The Epic of Difficult Choices by Amel Association International

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Written in Arabic by Chawki Rafeh Revised and introduced by Dr. Ibrahim Beydoun Translated to French by Danielle Saleh Preface by Georges Corm Translated to English by Ibrahim Khalil El-Jorr

Dr. Kamel Mohanna

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Reedited four times in Arabic by Dar Al Farabi

The proceeds of this book will go to AMEL Association

Title:‎

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Author:‎

Dr. Kamel Mohanna

Editor

Dar-Alfarabi

Beirut – Lebanon

Phone: (01) 301461‎

Fax: (01)307775‎

P.O.Box: 3181/11-1107 2130‎

Email: info@dar-alfarabi.com www.dar-alfarabi.com First edition 2013 in French:‎

L’HARMATAN

First edition 2017 in English:‎

Dar Alfarabi

ISBN: 978-614-438-714-2‎

A Man of Honor and Compassion Kamel Mohanna is no ordinary man. Meeting this doctor, with such affable manners and an unwavering smile, one cannot guess what extraordinary and unusual adventures this rich personality hides. Recounted by his talented biographers, Ibrahim Beydoun and Chaouki Rafeh, it is the complex journey of a Lebanese boy, born in the southern confines of the country, a front-line witness of the Palestinian tragedy from its very beginning. This drama unfolded on the other side of the border, close to the family home, as soon as the state of Israel was created. He witnessed the dramatic apocalypse of the secular dwellers of this land, suddenly abandoned by the whole world and forced into exile or into brutal occupation. The story of those childhood years largely explains the eventful journey of our future doctor. Having completed high school, he left his village and his country to study medicine in France. For a man driven by compassion after what he had seen in his childhood, medicine was a rational choice; it helps save human lives and heals the wounded that are caught under the fire of indiscriminate violence, who are dispossessed of their land and their belongings. His choice of France was certainly dictated by the fact that it was the country of human rights and enlightenment, and thus of justice and humanism. 7

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His studies did not prevent him starting a life of activism within the Association of Arab students in France, of which he became the leader. At that time, in the 1960s, people had faced the injustice and violence of the Algerian national liberation war, which had subjected the native population to the worst treatment and torture by the French army. They were also loudly proclaiming the right of Palestinians to their homeland and to a sovereign state. Kameleventually got in trouble with the French authorities who were trying to contain the agitation of the Arab students in France; the â&#x20AC;&#x153;pro-Arabâ&#x20AC;? activists were closely watched. He lived in constant fear of deportation. The pages of the biography dedicated to this episode of Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life closely recount the world of these ardent youth, from many different Arab countries, taking their first steps in political activism. Back then, they all suffered to see the land of human rights move away from the noble principles it had given the world, and try to silence the voices within its own territory of those in favor of the independence of the Algerian people. A graduate of medicine, always anxious to alleviate human suffering, our young activist then left for Dhofar, a rugged mountainous region in the south of the Arabian Peninsula, where an armed resistance movement rose against the English colonial oppression, ally of the Sultan of Oman. There, he practiced with great devotion in the difficult conditions of that poor and disinherited geographic and human environment. He fell in love with one of their beautiful female fighters that he later sorrowfully left behind when he returned to Lebanon.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

The severity of the events affecting his country called him back to Lebanon- a Lebanon now destabilized by massive Israeli military retaliation against guerrilla operations led from Lebanon by the Palestinian armed resistance, that emerged after the spectacular defeat of the Arab armies against Israel in 1967. He relieved the suffering of the wounded wherever he could, until he himself fell victim to indiscriminate bombings in the suburbs of Beirut in 1976, during the Battle of Tal elZaatar, while he was exercising his medical mission under an onslaught of bullets and fire. His friends managed to evacuate him without delay, which ultimately saved his life. As soon as he recovered, he resumed his profession as‘savior of men’ and created clinics and medical centers in the areas most affected by the hostilities and the fighting. He founded the Najdeh humanitarian organization that aims to improve the living conditions of the residents of Lebanon’s Palestinian camps. In 1979, he founded the medicosocial association Amel. This association would soon become famous for its activities, such as creating health clinics, medical centers, field hospitals, maternity hospitals, centers for child protection and rehabilitation centers for people with physical disabilities in the poorest regions. Doctor Mohanna’s ambitious goal was to ensure access to health for the poorest, without discrimination, and to provide professional training through the association. He was very active during those extensive years of violence and misery in his country, sending the wounded to be treated abroad and assisting the disabled with physical

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rehabilitation. This gave him the opportunity to work with various European NGOs such as “Doctors without Borders” and “Doctors of the World”. It is because of these admirable acts that he became a public figure, respected by all both in Lebanon and abroad. He also became a kingpin of the Lebanese and Arab civil society and a familiar figure with major international humanitarian NGOs. He later addressed issues of general development and everything related to public health. Amel, to which he devoted himself body and soul, grew throughout Lebanon, providing preventive health programs throughout the country, alongside artisanal activities that it actively encouraged, particularly in rural areas, and professional training for youth, as well as training in citizenship and human rights. Our hero would also be tempted to get involved in politics, running twice for parliament in the 1990s. He would taste the ferocity of the political customs of his country, which fifteen uninterrupted years of violence did not softened. There was no repentance from the Lebanese warlords who were responsible for so many dead, maimed, or missing. Luckily, the entrance to the political arena would be barred to this honest man, due to a lack of “qualities” required for it, namely cunning, deceit, brutality and lack of respect for others. Today, Kamel Mohanna is an icon in his country, an icon of dedication, civic action, compassion and energy at the service of the poorest and most neglected, as well as to those who suffer physically. His journey told here is emblematic of a generation 10

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of Arabs who, in heart and soul, are invested in national as well as humanitarian action. In this sense, his biography is an important document for historians and sociologists of the Arab world and for all those interested in the tragic fate of Lebanon and the Levant. It shows us a man of honor and compassion in the heart of the most violent storms that since the middle of the past century have torn apart Palestine, Lebanon, Iraq, and today alas, the unfortunate Syria. Georges Corm

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Introduction There is no rest for the eternal activist. He is over seventy now and still has the energy and momentum of prime youth. No sooner does he shake the dust of battle, he opens a new front. Is it any wonder that he spent his whole life attempting the impossible, crossing insurmountable obstacles, and defending the poor and the unfortunate? There is no rest, no way to reason with him. And if he seems to be listening, you discover that he is actually lost in thought, trying to draw plans for a major project capable of moving an entire battalion. From what source does this tireless fighter draw his enthusiasm and passion? This is a mystery even to those closest to him. He is always at the forefront while we gasp in the back lines. He faces the storm while we take shelter. However, he manages this without distancing himself from us or making us feel that an abyss separates us. This is the caliber of a leader. It must be said, that when the bugle sounds, we may all find the vocation of leader within ourselves, but not everyone knows how to channel this. I cannot listen to the experience of Doctor Kamel Mohanna with the neutral eyes of a historian, without being touched and deeply moved. This is what dissuaded me from undertaking the writing of this â&#x20AC;&#x153;travel diaryâ&#x20AC;? myself, a journey which I accompanied closely and of which I shared some chapters 13

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throughout a forty-year-old friendship, of which the sky never darkened. Kamel and I were so close that sometimes we became one, each of us comprehending the hidden concerns of the other without the need for words. No matter what, I will never be able to stay neutral, and I will certainly be accused of siding with him from the start. For that reason, Chaouki Rafeh undertook the task. Armed with his thrilling style, he recounted a life driven by a cause, giving it the appearance of a novel with all the stylistic and psychological elements inherent to the genre, capping each stage of this fascinating adventure with a catching title. This brilliant journalist, who has distinguished himself since the beginning of Assafir newspaper, later travelled the world, acquiring new competencies through his journeys and adding them to his innate gift in order to create chronicles a unique style. A master in writing and journalism, he put the biography of this unique activist on paper recounting the numerous challenges faced and the unexpected dangers confronted. Where to begin? That is the question. We must go far back in time, as no outstanding activist comes from nothing and no one discovers a cause overnight. The roots of his commitment are buried deep within him. We must go back to Palestine and the misfortune that befell its people. History was part of Kamel Mohannaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s childhood and has defined his life thereafter. He has made the Palestinian cause the basic framework of his journey and has persevered on that chosen path.A committed nationalist, adept, like the children of his generation to the hard and pure 14

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Pan-Arabism, embodied by the flamboyant Abdel Nasser; a Marxist seeing in the “revolutionary pits” the right solution to get the Arab nation out of its many defeats and setbacks, and finally, a Southerner committed to fighting poverty all over the country, working in silence, imposing on himself a discipline incarnated by his famous “three Ps”: a Principle that defines a Position that is put in practice. His story starts in Khiyam, where the fragrance of Palestinian bread still lingers in his memory as a childhood delights, and where, in his child’s mind, its sudden disappearance sums up the weight of the tragedy that befell this people. Palestine was lost, fallen. The defeat was visible on the faces of parents, in the tears falling from eyelids, on the exhausted silhouettes, on the few meager bundles carried by those who had been forcibly removed from this “lost paradise”. The sight of those sad, haggard processions would forever haunt his memory and would give him the strength to push himself forward. A successful education, an iron determination to acquire physical strength and endurance without seeking confrontation, this was the concept of chivalry rooted in him, far from any adventurism. No challenge could ever hinder his way, nor deviate him from his path, whatever the misfortunes and the dangers. In Beirut, the outlines of the role that he would play and the high hopes that would escort him in his journeybecame crystallized, but the stage that was a real turning point in his life was in France. It was in that country that he discovered 15

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himself, as a revolutionary activist at the head of the General Union of Lebanese Students in France (GULSF). Surrounded by a nucleus of young students, he defended the cause of the fatherland with body and soul, denouncing the Israeli aggressions and continuing to promote the cause of Palestine, even after the defeat of June 1967, which crushed all dreams. Then came the occupation of the Embassy of Lebanon to denounce this disaster. The Palestinian cause animated the Marxist movement that substituted Pan-Arabism, the latter having failed in its project. The French security authoritiesconsequently focused their attention on this bold student, not afraid to proclaim his beliefs and convictions high and loud. This â&#x20AC;&#x153;subversiveâ&#x20AC;? character was summoned whilst taking his final exams at the faculty of medicine, and asked to leave French territory without delay. But given the scale of protest that grew within the National Union of Students of France, various parties, and a number of diplomatic Arab missions, Kamel was allowed to return to the benches of his faculty to complete his exams. With his medical degree in hand, he found himself at a crossroads: a life of luxury and wealth, with a private clinic in a posh Beirut neighborhood, or the dedication to the war on poverty and to revolutionary struggle. He did not hesitate and naturally chose the second path. Having come back to his motherland, he soon found himself flying in a broken winded plane towards one of the incandescent revolutionary fronts of the time: Dhofar. He spent 16

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several months in the caves of this rugged mountainous area where danger was his daily companion. The rich experience he acquired there marked him forever. He still speaks about it with enthusiasm and passion. Back in Lebanon, for reasons of force majeure, he opened a clinic near the camps of human misery. But the revolution fever that was still smoldering in him soon awoke. He chose to join the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine. I remember accompanying him once on one of his tours. It was a dark night, the rockets were falling nearby, and we were discussing his decision. I thought that South Lebanon also deserved some commitment from him, to discover in the end that his choices had been irreversibly made. Then, the real danger began. He was constantly moving under fire between Fakhani camp, the neighborhoods in the southern suburbs of Beirut, South Lebanon, and then back to Tal el-Zaatar. He lived with danger following him; narrowly escaping the clutches of death. His commitment in Nabaa was different. It was one of his last adventures. He went there loaded with medicine and medications and stayed for months, to support the despairing populations there, until the last days of this martyred region. Whilst all other doctors left, and the inhabitants themselves ran away to escape the shelling, Kamel stayed until the very end. No words can express Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s emotions when he mentions Nabaa. I lost hope in seeing this committed doctorever come back, as he ignored all dangers, facing the horrors with a 17

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handful of brave fighters of whom few survived.However, staying there eventually was no longer a choice anymore. Exhausted and worn out, Kamel finally agreed to leave, after Professor Majdalani of the Orthodox Hospital and one of his former students, Doctor Sahyoun, a colleague of Kamel who had a clinic on the outskirts of Nabaa, intervened. Committed to the end, Kamel demanded that his companions in misfortune leave with him. But once again, there was no rest for the warrior accustomed to all dangers. Barely recovered from the horrors experienced with the fall of Nabaa, after one night at his home in Khiyam, he set off again for Beirut the next morning. Thirsty for new adventures, he found his cause in Damour where the displaced Lebanese and Palestinians had ended up. The experience in Damour opened new perspectives. He accomplished new feats in providing assistance to refugees, in child protection, and in providing employment opportunities for victims who had lost everything. Numerous delegations from western humanitarian organizations visited the camp, coming to inquire or offer help and support. The representatives were amazed by the courage and optimism that prevailed in a community so marked by misfortune. The emissary of hope in this painful period was Sister Adele, a “saint” who had consecrated her life to accomplishing the hardest of missions. Alongside her, many visitors recorded on paper the commitment of “Kamel the resistant”, praising his dynamism, perseverance, and selflessness. They admired his 18

