new leaders have forgotten the most important tool of governance—diplomacy.

My Goodreads reviewer agreed. “In one word, diplomacy is Cathy Sultan’s message and I give her book five stars.”

This blog discusses Tragedy in South Lebanon. Available on Amazon

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NADIA, YOUR HUSBAND MAY STILL BE ALIVE

Nadia Khoury woke to the sound of Arabic and French being spoken. It puzzled her, pulled her out of a slightly erotic dream that she wanted to stay in. Because she had become more used to English, she felt a small measure of confusion. She laughed at herself and her siblings, Maya and Paul, who squabbled on the terrace under her window. The curtains fluttered inward and Nadia laid back and smiled at the ceiling. Ah, the comforts of home. And Andrew would fly into Beirut later today. Her family never changed; noisy, funny and passionate. Her father pontificated with no one listening, and her mother tried to keep the peace, seldom taking sides.

“Wake her up,” said Paul. “She’s missing this beautiful morning.”

Maya snapped back: “No, let her sleep. She’s still jet-lagged.”

“She is not,” protested Paul. “Stop being an idiot.”

It’d been a long time since she had woken up truly happy, and this transformation had begun six months ago when she’d met Andrew Sullivan. She had been only twenty-two when her husband, Elie Khoury, a university professor many years her senior, was abducted. Her grief had almost consumed her—until in the thirteenth year she found love again. This feeling of elation—that she had her life back—made her giddy. She had just turned thirty-five, and today her fiancé, an American physician, would fly into Beirut from Washington, D.C. She anticipated embracing him at the airport and bringing him straight back to her bed. She felt her face flush at the imagery that sprung to mind, so she got up quickly lest her thoughts linger too long on the kind of erotic naughtiness that her friend Sonia Rizk verbalized openly. Hanging around Sonia since returning home had apparently influenced her.

Wearing one of Andrew’s old T-shirts, she went to the window and gazed past her mother’s rose gardens to the sprawling metropolis below, nestled along the shore of the Mediterranean. She gasped at how lovely the turquoise sea was, its waves sparkling like diamonds in sunlight as they caressed the shore. Before, when she had looked down at the city, she’d always wondered if Elie’s remains were buried there somewhere, but today she pushed that question aside. Since her arrival a few days before, Beirut had been shrouded in some sort of mist, a mix of pollution and strange atmospherics—unusual for early July. Her mother had said it was a bad omen, and her father had laughed. “Oh, Carole, you and your superstitions. Soon there’ll be a plague of frogs.”

This morning, just in time for Andrew’s arrival, the haze had lifted and Nadia smiled at her beloved city—bustling and reborn, yet ever ancient. She pulled on a white dress, tied her unruly auburn hair into a ponytail, and ran downstairs to join her family on the terrace. Her father stood and opened his arms, her mother frowned at her bare feet, and Maya slugged Paul in the arm, saying, “You woke her up with your foghorn voice.” He laughed and shielded himself from a second blow.

Nadia stepped in her father’s arms and smelled his cologne and starched shirt. In French she said, “Good morning, little family. I’m such a lucky woman. But where is my coffee?”

Paul stood, did an exaggerated bow, and went over to the service trolley to pour her a cup from the thermos. Nadia sat down in her brother’s chair and he brought her the coffee. He made it the way she liked it with sugar and a dab of cream. As she sipped and smiled up at him, he said, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Maya said, “But it’s much easier to meet in Paris or London.”

“Especially when there’s fighting,” said her father.

“That’s all behind us now,” her mother said. Her father gave Paul a grave look but Maya was right on it and said, “Don’t start with your gossip, Papa. Let’s have a nice morning.”

Her father looked to heaven and said, “Dear Lord, protect an old man from him insolent offspring.”

“Dearest sister,” said Paul. “Your appointment to the U.N. High Commission on Human Rights has created a bit of confusion in our lovely little family. What is it we’re to call you now? Madame la Commissaire?”

They all laughed together. And after brushing her brother’s cheek with a soft kiss, Nadia took her coffee and walked barefooted through the dew-soaked grass to the edge of the garden.

Off to the right, in the hills of Achrafieh, stood the convent where she had been educated and where she had first learned English before going to university. How lovely those simple days were where everything had come so easily to her. While she felt sadness for the thousands who perished during the war, the newly rebuilt downtown—with its waterfront skyscrapers, luxury hotels and boutiques alongside the blue-domed Mohammad al Amin mosque and St. George’s Maronite Cathedral—represented renewed harmony and prosperity. It was reminiscent of Beirut before the hostilities began, as her father had described it when she was a small child.

This morning nothing from that turbulent past mattered. Nadia returned to the terrace and curled up next to her mother on the love seat, sipping the last of her coffee. Unlike previous family reunions, soberly respectful out of consideration for Nadia’s husband—thirteen years disappeared and presumed dead—this particular gathering would surely surpass any reasonable exuberance and for good reason. The family stood behind Nadia, united in agreeing that life must go on even though her husband’s remains had never been found. The would celebrate her official engagement to Andrew Sullivan with an intimate family dinner tonight and a big party the following evening.

Nadia heard the telephone ring. It had done nothing but ring since her arrival, so she ignored it. If anything, the call was yet another party-related question for her mother.

Nadia glanced up when the maid walked across the terrace. Strange, thought Nadia, the poor woman looks like she just saw a ghost.

“The call’s for you, Sitt Nadia. It’s Mlle. Sonia. She says it’s urgent.”

“Hello my dear, what can possibly be so urgent on such a beautiful day?”

“It’s Elie,” said Sonia.

“What about him?”

“He may still be alive.”

“Oh Sonia, he can’t be.”

This is an excerpt from The Syrian, a political thriller. Available for purchase on Amazon. amazon