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insistence on sharing the frugal life of refugees, refusing the little luxuries that he could afford, and subsequently infusing his companions with a strong will to resist, face challenges, and triumph over misery. Damour was not the only concern of this inveterate activist. Kamel was constantly engaged in a race against time, increasingly allocating himself difficult missions during his travels and wanderings. He continued to watch over the Najdeh Association that he had founded within the framework of the Democratic Front, which still operates today,whilst in parallel continuing his round of clinics, indifferent to the back pain thathas plagued him since Nabaa that had him bedridden for a month at the time. Between two Israeli invasions (1978-1982), and in the whirlwind of events and transformations that the South, a region where he is deeply rooted, was living, it was necessary to review his choices and put his actions back in perspective to ensure that he remained focused on his priorities. This is when he founded Amel association, in the wake of the disaster of Khiyam and the atrocious massacre perpetrated in this quiet village. He surrounded himself by dedicated, elite intellectuals to announce the birth of this association. Amelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s field of action was not limited to the South; it transcended the barriers of regions and faiths to spread across the entire country. More than thirty years later, Amel remains a hub in the humanitarian field. It is active in times of peace as well as in the whirlwinds of war. Concern for the vulnerable and the poor 19

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also drove the Assafir newspaper, under the administration of its editor in chief, Talal Salman, who, more than once, dedicated its front page to the association, addressing the problems that plagued the country as well as the region. Kamel Mohanna witnessed the birth of Assafir, and was influenced by its policy and philosophy. He befriended its reporters, some of which later sat on the constituent committee of Amel Association. Assafir and Amel seemed to derive from the same source, united for the same cause. Kamel Mohanna has always led a life of commitment, multiplying projects, working without respite, accomplishing missions that would have discouraged anyone else. Tragedy is a test that reveals the temper of great men, and Kamel has had his share. He is one of the great men who hide their wounds and continue their journey. Such are the standard-bearers, who march in the front lines, raising high their flag. A moment of weakness can cost them defeat, to them as well as to those whose cause they carry. He kept his passion and his commitment intact. He never failed his mission. This great, silent man convinced that work is the backbone of life, was dismissive of the media spotlight and the hollow attractions of political glory.This man built his life on sacrifice, refusing, in his sixties as in his twenties, to lay down his arms. He surrounds his family with all his love, but still spends the bulk of his time in Amel. It must be said that his family too is infused with the philosophy of the association that engulfs his life and his space. 20

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I bow to this exemplary activist of whom I am proud to be a friend and travel companion. May he continue on his way, regardless of the size of the challenge or obstacle. I wind up by thanking Chaouki Rafeh, who put his pen at the service of the story of this extraordinary life, and Joseph Abou Akl, director of the publishing house Dar Al-Farabi and publisher of this adventure The Epic of Difficult Choices. Ibrahim Beydoun

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Preamble “Nabaa has fallen!” screamed Rashed. At these words, a stunned silence fell on the newsroom of Assafir newspaper in Beirut. Yusuf hurried to turn on the radio set and asked: “Where is Kamel Mohanna?” For hours, telephones and wireless waves took turns relating various stories about the fate of the last doctor to have remained in Nabaa until its fall. A survivor of Nabaa who had fled through the “Rams’ Roadblock” in Adliyeh told a horrifying story. “They tied his feet to two cars and drove them in opposite directions... They literally split him in half.” However, by nightfall it became clear that Kamel Mohanna had once again managed to cheat death, as he had done in the past when he had hidden in mountain caves during the rebellion in Dhofar, in the south of the Arabian Peninsula. “Doctor, when are you going to write your memoires? Talk about Paris, Dhofar, and Nabaa?” I used to ask him back in 1976. Later Ihad to add: “and Damour, Khiyam, Kfar Chouba, and the Palestinian resistance in the refugee camps?” He always 23

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answered laughing: â&#x20AC;&#x153;When the day has 25 hours then I might possibly devote one to writing.â&#x20AC;? Thirty two years passed before the miracle finally happened. Kamel Mohanna finally managed to devote one hour a day for three months, tape-recording the important milestones in his life, from his efforts to create revolutionary pits to his active participation in civil society movements. And Kamel Mohanna has still not laid down his arms: he continues his fight on all front lines at the vanguard of the civil society in Lebanon. Chaouki Rafeh

The Epic of Difficult Choices

The Fall of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;English Bread Kingdomâ&#x20AC;? Human beings inherit more than half of their genes from their parents. Doctor Kamel Mohanna fully adheres to this theory of modern medicine to which it is certain there is no exception. But where does the remaining half of our genes come from? For him, the answer to this question is evident in light of all that he has known in his life until today: those genes have been transmitted to him from his village, Khiyam. Half of his genes, no more or no less, are marked with the seal of Khiyam. This may not be a scientific fact, but it is nonetheless an intimate conviction that he cannot justify. Khiyam, whose name is suggestive of the tents where Kamel was born during the same year that Lebanon gained its independence, is a world in itself, a huge world that sums up the vast universe. This is how he saw his village as a child, and this is how he sees it today. He does not know how to begin describing this land that carries in its womb so many promises of life, an abundant land that never ceases to reveal its secrets. Enjoying a special status because of its geography as well as its history, Khiyam is truly an exceptional village. Starting with its location on the map, Khiyam is a village on the southern border of Lebanon, north of Palestine and south of Syria. 25

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His mother, a woman kneaded in goodness and tenderness, became pregnant sixteen times, and carried to term ten times. His older brothers and older childhood friends circulated on foot or on donkey between the Hula Lake, Palestinian farms and villages around Mtolleh, and Khiyam. Their playgrounds spread over no less than three countries, which to his father was the “paddock”. The man traded in horses and cattle. He would swap the Ottoman tarboush(1)for the kaffieh(2), grab his rifle, and ride his horse towards the village of Khalisa in the Hula plain, or towards Quneitra or Mansoura in Syria, to come back driving flocks that he sold at Souk el-Khan in the region of Arkoub or the souk of Bint Jbeil. Naturally, these “countries” were delimited by borders, and every time his father went out of Khiyam, he had to stop at the police station. This obligatory passage was not only to perform the necessary formalities to obtain the pass, but was also an opportunity to drink a cup of tea with the police. The post was in fact located on their land “Bab el-Thenia”, a plot of over eight hectares populated by wild animals and covered with weeds, plants of all kinds, as well as vineyards, fig and olive trees. Syria, Lebanon, and Palestine were therefore among the first words imprinted in his child’s head and embedded in his genetic memory. He rarely heard of Beirut. The capital was far away, and his father went there only when it was really inevitable. (1) Fez (2) Bedouin headgear

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The Palestine of his childhood was the country of abundance, where milk and honey flowed. It was from this country that his father brought home with him the “English bread”, nowadays called the franji bread or literally, the “Western bread”. They held it in their hands with delight, slicing the side with the tip of a knife to stuff it with thin waffles of brown bread cooked on the saj. This is how the word “sandwich” made a remarkable entry in his vocabulary. It was the first foreign word that he learned. He pronounced it savoring each letter, chewing on it with gusto and letting it slide down his throat. This “English bread” was a blessing that his father was not the only one to provide. When his older sister Zeinab came to visit with her husband Khalil Abou Abbas from Haifa where he worked, they brought with them a large brown paper bag full of these delicious breads. As soon as they opened it, it let out this enticing smell that tickled their nostrils from a mile away. The bread was no longer hot as it had had time to cool during the long journey from Haifa to Khiyam, but the brown paper bag stored up the smell then released it as if it had just come out of the oven. Palestine had nurtured his childhood, submerged it with its perfumes, just as the plot of land his family owned in Khiyamdid, this land that housed the police station and where they spent the seasons of figs and grapes. He still remembers this huge tree, the fig tree, whose branches sagged to the ground, gorged with sun baked fruits. It was his own forest, he straddled its branches and carefully chose the fruits, picking them without help from anyone, and

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slowlyenjoying the taste as he bit their flesh, letting their sugary sweetness fondle his palate. This fig tree was yet another realm of his childhood along with that of the “English bread” and the image of his father coming back from Palestine, proudly riding his horse, wearing the kaffiyeh held by the agal(1), carrying his rifle and followed by his flock of cattle. He witnessed that world collapse when he was only five years old. If he were asked to describe this collapse, he would relate it as other southerners would. He would say, as he already stated, that it was a matter of his roots, of his genes, half of which were inherited from Khiyam. The memory of the people of Khiyam, like that of the inhabitants of South Lebanon, is strong and fertile. When it hits the wall of reality, it finds refuge in the imagination. That world did not collapse suddenly. One day, his older sister stormed into the house, accompanied by her husband and her children. She hugged her mother, sobbing and lamenting. His mother and sisters burst into tears. Kamel clung to his mother’s abaya, his eyes inspecting the belongings brought back by his sister. But he did not find the big brown bags. He sniffed the air in vain, trying to find the familiar smell... no trace of that scent. So he cried with the others, the tears poured from his body. His sister Zeinab’s visits were inextricably linked with this bread.

(1) Traditional clothing accessory used by the Arabs, especially the Bedouins, and made of rope tied around the kaffiyeh to hold it in place.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

When she arrived, she spread happiness throughout the vast house, laughter resounding in every corner, and provoked his fertile imagination to draw the outlines of the land of milk and honey: Palestine. “Palestine is lost!” screamed a woman outside the house. Through the door, he saw a huge crowd of mainly women and children gather on the road. He knew none of them. His father, sitting on the porch in front of the house was greeting them, inviting them in. Seemingly he knew them. His brothers and sisters were relentlessly filling jugs and distributing water to those who stopped as well as to others who were passing by. They were all talking at the same time, and from these conversations he could only understand one word: Palestine, without understanding how could it be “lost”. He sometimes lost toys, Palestine was not a toy. His sister and her husband had a home there like his. How can one lose a home? That night, their house witnessed real disruption. His mother and sisters slept in one room, Kamel slept with his father and brothers in another. Being the tenth child of the family, he had the privilege of sleeping next to his father. Huddled against him, he felt happiness and indescribable warmth. He usually slept with his brothers Aziz and Issam in the same room, while the rest of the family was divided over four bedrooms, one of which was reserved to his parents. This order was now disrupted. A lot of people filled the other rooms, among them children his age who he would have fun with the next day. His mind was absorbed in the games they would play, the unknown places 29

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that he would take them to explore. As he was falling asleep, he asked his brother Aziz, lying at his side: “What does it mean Palestine is lost? Where could it have been lost?” His brother answered “The Zionists took it.” The mystery remained. “Who are the Zionists? Where did they take it?” “Sleep now; you will understand later,” said Aziz. Thus the days passed. The guests changed, but the rooms were always full. He did not try to find out who the Zionists were anymore. He understood that they were like the “ogre” who attacked under the cover of darkness. He had a deep aversion for the ogre… an aversion that was equaled by fear.

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Treasures and Wars Kamel passed his diploma at the only public school in Khiyam. That school opened wide doors to vast and far horizons for him. His teacher, the famous educator Ali Abdallah, discovered in Kamel, from an early age, a passion for calculation and arithmetic, a tough subject that caused much trouble to his other classmates. Ali Abdallah encouraged Kamel to persevere in his efforts. Given the large number of students who failed the exams for the diploma that crowned the elementary school years, the teacher â&#x20AC;&#x153;createdâ&#x20AC;? an intermediary class, a kind of preparatory year for the certificate. The class was nothing like the fourth or the fifth grades, it mainly focused on mathematics. Kamel was also passionate about history, a passion which constantly drove him to explore the nearby al-Kharayeb . Convinced of hidden treasures, he and his friends armed themselves with picks and went bashing the rocks of the region. If their blows were met with an echo, it could only mean one thing to them: a treasure was buried in the rock. As the rocks invariably echoed, they relentlessly hit them with their picks until they fell with exhaustion. This did not prevent them from trying again the following days, looking for the treasure they felt sure to find. They were not the only ones dreaming of treasures. The adults also poured out stories that a long time ago al 31

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Kharayeb was populated by rich people with large houses. One night, swarms of flying ants, ants the size of wasps, attacked them and killed each and every one of them. Since then, no one had dared venture there. Storms and floods swept over the area, and the village, once rich and prosperous, sank into ruin and desolation. Some adults, to back up this version of events, recounted that a number of lucky peasants had become rich over night after discovering “an urn full of gold”, but had kept the secret to themselves all this time. The “schoolmaster” awakened their imagination, telling them stories of battles that took place on the plain between Khiyam and Marjeyoun at the time of the crusades. Then he would go on to tell them about the last war, in which, according to the professor, Marshal Petain’s French troops, under the command of General Dentz, routed the allied forces and “almost made them disappear from the face of the earth”. Wars, like any misfortune, never come alone, but are accompanied by tremors and earthquakes. One night, Kamel was walking with a group of friends in the “Christian Quarter” when they passed in front of Peter’s house. Peter would put the radio near the window and that day bits of news reached Kamel’s ears: a political tremor was to strike Lebanon, hitting the South first... He called out to his friends: “Did you hear? An earthquake is going to hit Khiyam”. Terrified, they all ran home. As for Kamel, he headed to Mohammad el-Bacha’s house, a boy who was older than him, to tell him what he had heard. Mohammad and some friends hurried to the village loud 32

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speaker and broadcast the news. Upon hearing that the radio had announced that “an earthquake” was going to hit during the night, the villagers panicked. Naturally, they all fled their homes and ran towards the fields. The police had to intervene, and after some phone calls, it became clear that the whole affair was just a rumor originating from the house of the “Mohanna children”. They came and arrested Issam, Kamel’s younger brother, took him to the station, then released him only after his father intervened. Later, Kamel’s father said to him “It was you who spread that rumor; your friends told me.” Kamel defended himself and swore that he had heard on the radio that a political tremor was going to happen…which left his father laughing away. That had been Kamel’s first lesson in politics. When the war broke out in Palestine in 1948, armed men appeared in Khiyam. They crossed the village, sometimes letting their horses rest in front of the Mohannas’ house whilst they came to sit with his father on the porch. They spoke of commander Fawzi al-Qawuqji and reported news of raging battles. The were Arabs, Lebanese, Syrians, and Palestinians, who were volunteering in the ranks of the “Salvation army” to take part in the struggle for the liberation of Palestine. Kamel remembers this era: “I envied them.” They were men, real men, Saladin’s knights straight out of the history pages, riding their horses through the plains and hills. They did not wait for their enemy, instead they chased him to “reconquer the land of the Arabs”, according to their school master. Their 33

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weapons were hunting guns, pistols, swords, or daggers, and they also carried bundles of food for the road. His father bade them farewell, hugging them against his heart, while his sister Zeinab chanted through the window: â&#x20AC;&#x153;We shall get Palestine back.â&#x20AC;? Kamel wished to accompany them. With his wild imagination, his big dreams and the strength of his determination, he considered himself their peer. The Khalil Abou Abbas family, comprising of his sister, her husband, and their children, received a monthly allocation for years from the UNRWA, the United Nations agency dedicated to refugees from Palestine. The refugees were not only Palestinians, but also Lebanese who had settled, worked and invested in Palestine for decades. Nothing could differentiate them from the Lebanese displaced from Khiyam or from any other area in the South, Beirut, or Tripoli. Arab nationalism was a way of life, one lived every day, and not some abstract principle in books. When Kamel successfully graduated from eighth grade, the last grade taught in the public school of Khiyam, Palestine was stuck to his skin, whether at school, in the street, or at home. He even carried it with him to Saida when he went to take the brevet(1) exam.

(1) In the French education system, brevet is an official exam students must take before starting high school.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Leaving the “Flock” Assaad Mohanna, Kamel’s father, was a rational man who did not believe in miracles. Rebellious, he never backed down from any challenge. He had eleven children. Educating six boys and five girls was in itself a challenge. The fact that his sons became two doctors, a judge, a school teacher, an engineer, and a bank manager, three of them graduates from French universities, was in itself a feat. Who does not remember the famous story of Ahmad elAssaad, the leader from the South and his famous statement: “My son, Kamel el-Assad, is educated, and this should be enough for them.” Kamel recounts the story that he knows better than anyone else, his brother being a key character of the tale. “My brother, Mohammad, studied at the public school in Khiyam. He crossed all the red lines that usually delimit the boundaries of poverty. He passed the baccalaureate in elementary mathematics at the ‘Ecole de la Sagesse’ in Beirut. At the time, that school was known for forming the ‘elite’ of the country. His classmate was none other than Kamel el-Assaad, the only son of ‘His Excellency’, Ahmad el-Assaad. The two classmates became very close friends, the brilliant results of

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my brother having, without doubt, helped him cross the barrier of social classes. This friendship deepened even more when Ahmad el-Assaad intervened with other notables and influential personalities so that my brother obtained a scholarship to study medicine in France. When my brother left, Kamel el-Assaad came to Beirut port to bid him farewell. Shortly after, he joined Mohammad in France to study law. After graduation and once back in Lebanon, my brother sent him a congratulations letter addressed to ‘my brother Kamel’. The letter fell into his father’s hands. He waved it in front of visitors at his castle of al-Taybeh village, exclaiming ‘Look what happens when sons of peasants study... They give up all deference towards their leaders, believing they have lifted themselves to their level. Why do they study? My son Kamel is studying, this should be enough for them.” Witnesses say that Ahmad el-Assaad was furious. As a result, my brother’s scholarship was suspended. It was a state scholarship, reliant on the word of influential personalities. This meant that my brother Mohammad was to return to Lebanon without being able to finish his specialization. Why did “His Excellency” cut off the scholarship? It is said that a delegation of notables from Khiyam visited Ahmad el-Assad in al-Taybeh to inform him of their concerns. “Do you want the Mohanna family to rule us?” Some say that these notables even denounced the central role of the Mohanna family within the local community, well-educated, well-connected and open for business. 36

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The facts recounted may have been magnified over time with the repetition of the story; nevertheless, it aptly describes the political reality of the South at that time. The people of Khiyam for example, were divided into two categories: the peasants or local population, against the al-Abdallah family. This family did not belong to the caste of feudal lords, but had instead earned its status and had preserved it over the decades by remaining in the good graces of the circles of power and influence. The family retained the seat of mayor and another in the Parliament. The history of Khiyam is a history of “struggle” between this political feudalism and the people of the area. In this struggle without mercy, the peasants won their first “victory” in the fifties, when they managed to snatch the mayor’s seat from the al-Abdallah family, forcing them to settle for only the parliamentary seat. The first mayor duly elected by the “people of the village” was el-hajj Khalil Haidar, an emigrant back from Argentina. The vice mayor was none but the father of Kamel Mohanna. He was reelected for several mandates. As violent as they were, these battles were marginal. The real battle was on another front. When Ahmad el-Assaad cut off Mohammad Mohanna’s scholarship, his father took an oath: “Your brother will continue his studies and come back a doctor. The bey will decide neither his future nor ours. We are not a flock in his farm.” The word “flock” startled Kamel. This word has never, until today, ceased to shock him. Kamel learned the saying that goes: “Each one of you is a shepherd and each one of you is 37

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responsible for his flock.” Yet, the shepherds had fallen asleep in their castles and capitals. Khiyamhad become a “flock”, dominated by political feudalismand persecuted by the Israeli hyena. Abou Mohammad, the trader travelling between Syria and Palestine, refused to be a simple sheep in the flock. He managed in an ultimate effort to gather the necessary funds so that Kamel’s brother could continue his studies in France. His determination illustrated the wise man’s proverb to his disciple: “If you say a, you must say b, and if you say b you cannot stop before z.” The decision of Kamel’s father inspired his other brothers and encouraged them to pursue their education. His second brother, Ahmad, decided to join his elder brother in France to study law after finishing his secondary education at the Makassed School in Saida. At first, the father refused. Ahmad had gotten a position as a controller at the port, a prestigious position in the public service coveted by all the Lebanese youth. At that time, everybody considered the customs as a gold mine which ensured extra resources to its employees. Ahmad was affected by the “Khiyam genes” and material ambitions were the least of his worries, especially the illegal ones. Faced with his father refusal, he threatened to commit suicide and solemnly declared: “Either I travel or I kill myself.” Kamel was present and heard his brother. He expected his father to blow his top. Instead, he remained calm, stood up, put his tarboush on his head, and walked out saying “If it means so much to you, you’ll 38

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have it. I will pay your first year of studies.” And that is how Ahmad joined his brother in Montpellier in France. One after the other the brothers pursued their education in the best schools and universities. Abd el-Amir, the third son, graduated from university and became a teacher, Aziz became an architect and Issam, with a management degree, is now a bank manager. As for his sisters they were engaged before finishing college. They made up for that by giving birth to the majority of the 250 children and grandchildren of the family. Their mother looked upon this offspring with happiness, satisfaction, and infinite tenderness. This lineage was the southern version of Karl Marx’s words “Man, the most precious capital”.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Between the Province and the Capital Kamel arrived in Saida as protests raged in the wake of the Suez Canal crisis. The city literally seethed, and portraits of president Gamal Abdel Nasser dominated the squares, above shops and houses. Maarouf Saad was the undisputed star of all gatherings. And when a young Syrian officer, Jules Jammal, launched his torpedo boat and rammed it into the French aircraft carrier “Jean Bart”, all the people of Saida took to the streets, chanting their solidarity with Egypt, Syria, and Palestine, and church bells rang in tribute to the “Arab” officer. He was a Christian, but the political lexicon of the time did not classify people according to their religious or sectarian belonging in the South in general, and in Khiyam in particular. Religions and faiths, like wild flowers, bloomed and blossomed in the most natural way. Khiyam had four churches located near mosques and husseiniehs(1), and adjoining the khelwat(2) of the Druze. Religious rites, celebrations or prayers, celebration of Christmas, the birth of the Prophet or Ashura, commemoration in memory of the martyrdom of Imam Hussein, were similar to foods adorning a banquet around which all feasted together. In addition to the traditional political dynasties, el-Assaad, Bazzi, al-Zein, Osseiran, Beydoun and others, various parties (1) A husseinieh is a congregation hall forShia Muslims. (2) A khelwat is a prayer house of the Druze.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

and movements polarized most of the young generation: the Communist Party, the Syrian Nationalist Party, the Baath Party, the Progressive Socialist Party, the expanding Nasserism. Kamel chose to join the Arab Nationalists. He didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t affiliate himself to the party, but he took part in all the marches and demonstrations organized by the Arab Nationalists and the Nasserians. He registered in the public school in order to get his official brevet degree. He lived with his brother Ahmad, the judge who was married to Naziha el-Ansari, a woman from Saida. They were living in an apartment in Scheherazade building, in the center of town. This allowed Kamel to be in the heart of the events that were taking place there. The center of town was the beating heart of Saida, and the beginning of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;rebellion of 1958â&#x20AC;? was starting to be felt there when Kamel resumed his high school studies for his baccalaureate at the public school of Ain el-Helwe. The headmaster of the school was Mustafa Zaatari. It was a period of turmoil, rich in events. Kamel remembers that a demonstration was organized in solidarity with the Algerian revolution after the American authorities boarded an Algerian ship in New York. He stood at the main school gate, while his friend Nabih Jawhar, a body guard of Maarouf Saad stood at the west gate. They urged their comrades not to go to school, but rather to take part in the strike. Naturally, everyone joined. But, when Kamel went home that evening, an officer of the military intelligence knocked on the door. As Kamel opened the door, the officer identified himself and started interrogating Kamel to know which political party he belonged to and what his role 41

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was in the mobilization of the strike at school. Before leaving he warned him: “Incitement to demonstrations and fomenting troubles are crimes punishable by jail. Next time I will arrest you.” He finished his sentence on a menacing tone, looking Kamel in the eyes. That was his first “confrontation” with the authorities. He was consequently tormented by questions: should he stop taking part in demonstrations and in strikes in order to get his baccalaureate? Was the diploma all that counted? What about the great Arab causes: Palestine, Algeria, Egypt? The next day, Kamel joined a protest demonstration against the “Baghdad Pact”. His choice was made. The “rebellion of 1958” was all over Saida, a non-stop activity of meetings and strikes. The military training was done under the control of an activist from the al-Masri family. Kamel, his friend Jawhar, and another boy from the Dimasi family often met at Zaatari’s place to plan their involvement in strikes, sit-ins, and other demonstrations. Strike days became more common than

school days.

Nevertheless, this did not prevent Kamel from getting his baccalaureate. After that, he moved from Saida to Beirut where he discovered that the real Lebanon was indeed the capital, whilst the rest of the country was regardedas the province. He felt as if he had landed in a strange world. To get rid of that feeling he joined a wrestling club and registered at the Ram el-Zarif high school, bastion of the Nationalist Arab Movement. Among

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his classmates were Samih Kanso, Samir El-Kadi (who became chief of staff of the Lebanese army), and Joseph Ghosn (who became commander of the Lebanese air force). He then decided to explore the capital. The tram was his only way of transportation. He would ride it from the Place des Canons and get off in Dora. From there, he would walk to Nabaa, Mkalles or any other area he wished to visit. Lost in the hustle and bustle of thefruit and vegetable market, near the Rivoli cinema, where the farmers brought their crops from the four corners of Lebanon, he had a familiar feeling. Fragrances from Khiyam, his abandoned village, lost at the confines of Palestine, filled the air. (He would never get used to calling it Israel, but insisted with a stubbornness inherited from his father that it was Palestine). Empire, his favorite cinema, showed foreign films. Later, he became regular of Hamra cinema. Hamra Street replaced the image of Khiyam in his mind. Sometimes he did not have money for a cup of coffee in one of the bistros, but he was satisfied just wandering through the streets. During these strolls, he learned about elegance and started to take care of his appearance and his choice of clothes. This desire to look elegant was coupled with the desire to perfect his French. He never missed a French movie even though the cinemas did not show many. When he was strolling in Hamra with his friends, they only spoke French. At the end of the school year he had become familiar with the capital, no longer feeling like a stranger. With his Mathematics Baccalaureate in pocket, he returned 43

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to the village. No sooner had he set foot on the bus heading to Khiyam than he began sharpening his weapons and mobilizing his energy for the battle that he was about to fight and that would seal his future: he had decided to study medicine in France. His brothers had already addressed the issue of his university studies and had suggested in light of his performance in mathematics that he should become an engineer. But all those plans fell apart when his brother Mohammad returned from France with a medical degree and began practicing in Bint Jbeil and Khiyam. Kamel accompanied him on his days off and learned many things: how to bandage a wound, treat a burn, or administer an injection. He was attracted to the profession and decided to follow in his brother’s footsteps and study medicine. All he had to do is convince his father of his costly choice. The “family council” met in one of the rooms of the house, but his father decided not to partake and went out and sat on the porch. His brothers started reviewing the possibility that Kamel study engineering, and argued that this specialty was less expensive: Kamel could enroll in a school in Beirut and later pursue his specialization in France. As for Kamel, he defended his choice with all his strength, but the bitter reality of the figures prevailed, and he found himself in a deadlock. They called the meeting to an end, leaving Kamel demoralized, while his father discussed the issue with his brothers. His father then called him outside and asked him: “What is your wish?” “I would like to go to France and study medicine,” he said, without trying to hide his anger. The father 44

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kept silent for a while then said: “You are well aware that what I have is not enough to grant you your wish. But it doesn’t matter. Go to Beirut, buy the things you need and get ready for the trip…” Kamel hugged him, hardly holding back his tears of joy. This cattle dealer had a vision that transcended them all. Kamel’s father had inherited cattle trading from Kamel’sgrandfather, but the old man had not been very successful in his choice of activity: he feared travelling and limited his trade to local markets, while Kamel’s father took pleasure in exploring far away horizons, going to places where no other dealer had dared before. He was known for his integrity. Everybody trusted him and was open to lend him money for investment, without even asking for a receipt. He had built the first stone house of Khiyam and had gotten the first permit in the area to connect it to the water grid, while everybody else still went to the fountain to get water. He was tolerant and open minded. When Kamel’s brothers grew up and started receiving phone calls from girls, he would answer the phone and chat with them without any embarrassment. He was firmly convinced of the importance of medicine. He offered Doctor Adib Rahhal a room in his house to open a clinic. Doctor Rahhal gave his son the name of Kamel’s father: he called him Assaad. After him, came Doctor Abdel Massih Mahfouz. Assaad Mohanna liked company, and he kept his house open to all. He hosted anyone coming to the village and offered hospitality for a few days, a week, or even more. He had a deep respect for the ulemas and men of religion, some

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of whom he had deep friendships with. One of them was His Eminence Sayyed Adbel Raouf Fadlallah, father of the great Ayatollah Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah. One question had always haunted Kamel: “Was my father an exception to the famous rule: My son Kamel is getting an education, this should suffice them?” His father was an unclassifiable, complex figure. Kamel believed he was one of the pioneers of the middle class that emerged in the face of political feudalism. During the elections season, Ahmad elAssaad opened his house, organizing festivals and feasts that attracted the residents of surrounding villages. They came laden with gifts: fresh eggs, chicken, sheep, kawarma, sweets, and cakes that their wives had prepared with great care, using seasonal fruits and vegetables. After the party, they went back home to tell their villages about their adventure, detail by detail.: how the bey had greeted them, shaking their hands one by one, then how he had set the table and shared a meal with them. Hearing that, their neighbors and rivals were eaten by jealousy, regretting not having had the bey shake their hands and party with them! Most of the time, the conversation ended with words of praise for the bey who “calls us by our names and knows them one by one because he has our interest at heart.” In the mid-fifties, Reda Tamer, a partisan of President Camille Chamoun decided to run for legislative elections against Ahmad el-Assaad’s list. He campaigned with a program proclaiming that water, electricity, and roads were a vested right to citizens in return for the taxes they paid. Assaad Mohanna did 46

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not hesitate to join the outsider’s electoral campaign, although he had only met him on rare occasions. Assad declared to anyone who would listen: “I like his program. Currently we are paying twice the price for these services, and we get an asphalt road no longer than five kilometers, after three termsin office.” This he said with excitement, happy to have finally found a candidate who could truly represent him. It was the beginning of the decline of political feudalism and the emergence of the petite bourgeoisie, and Kamel’s father was one of the pioneers who paved the way and set the stage for change well before its time.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

The World is Also a Novel Kamel was nineteen years old when he boarded an Italian ship, the “Dream Boat”, setting sail for France. His head was buzzing with projects and big ideas: studies, girls, and the Eiffel Tower. This iron creature, especially, inflamed his imagination. A symbol of the French colonization in Lebanon, Syria and the Arab Maghreb, it was also the seductive emblem of culture and civilization. And now he, the son of the former colony, set out to conquer the colonial power. He had no illusions about the difficulties of life in France, he had assimilated well all that his brothers Mohammad and Ahmad had told him about the challenges they encountered during their studies in France, including walls of racism, airtight fences that all but crushed any foreigner who tried to knock them down. This was especially true for Paris, the capital, of which “the inhabitants erect around themselves walls that no one can break through,” as his brother Ahmad used to say. He added, however, as an attempt to calm him: “Personally, I’ve never felt like a stranger. I joined the communist party and the comrades surrounded me with so much attention and affection. The party breaks down barriers between people and races. When you become a citizen of the world, it does not matter if you are from Lebanon, Congo, or Vietnam. The word ‘comrade’ sums up the situation.” Kamel 48

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knew he was not going to join the Communist Party; he was a deep rooted Arab nationalist, a Nasserist motivated by an unshakable faith in the unity of the Arab nation from the Gulf to the ocean. He shared something with communism: the hatred of colonization and imperialism. What about the liberation of Palestine? Palestine for him was “the ultimate goal of any struggle”. His first year of studies was in Grenoble where he attended the prestigious university, a university that took the form of a fortress. He took a room in the university dorms, on the top floor and once settled, got busy on three fronts: education, girls, and student associations. He found no difficulties on the first front. The courses were interesting; he would ask a lot of questions, which attracted the attention of his teachers as well as his classmates. That is what he was looking for. He did not want to go unnoticed. He was not shy, and his knowledge of the French language helped him overcome the “foreigner” complex that had made life difficult for more than one of his friends, especially in their first year of studies. He was much more cautious on the second front, exploring the grounds before daring an attack. He feared facing rejection, which would have meant failure in his eyes, even if many of his friends found it natural to be turned down by girls. His friend, Ali Fawwaz, who had been living in Grenoble for many years before Kamel’s arrival always told him: “If you can manage to get a girl after five refusals, you are a winner.” Kamel did not agree with that; a refusal would “make him loose face” as the 49

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Arabs say. He did not want that, especially with a French girl. Such pride betrayed the villager’s blood that ran through his veins. Wherever he went, he had Khiyam under his skin. As the poet Constantine Cavafy says in Lawrence Durell’s Alexandria Quartet, “My friend, the city follows you.” His village caution, which felt much closer to fear for him, fell suddenly when he met Micheline and invited her to have a coffee with him. She said to him: “Piccoli, Piccoli, why did you wait so long to ask me out?” He looked around him, believing that she was talking to someone else, but her eyes were on him. He smiled and said: “Does the name Kamel translate to Piccoli in French?” She burst out laughing. “You don’t know who Piccoli is? He is a French movie star. I will go with you to the cinema when he makes another movie. You look exactly like him.” At these words he felt like he had grown peacock feathers and that they were fanning out behind him. After the Piccoli affair, he started challenging his friends to choose the most beautiful girl around for him to ask out… and Piccoli never failed him. His friend Ali Fawwaz used him as bait in his hunt for beautiful girls. Ali Fawwaz lived in a studio perfectly suited for “evenings of charm” and would give the key to his friends when they managed to catch a fish in their nets. It was his way to take revenge on the “French empire”. The fact is that Fawwaz saw himself at the head of a conquering armywith each successful expedition. When he moved to the dorms at the university, he was careful to choose a room on the ground floor, which he could sneak out of simply by stepping over a thirty

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centimeter high wall. His guests did not need to be athletes or pole vault champions to enter through the window. But by playing too much with fire, Piccoli burned himself. A Hitchcock style fate, “crime does not pay”. In truth, Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment was far from fiction. Piccoli looked around and saw that he had fallen like a fish into the nets of love. Brigitte was a medical student in the same class as him. She always chose a seat in an isolated corner of the classroom, and left immediately at the end of the lecture. Blonde and plump, she exuded a sweet femininity and a charming shyness. Kamel always arrived late on purpose to sit next to her. He had never seen her go out with a guy. She always had a book in her hands, be it in the park, the cafeteria, or elsewhere. She was like a mysterious dungeon to which he was determined to find the key. He once told her: “Come on Brigitte, you never leave the school! The world is so vast and you have the occasion to explore it.” “That’s true”, she said, “but I prefer to discover it in books. I don’t know, maybe I should start by discovering myself. And that is exactly what I find in a book.” -“And experience? Experience is the shortest way towards knowledge of oneself and knowledge of the world.” “Maybe”, she said softly smiling, “but one pays a heavy price for experience, and the capital I have will not be enough.” She was blocking all his attempts to seduce her. He fell 51

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madly in love with her. He did not try to change her, but tried to learn from her. Her father was an officer in the French security forces. She was from Tourcoing, but her horizon was not limited to this little village in the region of Lille, in northern France. She had broadened her world through her readings and the ideas she had acquired. Passionate about poetry and novels, she was the one who pushed him to read Albert Camus, Sartre and Saint-Exupéry. She always repeated: “The world is not only politics, it is also a novel.” They would spend long hours together, alone or with his friends who had unanimously adopted her. One of them used to say: “She is an oriental woman in a French outfit.” And maybe that is exactly what fascinated Kamel. She was different from the other girls and was characterized by an extreme modesty that he could not explain. It was enough for her to feel a gazing look at the curves of her body to blush excessively. Her love was a river that quenched his thirst. Satiated, he could see no other girl. He had never kissed her… or rather yes, once perhaps, on a certain occasion. He could not understand how he had suddenly become so chaste. “Being together, sitting side by side, fingers interlaced... for us, those were heights that no man had ever reached. We were transported. Each of us discovering the other, discovering himself, and we were reinventing the world.” With the academic year nearing its end, the future of their relationship was uncertain. Could they still stay together? Should they get married? Was this the only choice they had? Every

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time they spoke of marriage, he would see his father sitting on the porch of their house in Khiyam telling him: â&#x20AC;&#x153;You will succeed, get ready for the trip.â&#x20AC;? Persistent questions tormented him; was marriage to a French girl after his freshman year really the success his father hoped for? What about children? Could he afford to have children while he had so many years of study ahead of him? Would he end up settling in France? A French citizen and expatriate away from his homeland? After much discussion, they finally decided to give themselves a time of rest and reflection. Brigitte would go to Lille whilst Kamel continued his studies in Tours, but they would always stay in contact. The decision was painful. After having spent a whole year together, it was like tearing their hearts out. They had been together every single day, and when they were not together, they spent hours on the phone. Once, he had even suggested that when each of them went back to their place for the night, they would write each other letters that they would exchange the next morning. Nevertheless, at the end of that first year, they parted ways with the hope to be reunitedlater down the line.. On the third front, that of university life and student associations, Kamel chose to commit himself through cultural activities, in his eyes, culture being the cement that brings people together and not the barrier that separates. As part of these cultural activities, they celebrated national holidays;

The Epic of Difficult Choices

the highlight of these celebrations was naturally the dabke(1). Kamel was passionate about the folk dance of his country. He saw in it a common language for all peoples of the Levant. The dabke of Khiyam was in no way different from that of Galilee. They formed a band with a drummer, anoud(2) player and a flute player. The success was immediate, so much so that they took to improvising opportunities to indulge in their favorite dance. They also constituted committees to promote the Palestinian cause. He was elected secretary of cultural affairs of the Lebanese Students Association, the first student association established in Tours. It brought together a wide range of parties, covering the entire political spectrum from left to right, with the left being the dominant onegiven that it was more active and more open to Arab students, who formed the majority of its ranks. Those who differed in political debates discovered affinities within the cultural committee. Despite the extent of these differences and the vehemence of exchanges, especially between Arab Nationalists and communists, the Palestinian cause remained at the heart of all conferences and meetings. It was the common ground of all leftists, Lebanese or Arab, and the fight also gained backing from the supporters of the right, if only as a matter of courtesy. The debates were democratic, the points of view were democratic, and under the sun of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;hostileâ&#x20AC;? France, there was a place for everybody. The Hippocratic Oath waiting for (1) Traditional Lebanese folk dance. (2) A lute- like instrument played widely in Arab nations.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

the medical students, the commitment of Gamal Abdel Nasser, and the innocence of Piccoli lived harmoniously in him. He was unaware then that the threatening clouds of June 1967 were gathering over their heads, blocking the horizon, and leaving them alone, naked and defenseless before the world. “The Egyptians are bombarding Israel,” France Soir headlined on its front page, on the evening of June 5th 1967, while the socialist newspaper Achaabiya announced: “Offensive on all fronts, Israel counterattacks and marks a victory.” His heart sank when he read this second title. He relied on The Voice of the Arabs radio station where Ahmad Said asserted that hundreds of aircrafts had been shot down in the skies of Egypt, and that the Syrian forces were marching on Safad to liberate it. “We have finally attacked them…” thought Kamel, reassured. In his head, he was creating an airtight iron curtain to filter the information reported by the Western media andignore all that talked about destruction of military airports and bases in Egypt and paralysis of the Egyptian air force. On the other hand, the march of the Syrian army on Safad was a mathematical truthto him: 1+1=2, full stop. The aftermath of June 5th resembled the world of the Day after, the movie where a nuclear war left nothing but cities in ruins and corpses, where death and desolation hovered. The truth is that the Egyptians did not bombard Israel. It was Israel

The Epic of Difficult Choices

that started the hostilities by launching violent air raids that destroyed the Egyptian military airports, leaving the troops in the Sinai helpless, at the mercy of Israeli air raids. The Syrian forces advancing on Safad were trying their best to hold their positions on the Golan Heights, whilst the Syrian government was getting ready to move to Aleppo “to prevent Israel from toppling the regime”. In the French press “the young army of David was winning unprecedented historical battles,” as reported by the Figaro. Celebrations were in the streets and on television with the participation of singers, actors, and politicians, Juliette Greco, Yves Montand, Simone Signoret, Valery Giscard d’Estaing, and even Francois Mitterand. The only exception to this jubilation was the General Charles de Gaulle and his party who kept their distance, as the British reporter Robert Fisk said. Later, a few months after this fateful date, General de Gaulle launched his famous warning that remained engraved as a prophecy in history: “Israel is organizing an occupation within the territories it has taken that comes with oppression, repression, expulsions, and it is facing a resistance that Israel qualifies as terrorism.” On June 6th of that year, dawn broke on a devastated world. A whole universe had collapsed around Kamel and his friends who found themselves shamed and humiliated in the freezing cold of that foreign country.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

When Angels Appear “Where were you when the war broke out?” This was the first question posed among the students of Tours when they met outside the classrooms. No one cared to hear the answer. Only one bitter fact obsessed them: “We were beaten.” Three Arab armies defeated, routed, or destroyed. No one wished to go into detail. They say that the devil is in the details. The headlines were enough to open the gates of hell. They were lost in the dark night of defeat, desperately trying to find a ray of light… and they found it. Frantz Fanon said about the wretched of the earth that when they touch the bottom of despair, they need angels to whisper compliments, restore their confidence, and give them hope. The defeat of June 1967 threw the Arabs, all Arabs, into the depths of a bottomless abyss of despair. Abdel Nasser was the magic talisman they brandished in the face of the terrifying monsters of this earth to strike them down. “Three countries rallied against us in 1956: the British Empire with all its might, France, and Israel,” recalls Kamel. “But with Abdel Nasser, we came out victorious. Defeated militarily, we came out triumphant politically. With him we fought the wars of ‘positive neutrality’ of which he was the undisputed hero.

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We were a force to be reckoned with. We formed a block of some ten countries stretching from Asia through Africa to Latin America. We broke the monopoly of arms, and the question of the liberation of Palestine was only a matter of time. In our eyes and in the eyes of the world, we had regained a prestige that we had not known since the fall of Andalusia. But as Nietzsche says, ‘It is not the height that is frightening, but the fall.’ For us, it was a fall in six days, a shattering fall. ‘How could we have been so naïve?” The Arab students of France avoided gathering together, fearing that their eyes would meet and show the depth of their despair. The attitude of the others was also painful, whether that of friends who showed pity and compassion, or that of enemies who praised the heroism of Israeli soldiers. All this rubbed salt into the wound. The students had become nothing more than salt islands, tossed around by the waves and scattered by the winds. That’s when the angels came to the rescue. Some had always been here and they began discovering them, and others may have been the fruit of their imagination. In the autumn of the same year of the Arab defeat, the armed revolution triumphed in Aden and expelled the British forces, sparking the rebellion in nearby Dhofar(1) and spreading its objectives for the liberation of the occupied Arab Gulf. A new Vietnam was coming to light, starting to spread in the immediate proximity of the oil sources, the oil that would be the grave of the hostile West. That was the (1) Governorate south of the Sultanate of Oman, historically opposed to the power of the Sultan.

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rustling of wings of small angels. The archangel spoke through the barrel of the Palestinian gun and spread its wings over the Arab nations. The battle of Karameh(1)was just the beginning of a popular liberation war, of which the only possible outcome was final victory. The sky over their heads was bustling with angels. The Viet Congs were fighting a merciless war in Vietnam; Castroâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cuba had kicked out the dictator Batista and praised Che Guevara to the skies. Che, they swore only by his name now. Mao Tse Tung also came to their rescue, flying from the steppes of China on his yellow dragon. Not to forget Kim Il-Sung, so dear to the heart of forty million Koreans. And also the mighty USSR before it fell into revisionism. Kamel was now a partisan of the radical left. From nationalist, he had become internationalist. The individual beacons of the capitals of the Arab liberation, from Cairo to Baghdad, passing by Damascus, had suddenly gone out, overshadowed by a unified armed struggle, revolutionary pits, organized revolutionary violence that paved the way for the liberation of the Arab world. These were the headlines. Details of the order of the day were coming out of the Jordan River valley, from the Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon, their (1) The battle of Karameh refers to the attack by the Israeli army on the village of Karameh in Jordan that housed Fatah fighters. Fierce fighting broke out between the Israelis on one side, and Fatah fighters and the Arab Legion on the other. Israeli forces eventually took the village, but at the price of significant losses on both sides. And Fatah emerged strengthened.

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echoes reaching the caves of Dhofar and the shores of the Arabian Sea. Kamel committed himself to the liberation wars through the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine. In Tours, he resumed his student militancy that he had started the previous year with his friends in Grenoble, but with one big difference. In Tours, there were 400 Lebanese students, mostly in medicine, a great number of them from North Lebanon. There were also hundreds of Arab students, Iraqis and Kuwaitis who would later become experienced executives and politicians. Among his old companions in Tours were Doctor Talib al-Baghdadi, Doctor Wathab al-Saadi, Doctor Adil Abd al-Mahdi who later became vice-president of Iraq and who was studying in Paris but often came to Tours and Doctor Khalid alWasmi who was elected many times to the Kuwaiti Parliament. On the organizational scene, Kamel was very active in two groups, that of the Lebanese students, and that of the Arab students. On the first front, he was elected secretary general of the Lebanese Students League in Tours. In fact, that position was his from the very beginning, having won the great majority of students’ votes, especially that of the leftists, who composed the largest bloc. On the second front, they founded the Arab Students Union of Tours. The coordination between the League and the Union was a constant source of concern for him within the scope of his activities, which sawthe right wing faction accuse him of “forcing the League into Arab causes, be it Palestine, Yemen, Oman, or Algeria”. This faction considered 60

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these causes to be “none of our concern”, while he himself was firmly convinced of the opposite. This conviction pushed him to engage in the student rebellion of May 1968 as it broke out at the University of Nanterre, spurred by Daniel Cohn-Bendit, a student at the time. Kamel took part in many meetings and seminars within the framework of a student movement that was growingin size and gaining in strength. The activities of the League were not limited to Tours. Kamel endeavored to widen its base by constantly moving among the different Lebanese students’ leagues in various French cities. His goal was to form a general union of Lebanese students in France. This objective was reached when, at the end of 1968, they were invited to a meeting in Clermont-Ferrand that included all Lebanese leagues in France, representing some seven thousand students. The purpose of this meeting was to create the General Union of the Lebanese Students in France (GULSF) that Kamel had been hoping for. Kamel recalls: “That day we left Tours in a Peugeot belonging to Khalid el-Wasmi, but it was Albert Jokhdar who used it the most. The members of the delegation were friends- Albert Jokhdar, Hassan Mneimneh who later became the Minister of Education and Higher Education in Lebanon, Mustafa Bakri, Ghazi Charara, Elias el-Hajj, and I. We were crammed tighter than sardines in the car, while the trunk was filled with posters and pictures of the Palestinian revolution. We had not forgotten to bring along with us our essential work tool

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for evening entertainment, the derbakke(1). None of us looked like the stark activist, especially on such a festive occasion. That meeting would be full of surprises. First, my friend Ali Awada from the Paris league informed me that he was not going to run as secretary general of the GULSF, so we presented our candidacy. The competition was fierce between us and the Lyon league, represented by Othman el-Hojja. To our great surprise, our victory was announced and I found myself secretary general of the GULSF. It was a general jubilation, hugging and kissing even with our competitors. With the elections concluded, we got the derbakke out and celebrated and danced dabke until dawn.” On the 28th of December of that same year, a seism shook Lebanon; the Israeli air force bombarded Beirut International Airport, destroying 13 civilian aircrafts on the ground. The young students immediately mobilized themselves. Kamel sent a telegram in the Union’s name to the president of the republic, General Charles de Gaulle, asking him to take a firm stand against this “Israeli aggression”. The unanimous condemnation of the attack by the international community drove the General to declare an embargo on arms sales to Israel. Then, the Union decided to occupy the Lebanese Embassy for 24 hours in protest to the position of the Lebanese Government who had failed to react to the Israeli aggression. At that time, the Lebanese Ambassador to France was Philippe (1) Traditional Arabic drum.

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Takla, a brilliant diplomat, aided by two advisors, Rachid Fakhoury and Georges Dahdah. This decision could not be executed without prior coordination with the other leagues, especially the one in Paris where the embassy was located. They left Tours with a group of 22 students from Bordeaux led by Georges Kossaifi. Once in Paris, they headed to the students’ Hall of Residence where they met with the league’s board and with leadersfrom the communist party, Ibrahim el-Hajj, Nicolas Fares, and Ali Awada. This “war council” brought together around 70 students, most of whom did not know the results of the Clermont-Ferrand elections. The comrades from Paris considered it their responsibility to preside the discussion on the occupation of the Lebanese embassy. When it appeared that those from Tourswere opposed to this, Kamel interfered, tactfully explaining the hierarchical procedure to needed to be respected, then took things into his own hands. He announced that the general secretariat has decided to occupy the embassy, inviting those who were in favor to join. He said that this protest would only last 24 hours, and that they would decide the next move after that. They arrived to the building of the embassy and found the main gate wide open. Carried by an irrepressible momentum, they felt they had to storm the building. So they closed the gate and started climbing over it one after the other and jumping down to the other side, in a first field training on how to stand

The Epic of Difficult Choices

up to government. Najib Issa, former Secretary General of the Tours league, took the lead. They met no resistance inside the embassy, in fact, quite the contrary. A guard took them to a hall and left them for a few minutes before coming back to announce that the ambassador, Philippe Takla, would be delighted to meet “the leaders of the occupation movement”. They were taken to his office on the first floor. The ambassador greeted them warmly, shaking their hands one by one. A friendly conversation started, and they told him that they were carrying a protest letter addressed to the Lebanese Government, in which they demanded a plan of defense against the Israeli aggressions. The ambassador expressed his support to their initiative and used all his diplomatic means to convince them to give him the letter so could send it to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs himself and then quietlyleave the premises.. “I will not say you left. I will announce to the media that you have occupied the embassy for 24 hours. Isn’t that what you want?” Kamel gave Albert Jokhdar a searching look, trying to guess his opinion. He felt that his friend was restless and that he was about to take over the ambassador’s office. “Can we confer together for a few minutes in a separate room?” asked Kamel. The ambassador approved the request. In fact, they did not need to confer.They knew very well what they wanted- more gates to knock down and more walls to climb. Kamel told the guys an anecdote about a French woman 64

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who meets an Arab and asks him “I am Parisian. And you?” And he replies: “I have not yet decided. As such, I prefer to settle on the threshold of the city suburbs.” They laughed and went to tell the ambassador they had decided to go ahead and occupy the embassy for 24 hours. “The embassy is the home of all Lebanese, and no one damages his own home, be assured,” said Kamel. The ambassador answered “Tomorrow, one of you will be the ambassador here. Safeguard the embassy, it belongs to you.” He had opted for a firm, conciliatory and… responsible position. The media came rushing in and the news about the occupation of the embassy was all over the radio. The students exploited this media coverage to the maximum. They chose Talal Jalloul, who was fluent in English, to give an interview to an American television channel, presenting himself as a Jew from Lebanon. Talal seized the opportunity to call the world to support the creation of a democratic state in Palestine where Jews, Christians, and Muslims would live in peace. The interview was a total success, to the point where they regretted that Talal was not really a Jew. At dinner time, the embassy personnel brought them a large variety of sandwiches, even though the students had not yet decided whether they wanted to couple their sit in with a hunger strikeor not. A little later though, Kamel found Nazih Awada and Mohammad Berjaoui at the bottom of the stairs, voraciously gulping the sandwiches. He shouted up to the 65

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others: “No hunger strike, hurry up, the sandwiches are under attack.” The advisors Fakhoury and Dahdah spent the night with the protestors. They looked after them, making them comfortable and checking they didn´t need anything. However,this deprived the students from the satisfaction of having accomplished an act of protest. They found themselves in the uncomfortable position of being hosted rather than being an occupying force of the building. The next morning they met again with the Ambassador who told them that he had sent their letter to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and had informed the French authorities that their action was peaceful. This second initiative was laudable because Raymond Marcellin, the French Minister of Interior at the time, had an uncompromising attitude towards students’ uprisings that had started that same year and transformed the French political scene. The experience of Tours gave the young Union a strong impulse and the green light for daring political actions. In Marseilles for example, Jamil Khoury tagged the slogan “Palestine will overcome” on a train. The various sections of the Union organized a series of seminars to denounce the reality of the racist system instated in Palestine. Devoted and committed activists emerged, such as Riad Khalifeh, Fouad Farhat, and Mohamad Yassine in Marseilles, Elie Kareh, Abdel Hamid Machaka, Mohammed Chehabeddin, Nadim Zaylah, and Zouheir and Ziad Naja in Toulouse, Ali Suleiman and Anis 66

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Makki in Nantes, Mahmoud Nasereddin, Ibrahim Kobeissi, Riad Samad, Samir Sabbagh, Ibrahim Beydoun, Georges Harfouche, and Hanna Mourad in Grenoble, Nayef Saade, Habib Achkar, Najib Issa, Ali Awada, Elham Kallab, Khalil Chmail, Ghassan Fawwaz and Aleco Bayda in Paris. There were many others, but Kamel insisted on mentioning the names of these comrades in particular, because most of them adhered to the ideology of the “new left”, radically opposed to the right and positioned at the left of the Soviet Communist Party that they tagged as revisionist. These leaders of the student movement covered the spectrum of religions and faith. This was particularly significant at a time when dark clouds had started accumulating over Lebanon after the Israeli raid on Beirut airport, dividing its citizens with a confessional fracture line between partisans and opponents of the Palestinian cause. These active political cadres in France were the beginning of a new political system in Lebanon, free from denominational diktat. Secularism was proclaimed openly, and they revolted against the order established in the country. The student activists were inspired by the great events that marked the era, mostly the Long Walk to power of Mao Tse Tung. Kamel says: “We were as close to make our ideals triumph as we were to China.” But this he would discover much later. The General Union of Lebanese Students in France (GULSF) was a broad umbrella brewing various political currents. For the sake of preserving “revolutionary purity”, it was decided to create the Association of Progressive Students 67

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of Tours, intended to constitute the “revolutionary pit” that would drive the student actions and safeguard them from any compromise. This association included in its ranks a few great future leaders of the Central Command of the Iraqi Communist Party, such as Talib al-Baghdadi and Wathab al-Saadi, who had rebelled against a party accused of revisionism. Among its leaders was also the Kuwaiti Khalid al-Wasmi from the Arab Nationalist Movement. It was a young and dynamic association, whose action was also peppered with anecdotal incidents. Kamel remembers one particular episode. “During one of our visits to Paris, Adil Abd al-Mahdi, currently Vice President in Iraq and candidate to the position of Prime Minister in the Islamic Supreme Council of Iraq, invited us to his room. He spoke English fluently, but had difficulties carrying a conversation in French. He had an American girlfriend who stayed with him sometimes. He claimed that he had a very specific talent: snoring. He snored in every key and in every register, so much so that once, his American girlfriend decided to tape-record his nocturnal disturbance. In the morning, she made me listen to the tape. It was a really terrifying noise, reminiscent of the roaring of a lion in the jungle. Her verdict fell like a cleaver, ‘I do not think we can live together in one room, you, me, and your snoring. I’ll go stay in a hotel’. Adil laughed wholeheartedly as she was playing the recording to us. ‘I cannot blame her,’ he said. ‘When I go to the United States, I’ll live next to the White House. If

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we cannot get them by persuasion, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll get them by snoring.â&#x20AC;&#x2122; I think he was right, or almost. The Union also broadened its activities outside France. The Union of Arab Students in the UK invited Kamel to take part in a sizeable congress in support of the Palestinian cause. Speakers at the congress included Hani al-Hassan of the Fatah movement, Mohammad Kechli of the Arab Nationalist Movement, Adnan Bader of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, as well as Kamel, on behalf of the General Union of Lebanese Students in France (GULSF) and the Association of Progressive Arab Students. On the sidelines of the conference, he met a number of Arab students living in England, including Fawwaz Traboulsi, who later became a good friend. It was he who encouraged Kamel to join the armed rebellion in Dhofar and to establish a medical network in the rebel-held province where the Liberation Front had expanded its objectives to become the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Occupied Arab Gulf.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Intelligence Services and Knights from the Middle Ages The rebellion of May Â´68 ignited France and pushed the security services to consider any student a suspect until proven otherwise. Lebanese students, and more generally Arab students, found themselves in the security forcesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; line of sight, especially if they were thought to have any links with National Union of Students of France and the movements of French leftists. They knew they were infiltrated and that their activities and meetings within the General Union of Lebanese students in France (GULSF) and their links with student movements in France were the subject of regular reports. One day, Kamel was summoned by an official of the General Intelligence Directorate, a service answerable to the Ministry of Interior. The building was at a fifteen minute walk. Once there, Kamel spoke to a plainclothed agent who accompanied him to the office of the person in charge on the ground floor. The man welcomed him warmly, rising from his chair and cordially shaking his hand. He intently thanked him for answering his invitation and invited him to take a seat. Kamel glanced around the room: two pictures of Marx and Mao Tse Tung adorned

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the walls, and a large poster of Che Guevara was hanging behind the desk. The man told him that he had long wanted to meet him in person. After a short conversation on Lebanon, he began to ask more specific questions about the activities of the Union. “It seems that you are very interested in politics, he said, and I do not blame you. You have a small country, but big problems, don’t you think?” “Certainly,” replied Kamel in a tone of banter, “but most of these problems have been passed down to us by the French colonization.” “This is why our universities open their doors to you,” replied the man, laughing, “to compensate you, but only if you leave your problems outside.” “There, he finally gets to the heart of the matter,” thought Kamel. The man went on: “Don’t you think that the close relations you have with the National Union of Students of France and some French organizations’” - he made sure not to label them leftists –“may involve you in problems you could do without?” He was making an obvious effort to be courteous and friendly, believing himself to be getting his message across with questions that sounded innocent. Kamel did the same. Pointing to the pictures on the walls, he asked: “Do you think they would agree with you?” The conversation lasted about thirty minutes, during which Kamel insisted on clarifying that “Within the Union, we comply with French law. We informed the Ministry of Interior of the election results and we gave them the list of elected candidates. As for our political actions, they are related to causes concerning our region, and

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we make sure not to meddle in French domestic affairs.” The man interrupted him. “But you wave Palestinian flags in your demonstrations.” “The French government announced through the voice of General De Gaulle that it supports the legitimate rights of the Palestinian people, and we can only support such a stance,” answered Kamel. They laughed at the turn the conversation was taking, then the official offered to go for a coffee together in the bistro around the corner. Kamel excused himself, giving a pretext of having an important meeting that he had to get to and stood up to leave. The man then opened a drawer in his desk and took out a VIP card in the name of Kamel Assaad Mohanna. Handing it to him he said: “Please consider this a personal gift. It can help you to reserve a room in a hotel or help you out if need be.” Kamel apologized as politely as he could about not being able to accept this gift and left with the impression of having performed a role in a stage play. So Marx, Mao, Lenin, and Che had fallen very low! Their mission was now limited to recruiting informants for the French police. It seemed that with the student revolt, the police had completely lost their mind. The summons came one after the other, and each time, Kamel would willingly report to the security services. Whichever official had summoned him would ask him questions that he would answer, and they were on even ground: the man was trying to deduct some information from the answers, while Kamel was trying to guess from the questions the content of the last informants’ report. 72

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It was a game where Kamel used all the tricks from his homelandin facing the authorities, like Feyrouz(1) did in her plays. It must be said that the informants were not always secret; some were well known and their game was obvious. In the election of the League of Tours, the left list included candidates from all segments and faiths of the Lebanese population, from north to south, from cities to the countryside, while the right list was limited to Christians, among whom at least one candidate displayed openly, even proudly, his collaboration with the French intelligence services. This young man, a native of the town of Terbol in the province of the Bekaa, married to a French girl, proudly claimed that no detail escaped the intelligence services, either on the activities of the Union or the conversations that were carried on between its members in coffee shops or even in their places of residence. He bluntly said that â&#x20AC;&#x153;Big Brotherâ&#x20AC;?, of which he was an agent, constantly had its eyes fixed on them. If they mocked him at first, they decided later, with the rise of political tension and the intensification of their action, to teach him a lesson he would never forget. The rival list had split after the elections, giving birth to a Lebanese Studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Club which included the mole, as well as a network whose primary mission was to spy on the activists of the League. One day, while the Club members gathered at the University residence, Kamel decided to go there with a group of friends from the Union in order to cross swords with them once (1) Feyrouz is a Lebanese singer considered as an icon of patriotic and revolutionary songs and plays in the Arab world.

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and for all. They were fifteen while the Club members were twenty five. They made a well-thought out entry, seven on the right, seven on the left, and Kamel in the middle. On seeing them appear, a complete silence reigned the room. Kamel said calmly but firmly “I ask you to listen carefully to what I have to say. We did not come to defy you, but to warn you: we know for certain that some of you report oneven the smallest of our movements and activities to the French Secret Service, and sometime falsify the truth in order to compromise us. If anything happens to any one of us, we will hold you responsible, and we will deal with you differently.” They remained dumbfounded for a moment, then Elie Bader said: “You come in, interrupting us in the middle of our meeting, and you claim that you are not defying us. However, this is defiance. I order you to leave, otherwise…” “Listen Elie,” said Kamel, “we are civilized students, and we certainly do not want to start a fist fight that will send us all to the police station, but if you take it as defiance, then so be it! I suggest we all meet on the University ring to settle our differenceswith sportsman’s spirit.” The proposal was met with enthusiasm by the Club members who relied on Elie. It is true that he practiced karate, but he was smaller than Kamel who had trained in boxing and wrestling back in Lebanon, and was still doing so in France. The next day, Joseph Rachkidi, who later became a known pediatrician in North Lebanon and director of the Public Hospital of Halba, invited them to his dorm room. Kamel went with Albert Jokhdar. Joseph asked them to settle things amicably, without resorting to a fistfight. “We accept,” said Albert, “on the condition that Elie publicly apologizes to 74

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us. He has humiliated us all.” “I’ll get back to you in one hour,” said Joseph. An hour went by without an answer. Elie Mansour (a cardiologist from Ras Baalbeck) also tried to dissuade them, but without giving guarantees for an apology. The fateful hour came, and like a knight from the Middle Ages who threw his gauntlet at his opponent, Kamel got in his 2 CV with Albert Jokhdar, Hassan Mneimneh, and Mounzer el-Merehbi followed by Sobhi Hamza, Nazih Awada and Kamel Falha in a second car. When they arrived, they found Elie surrounded by Joseph Rachkidi, Elie Mansour, Gaby Faraj, Fares Khoury, and Jihad Abi-Aad (who was later killed in Lebanon). The contenders, in sports attire, greeted each other and entered the ring. Everything was in place for a merciless fight; the only thing missing was the sound of the bell and the voice of the referee presenting the two rivals. Kamel remembered the famous sentence from the novel of Abu Zayd el-Hilali(1): “The knights faced each other, they looked like two mountains.” The opponents stepped forward to shake hands before the fight and then something incredible happened. Elie leaped forth and hugged Kamel who, for an instant, was disconcerted, then, in a spontaneous impetus, hugged him back warmly. The scene was hailed by the enthusiastic applause of all those present. Kamel considered hugs as valid excuses even among men. (1) Abu Zayd Ibn Rizq Al-Hilali was an 11th-century Arab leader and hero of the ‘Amirid tribe of Banu Hilal. On the orders of the Ismaili Fatimid caliph, Abu Zayd moved his tribe to Tunisia via Egypt to punish the Zirids for adopting Sunniism.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

But this was only an episode in a long series of upcoming confrontations and clashes that did not always abide by the honor code of chivalry. This is because youth in its seething revolt, sometimes tries to take shortcuts on history. Saad Khoury, son of a former Saida deputy and a student in Tours, came one day to complain about the League, claiming that some of its members had torn a flyer that Club members had posted on the bulletin board in front of the University restaurant. Hilal Bitar broke the bottom of a Pepsi bottle and rose to face him, defying him with his impressive stature. Kamel asked calmly if he was looking for trouble, then he took the bottle from his hand, threw it into the waste basket, and said that fights were not what they were looking for. But it must be said that this wisdom often deserted Kamel when he got carried away in the heat of the moment. One day he was having lunch at the university restaurant with Jihad Abi-Aad who asked him: “Why do you refuse to recognize the Club? It is, after all, a Lebanese organism.” “The elections have settled the matter,” answered Kamel. “The students have chosen the League and not the Club. It would be best to dissolve it because it creates a distraction to the student’s movement.” “We are neither interested by the League nor the Union. The Club exists, it is a reality, and you should face the fact and recognize it.” At these words, Kamel’s blood rose. His code of honor and chivalrous spirit disappeared. He seized the knife from the table and grabbed Jihad by the neck shouting: “No one on earth can force me to recognize your 76

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dissidence, get that through your thick skull or else…” Jihad almost chocked on the food he was trying to swallow. Kamel’s anger immediately subsided, he threw the knife away and came to Jihad´s aide, handing him a glass of water that he drank, coughing with each sip. Kamel apologized for his turn in temper. He was annoyed at himself for losing it, because his motto had always been: “No one can provoke me whenever he pleases.” He should be perfectly able to control his anger and to find a minimum of common ground of understanding with his adversaries. He considered anger a sign of weakness. In any case, he would pay dearly the price of that incident. Jihad went around saying that Kamel wanted to cut his throat, which obliged Kamel, every time they were together in a meeting, to loudly and clearly say: “I apologize, Jihad, and I hope you forgive me.” It was a lesson in humility as in the books of Ghandi. This so called violence among the Lebanese seemed inoffensive compared to the incidents among Iraqi friends. Many Iraqi students were studying in Tours, and their political affiliations spanned from the Baath party in power to the Revisionist Communist Party and the Central Command Communist Party. The later, favoring the Maoist line, was politically closest to Kamel. Even if it seemed that their exchanges usually remained within rational dialogue, especially that they were, for the majority, preparing doctoral theses or pursuing higher studies, they still sometimes lost their cool. Kamel once witnessed a brawl between them. That day, he was

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sitting in CafĂŠ de lâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Univers. On the opposite sidewalk, a group of young Iraqis was standing, talking. Suddenly, the tone rose, and Chaker, a tall chubby young man, took off his leather jacket and stood in a fighting position, ready to attack. Kamel jumped from his chair and ran to get between them, trying to settle their differences before things got out of hand. They were all his friends and fellows and he had a certain influence on them, at least, that was what he thought. But he could not compete with the irrepressible atavism that had seized Chaker. Preferring to use physical arguments, the giant grasped a tree with a trunk of more than half a meter in diameter and three meters in length, pulled it out, turned to his opponents, and charged them. They scattered, running in the opposite direction like frightened rabbits and did not stop until they heard the trunk fall heavily on the pavement. And as was usual with the Iraqi brothers, they returned the next day to the cafĂŠ and every one contributed to paying for the snatched tree, then resumed their animated discussions like nothing had ever happened.

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Sports ... and the Balance of Terror Kamel has always remained perplexed by physical violence. “A crocodile’s strength resides in its jaws and that of the bull, in its horns. As for me, I am neither one nor the other,” he likes to repeat. Nevertheless, this did not stop him from seeking to build his physical strength. Unable to find a sports club in Khiyam in his childhood, he entertained himself by training with his cousin, a big guy who wore size twelve shoes before he was even fourteen. All the children in village feared his cousin, and Kamel fully exploited this reverential awe that was provoked in children older and stronger than him. This is how Kamel got to rule in the dirt alleys where the law of the strongest prevailed. His cousin taught him how to hit a stronger opponent in a certain sensitive area of the body,to make his challenger bend and surrender. One day while training, his cousin strongly squeezed Kamel’s head on his chest, almost choking him. In an ultimate effort, Kamel hit his cousin on that sensitive part, making him scream with pain. Furious, his cousin bit his ear, and would have torn it right off, if Kamel hadn’t screamed so loud the whole village heard him. It was in fact because of these physical and vocal capacities that his uncle, who owned 79

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a bicycle rental shop, hired him to hunt down the children who were late returning their rented bikes on time. At fifteen, this primitive and impulsive violence turned into a passion for sports. When he arrived to Saida, he subscribed to a bodybuilding club. For three years, he never missed a day of training. He made it a point, winter and summer, to wear clothes that would show off his muscles. He used his muscles no more than an Omani used the dagger hanging round his waist. Those bulging muscles were, in the eyes of the villager lurking in him, a means of dissuasion, following the same principle as the balance of terror. He displayed his muscles precisely so that he did not have to use them, which was a custom in many villages. On important occasions, the elderly of Khiyam displayed all the weapons they owned, sometimes coming out surrounded by their children or brothers armed to the teeth, exhibiting swords and hunting rifles. Those customs had become a sort of code in the face of the feudal lords and their henchmen. Naturally, once their mission ofdissuasionwas accomplished, they returned the weapons to their hiding places, fearing should they be seized during a house search. It is perhaps these customs that explain the jubilation that seized the Bekaa when Imam Moussa Sadr launched his famous quote, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Weapons are a manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s pride.â&#x20AC;? Masses of his partisans owned a strategic stock pile of these weapons, the possession of which was deeply rooted in the cultural heritage of the villages, and had been impatiently waiting for the right moment to bring them out in broad daylight. 80

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When Kamel then moved to Beirut, he joined a boxing club. Fearing that displaying his muscles may not be enough, he made sure his classmates knew that boxing had been his favorite hobby since childhood. This reputation helped him avoid a lot of the trouble that many village boys often encountered in the hostile environments of big cities. And Kamel’s reputation grew greater when one day a gang leader tried to ridicule him in front of his gang mates. Kamel walked out of the school to meet the gang “leader”. He was not really scared, but he was tense. He did not wish to get in trouble with the school’s administration, and even less with the police. “I am capable of breaking his nose with one blow, but I will not do it; once blood is spilled, no one can predict the consequences,” he thought. He walked up to the boy and looked him in the eyes, and then suddenly, he punched him in the stomach. His fist sank into his saggy belly like it would into a sponge. With bulging eyes, the boy bent forward squirming and sighing with pain. Kamel stepped back, his fists tight, ready for anything. He expected the gang to charge him, but they all froze, stunned. He recalls: “Taking advantage of their surprise, I calmly walked away without looking behind me. But I stayed on my guard, fearing they might all attack me from behind. The alley to the main road was about ten meters long, but it seemed kilometers. Was he alright? I had not actually hit him; I had merely pushed my fist in his stomach. Were they going to call an ambulance? This idea terrified me. I looked back and 81

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saw him standing. He was the tallest of them all. A wave of relief swept over me. I knew one can knock out an opponent and send him to the ground, and then the referee counts to ten and proclaims the winner. My opponent had not fallen. Had he done so, the police might have come, the school administration might have rushed out, and I would have lost the game. But instead he stayed on his feet. That day I learned, contrary to what they had taught me in boxing and to what I had seen in matches, that you can win by KO even if the opponent remains standing. After this incident, I promised myself to show my adversary mercy twice, and not use my fists unless he provokes me a third time.” After all the stories that Kamel’s brothers and his friends had told him about France, he imagined the country similar to a boxing ring, a country where violence could break out at any time day or night. So, the first thing he did when he arrived there was to register in a boxing club. Eight months after he started training, his coach organized a competition between the members of the club and divided them in teams. Kamel found himself against two older members of the club, one of whom had been training there for three years. Kamel knocked them out one after the other. The coach was infuriated. He had not expected to see this newcomer beat guys in which he had invested so much time and effort training. For revenge, he suggested that Kamel fight with a boxer they called “the lightning”. As its name suggested, that machine of a man distributed 82

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extremely fast blows, left and right. Kamel wanted to refuse, but once again, his villager’s instinct prevailed. “If you refuse, it would mean you are scared, and this fear would follow you wherever you go, on the ring or elsewhere. If your friends or your foes find out that you were afraid even once, they would think that they can always scare you. Fear is worse than defeat because it eats you up from within.” The “lighting” delivered him blow after blow. Kamel was in a pitiful state, his nose bleeding, his face swollen, his lips split open… But he decided to resist until the end of the third round. When, at the end of the third round, the coach announced the end of the match, Kamel’s eye was on fire from a direct hit he had received. Despite all that, on his way back to his room that night, he was at peace with himself. “That machine did not break my will. I resisted to the end as I had promised myself,” he said. “When I looked in the mirror though, I was terrified. My face was all bruised, covered with wounds, and my left eye was all bloody.” He spent the night putting ice on his face to ease the pain. In the morning, he went to see a friend who was specializing in ophthalmology who did not believe that his wounds were the result of a friendly boxing match. He gave Kamel ointments and eye drops. Kamel did not let any of his close friends see him in such a state. He remained cloistered in his room for two days, and then went out to be greeted with compliments from his friends. After that unfortunate incident, he dropped boxing and 83

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opted for karate. Contrary to what many think, karate is not a violent sport. It is closer to dancing than it is to fighting, which allowed Kamel to perfectly fit in the training class. He was not a good dancer, except for the dabke, but he had a lot of flexibility and agility, which greatly pleased his trainer. His training companion was his friend Wassim Jaber who had joined the club with him. They would meet in the gardens of the University compound to practice what they had learned, under the close supervision of their coach. The coach, a bald African, made it even harder by insisting they train barefoot on the gravel. At the time, Kamel did not understand the wisdom behind it, as he had only lived in places where he walked on asphalt or grass or in buildings with marble floors. He could not imagine himself facing an adversary in the rocky forests of Khiyam. And, as he says: “I would never have thought of confronting the Israeli army with karate.” He trained in karate for three years. He would have continued for much longer, had he not had the strange idea to challenge his coach. One day during training, he suddenly had a suggestion. “Why don’t we drop this game of master and disciple? I am not saying that I can beat you, but we might come out even.” The coach burst out laughing, spread his arms wide, and said: “Perfect! Let’s try.” Kamel walked up to him and without thinking, put a leg behind his ankle, and tumbled him to the ground, knocking his head on a stone. The rest of the story remains confused in Kamel’s mind. It was as if the whole 84

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African continent woke up in this mass of muscles. He stood up, charged Kamel, and delivered him a formidable head-butt on the chest. Then, he grabbed him from behind and beat him on the spine with his fist. Kamel fell to the ground, but the trainer, far from calming down, started kicking him in the back like an animal in fury. That was no longer karate, but an unleashed brutal force obeying only the law of the jungle. He would have massacred him if Kamel’s friends hadn’t interfered. This episode tolled the final bells for his experience with that coach and with karate in general. “I know that the price of my training was very high, but I have no regrets. I had achieved what I had been looking for in karate: the balancebetweenfear and the force of dissuasion. I became more self-confident, and this confidence gave me inner peace and a lot of self-control. Provocation could not get to me anymore. I realized that blows, however strong they may be, could never replace words; that fists and feet could not overshadow spirit and reason, and that use of muscles is the worst solution ever.”

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Brigitte and the Likes of Her They say what does not kill us makes us stronger. However, Brigitte was for Kamel “a bullet to the heart”, like the title of the movie he had seen in his youth at the Rivoli Cinema, in Canon Square back in the Lebanese capital. They had separated after a romantic idyll during the first year of university and each had gone to a different town. After that, Kamel had refused to get involved in any serious relationships. His new motto was: “I don’t want to get married, I don’t love you, I like you, that’s all.” His heart was still beating for Brigitte, but there was still enough space, albeit small, for flings.He and Brigitte had separated with the hope to meet again, but he did not feel guilty of treason for enjoying filling that tiny space. He needed to feel his heart beating, to feel adrenalin run through his veins. This same adrenalin, that since the mists of time, had given man the courage to track prey, the strength to confront wild animals and to defy nature…until he discovered the sweetness of love. In Tours, there were no caves, no forests swarming with wild animals, but parks and gardens to shelter lovers. The province of Touraine, of which Tours is the capital, was called “the garden of France”. Love bloomed in the shadow of its blossoming trees. 86

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Tours’s train station was the favorite place of young men looking for girls. They would go there, cast their nets, and wait patiently. Tours’ university taught all disciplines, but was particularly well known for its teaching of the French language, which attracted students from all countries, namely North America, wishing to learn the language of Molière. As soon as a girl got out of the train, young men would rush to offer their help, putting their linguistic capabilities at her service. Naturally, it was difficult to refuse services offered with such enthusiasm and altruism, and within a few days, or sometimes even a few hours, the ice was broken, often resulting, however, in quite the opposite outcome-with the French boy coming out with a good knowledge of the English language! Piccoli was no exception to this scheme of seduction. His motto: “I don’t want to get married, I don’t love you, but I like you, that’s all,” was efficient enough. It was in fact a call that girls could not resist answering, spontaneously taking on the challenge. Against all beliefs, the woman has carriedwithin her, since primitive times, an instinct of attack. Despite male chauvinism and the domination of man who, for centuries, has relegated women to the shadows, this offensive instinct hasbeen maintained, persisting in a latent form. Kamel’s behavior, while purely defensive, struck a sensitive chord with girls that made them attack. As for Kamel, he impatiently waited for such attacks. Nevertheless, he was getting tired of repeating this “theory” 87

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to justify the rule he had imposed on himself with girls.But the real difficulty lurched in the decision he had taken to part with Brigitte and to live separated, in different towns. Months went by and he was still puzzled by his decision. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Why did I do it? It is evident that to a certain extent that I made this decision because of my parents, especially my father, as well as for my future. Yet I was overwhelmed by a love that submerged me, and I could have remained kindled in its warmth. Why had I not done so? This question remained on my mind even when I moved to Tours and, after much thought, I realized that my real motive was a fear lurking deep in me since childhood, the fear of depending on someone, of losing my freedom and my independence;the same thoughtless fear has prevented me my whole life from joining a party or a political association. It was not the opportunity to associate with such parties that was lacking, and I always resisted the persistent and pressuring calls to join. In France, I was close to the political league of the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine and in Lebanon, to the Communist Action Organization, but I never joined either. I cooperated with the Democratic Front, but on a purely professional basis, and I remained fiercely independent, fearing that a decision contrary to my convictions be imposed on me. This independence also nurtured in me the spirit of initiative and adventurism. Regarding my actions, I only had myself to answer to and my only judge was my conscience. This made me free to take the risks I chose. It became apparent that

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this attachment to independence was not restricted to politics, but also applied to my emotional life. Any relation I had with a girl was, from the very beginning, marred with defiance, I always feared to lose my free will. That motto that I carried like an absolute law was not as much bait as it was the expression of a defense mechanism… to a certain point.” It was Christmas time. They decided that Kamel would spend Christmas Eve at Brigitte’s in Tourcoing with some friends. He took the train to Lille with his friend, Elias el-Hajj, from the village of Rmeich in South Lebanon on the Palestinian border. Elias had a cousin in Lille, Georges el-Hajj, who was studying at the local university there. They spent the night in his dorm room on campus. At the time, Kamel was receiving a monthly allowance of 400 francs from his father, which was to cover all his expenses. He could not afford the luxury of a hotel room. The next morning, while eating breakfast at the university cafeteria, a stunning girl walked in and sat at a table next to theirs. Kamel asked Georges if he knew her. “I have seen her, but I don’t know her. She is in another faculty,” answered Georges. “Let’s get acquainted then,” said Kamel. He walked up to the girl and introduced himself. “I am Evelyn,” she said, smiling. “It is Christmas Eve,” he said. “Where will you be spending it?” “On campus. I can’t go home this year, my parents went to spend the holidays in Italy.” “We are going to Tourcoing to celebrate with a friend. Would you like to come along? It’s going to be a family gathering.” he said. She burst 89

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out laughing, “But I don’t know you!” He called Georges and Elias and said: “That’s easy, let’s get acquainted. This is my friend Georges; he is a student at the University of Lille, just like you.” Once again, Piccoli had hit the bull’s eye. They had a girl to accompany them. The cherry on the cake was that Evelyne had a car, which saved them the troubles of a train and the fares of a taxi. They arrived to Tourcoing where Brigitte was waiting for them at the train station. They threw themselves in each other arms, and after kissing and hugging, they went to her house and met her father, the police officer, and her mother. Her father, a man in his fifties, was in civilian clothes, but his police cap was hanging on the coat peg on view for all. On seeing it, Kamel remembered the stories that the people of his village used to tell about General Dentz. Some even pretended to have met him more than once before the battle that led to the defeat of his army by the allied forces, including the troops of General de Gaulle. Despite the fact that General Dentz represented the Vichy government and its collaboration with Hitler, the people of Khiyam described him as “a man, a real one.” No one knew exactly what had earned him that description, but it was public knowledge that the Syrian Nationalist Party had something to do with it. The party had strong support in the nearby village of Marjeyoun, and its members considered Hitler as the best warrior in history after Alexander the Great, arguing that he 90

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had occupied the whole European continent including France. This imposed the “Tornado” emblem of the Syrian Nationalist party,that resembled the Nazi swastika,on all the streets and squares of the town including on official buildings. Some had even shaven the edges of their moustaches to look like Hitler. This was the ultimate act of provocation for the members of the Communist Party,which was also very popular in Marjeyoun and Khiyam. To get even, they decided to grow their moustaches thick like Stalin’s. The guns of World War II had long been silent, but the custom of the “moustache” remained, drawing through the village an imaginary front line, with the insensible hope that the outcome of the war be reversed. When Brigitte’s father heard the story he burst out laughing. “I was too young when the Nazis occupied Paris,” he said. “I joined the Resistance without hesitation. In the beginning, our actions were very limited. We would sneak into the villages by back streets to avoid the Nazi’s on the main streets and crossroads, and we would write on the walls ‘Free France.’ I remember that the villagers would switch off their lights when they saw us, to prevent the soldiers or the informants from catching us. This secret complicity gave us wings. Some started adding to our slogan, ‘Down with the traitorous Vichy Government.’ We knew perfectly well that if we were caught, we would end up a tattooed number in one of the many concentration camps spread all over Europe, and only providence, luck, or money would save us. Don’t think that 91

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you could not bribe a Nazi soldier. You could buy his silence with a simple hot meal, or sometimes even less, provided that his superior did not find out, or that the superior himselfgot a share. When the Vichy government came to power, the situation became very hard. Food shortages were pushing us to the edges of famine. There were less and less resistance fighters, and more and more informants. The officer in charge in the village, who was a relative, followed the policy of arresting large numbers of people, accusing them of collaboration with the enemy; the enemy being the government of Free France headed by General De Gaulle. Any pretext was good enough, like simply finding an American-made toothbrush in their bathroom. He submitted the people to absurd questioning. He would ask them with sarcasm, ‘You found this toothbrush in the packages dropped by a plane last week, right? We tracked it closely; it dropped American weapons, guns, and mines. But we did not expect the Americans to drop toothbrushes for the people.” He continued: “In reality, there were no planes or weapons dropping supplies. Tourcoing is in the North of France while the fighting was hundreds of kilometers away on the coast.” Kamel interrupted: “Is it true that you annihilated the collaborators after the end of the war?” “Some.” he answered. “We could not kill half the people of Tourcoing. Extrajudicial assassinations are another form of Nazism, even when they are executed by patriotic impulse. Otherwise what would the liberation of France mean? Freedom means justice before anything else.” 92

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That night, sitting near Brigitte in her home, with her father, an ex-militant, roasting chestnut in the stone fireplace, Kamel felt his defenses dropping. He took her slender fingers in his hand and whispered in her ear: â&#x20AC;&#x153;When we finish our studies, we will get married.â&#x20AC;?

The Epic of Difficult Choices

Persona Non Grata 1969 was an eventful year. On April 23rd, a demonstration was organized in Corniche el-Mazraa, Beirut, in support of the Palestinian resistance. Armed forces dispersed the demonstration. This cost several dead and wounded. Subsequent demonstrations were organized one after the other demanding the resignation of the government. At the time, the Minister of Internal Affairs was Adel Osseiran. In Paris, the heads of the Union, in coordination with all its sections, decided to occupy the Lebanese Embassy in Paris and the Consulate in Marseille for 24 hours as a sign of solidarity with the Palestinian cause, and to denounce the massacre of those 13 people. Kamel was aware that things would not be friendly this time especially since the initiative was against the very authorities who had ordered the “massacre”. He got word that the embassy was trying to find out the H hour in order to foil the occupation. Breaking their habit, the students did not meet at Café l’Univers. They had noticed several times that, when they met there, the owner would make a phone call and several Arab students, none of which the Union members knew, would come in and sit at tables close to theirs. The Union members 94

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were sure that these were police informants. So, in order to stay away from prying eyes they met at CafĂŠ Chanteclair. They subsequently concocted a plan, contacted a number of trusted friends in other sections of the organization, and agreed on the H hour; they would move at 8 AM the next morning. They met in front of the embassy gate, took the guard by surprise and occupied the building. They spoke calmly with the press and asked the ambassador to convey their message to the Lebanese government, which he did. With their intervention complete, they headed back to Tours. One night, there was a knock on Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s door. He never locked it with a key. The door opened, and a man walked in. He identified himself as an officer of the DST (Directorate for the Security of the Territory). He instructed Kamel to report to their office in the morning, warning him not to miss the appointment under any pretext and left. Kamel knew that he and other members of the Union were under surveillance. From time to time, the DST would summon students to inquire about their relations with the Union. His friend, Mohammed Chehabeddin, had told him that they would not grant him the French citizenship, even though he was married to a French girl, before he divulged the content of a letter he had received from Kamel. Kamel guessed that his summoning by the DST meant that he was now considered a threat to national security. As a safety measure, he called Albert Jokhdar and gave him instructions

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on the measures the Union should take, in the event he was arrested. The next morning, he reported to the DST. He was taken to an office where two investigators were waiting for him. They took turns interrogating him. One was taking notes while the other was recording his answers. After a while, it seemed to him that they were taking on the roles of “good cop, bad cop”. The first would politely ask him questions, nodding at his answers, while the second would question him aggressively, trying to provoke him. “They asked me my name, the names of my parents, my brothers and sisters, their jobs, their addresses. I told them jokingly: we also have four horses; I can give you their names.” The “bad cop” became even more sullen after this. Finally, they came to the point: “the good cop” asked him for the names of the students who had taken part in the occupation of the embassy. Kamel categorically refused to answer. “You have the names of all the elected leaders of the Union, and you know the section chiefs. We have given the complete lists to the Ministry of Interior. It is not my duty, as secretary general of the Union, to give you those names.” At these words, the “bad cop” became furious and said: “You know damn well that we have the means to obtain those names.” “Well, you won’t get them from me,” he answered. A detailed interrogation followed about his political opinions, his affiliation to political parties, his position concerning the Palestinian cause and the armed struggle. He answered: “I am a leftist; I don’t belong to any political party, and as an Arab, I consider the Palestinian

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cause to be that of a people looking by all means to retake their homeland, and the armed struggle is one such mean.” The interrogation lasted for over three hours, after which Kamel was sure that the security services were not going to let him go. However, what was waiting for him would go far beyond any scenario he could have ever imagined. Six weeks had gone by since his interrogation when a security officer came to the University in June and asked him to accompany him to the police chief’s office. It was the end-of-year exams and Kamel had a lot to do in preparation for his admission to the sixth year of medicine. He asked the officer: “Is it possible to delay this one day? I have an exam tomorrow morning.” “You may have an exam, but you won’t have the time.” Kamel did not understand this insinuation, and the officer did not offer any further explanation. Intrigued, Kamel accompanied him to the office of the chief of police. He was a corpulent man with a blotchy red face, the incarnation of Santa Claus. Without asking Kamel to sit, he said “Mr. Kamel, the Minister of Interior, Mr. Marcelin, has given instructions to deport you from France due to the danger you represent for the security of the country. You have 48 hours to leave the French territory.” Kamel looked the officer in the eye and saw that he was looking for the slightest reaction from him. He took a deep breath, thanked the chief of police and calmly left the office. He decided to walk back. He needed to think. The extradition, 97

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in the middle of the exams period, targeted him personally, and not as Secretary General of the Lebanese Students Union. They could have very well postponed their decision, giving him time to pass his exams. But instead, they were trying to humiliate him, as if their purpose were to expel him on a failure in the middle of his studies. He would then be set as an example and his fate would push the persons responsible in the Union to think twice before undertaking any political action. The message could also be addressed to the Arab students Unions and all other student organizations. Kamel was the first foreign student that the French government had decided to extradite, moreover, during the exam period. Furthermore, the authorities could not have taken such a decision without informing the embassy, or was it the embassy that had requested such action? All these questions rustled in his head with one conclusion. The extradition decision was a message in several directions, and the answer could only be on several fronts. The Union called for an emergency meeting of the Tours section. The meeting room transformed into an â&#x20AC;&#x153;operations centerâ&#x20AC;?. They defined no less than ten fronts of confrontation that would take place; fronts that should be activated simultaneously, in one go, for the answer to match the message. The first front was the categorical refusal of a decision that they considered arbitrary and the refusal of Kamel to voluntarily leave the French territory. They even went as far as imagining Kamel handcuffed and dragged outside the exam hall in front of photographersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; cameras. 98

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The second front consisted in mobilizing all the Unionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sections in France to organize sit-ins, send petitions and letters to the French authorities as well as to the Lebanese Embassy asking for the abrogation of the decision. On the third front, it was decided to contact the Arab ambassadors in Paris and to ask them to take steps with the Lebanese Embassy and the French government. Fourth, they would ask the National Union of French Students to embrace the cause of the Lebanese Students Union facing a decision that aimed at intimidating foreign students in France and isolating them from the studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; uprising movement as well as the left-wing organizations. Fifth, they agreed to widen their field of action to include French and left-wing intellectuals and writers, and ask them to send protest petitions. Sixth, they would coordinate their action with the Dean of the faculty of medicine in Tours given that he would bare part of the responsibility for the expulsion, during the exams period, of a student from his faculty. Seventh, they would mobilize the leaders of the studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; movement in Lebanon in order to put pressure on the French government to revoke the decision. This coordination would not be complicated due to the excellent relations the Union had with all these leaders. Eighth, they would mandate one or more lawyers among

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the best known and most influential to take on Kamel’s case, which in reality was a matter of liberties that could target foreigners as well as French. Ninth, they would contact parents and friends in Lebanon and ask them to urgently contact the Minister of Foreign Affairs and ask him to take any measure necessaryto help rescind this arbitrary decision. Finally, the tenth and last front was that of the media in France and Lebanon. A number of Union members immediately transmitted the news to Arab and French journalists. The next morning the news of the extradition of “The Secretary General of the Lebanese Students Union in France” was in the headlines of the An-Nahar, the first daily newspaper in Lebanon. Kamel feared the reaction of his father, a cardiac patient,on reading the news, but was reassured by tens of supporting phone calls. His brother Mohammad told him: “We are proud of you. Our father said that you have safeguarded the dignity of the country. He has contacted the Minister of Foreign Affairs and will see him today or tomorrow.” Although overwhelmed, busy preparing for the end-ofyear exams, the students were mobilized on all fronts and the result exceeded all expectations. In Tours and in the other sections of the Union, Lebanese, Arab, and French students groups organized sit-ins. Kamel met the dean of the faculty of medicine. Professor Desbuquois was irritated by this decision of extradition, taken without conferring 100

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with him or even informing him. He stated that the decision violated the principle of separation of powers and undermined the integrity of the university. He promised to do everything in his power to stop it, inviting him in the meantime to take his exams. In the afternoon of that day, a Lebanese friend in medical school told him he had heard a conversation between the dean and a French teacher in the hallway leading to the dean’s office. “The case of Kamel is neither academic nor professional, said the professor, it is a matter of security. You can hardly stand up for a Palestinian.” The general mood at that time was proIsrael, and the PLO did not yet enjoy the worldwide support it subsequently won. “Mr. Mohanna is a student at the faculty”, said the dean, “and it is my duty to protect him so that he can at least finish his exams. I will not allow the security services to interfere in faculty affairs. His case may set a precedent that could be repeated.” The dean summoned him that night and assured him that he could continue to prepare for his exams, saying that the expulsion was postponed for a week, the time for him to finish his year. Kamel leaped with joy, the Union had scored a partial victory. They now had to complete the victory by getting the decision annulled. The vice secretary general of the Union, Albert Jokhdar, who had gone to Paris to take further action called Kamel and told him that he had seen the Arab ambassadors, who had learned about the case from the press. They had pledged to convey to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, through the voice 101

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of the Ambassador of Algeria, a common stand, calling for the repeal of the expulsion decision. “In fact,” added Albert, “the Algerian Ambassador invites you to visit him when you can. Furthermore, Mr. Roland Dumas (who had not yet been appointed Minister of Foreign Affairs) has agreed to handle our file and will defend your case in court.” After the rain comes sun, says the proverb. Now the sun was shining again. The Union of Students of France had circulated a petition condemning the repression of freedoms of foreign students and their right to defend their causes and calling for the cancellation of the decision. This petition was signed, among others, by the philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre. The Lebanese Minister of Foreign Affairs informed Kamel’s father that he had sent a telegram to Ambassador Philippe Takla, instructing him to do everything in his power, as soon as possible, to cancel the decision. “Despite all the respect I had for ambassador Takla and his diplomatic tact,” explained Kamel, “I could not but think that such a decision could not have been taken without his prior knowledge, maybe even his suggestion in retaliation for the occupation of the embassy.” In Paris, Kamel met with the Algerian ambassador who welcomed him with open arms. “I informed the Ministry of Foreign Affairs about the Arab ambassadors’ stand and called ambassador Takla asking him to protect his countrymen.” The ambassador ended the meeting by offering Kamel a scholarship to continue his medical studies at the Faculty of Algiers. Kamel thanked him warmly and said: “The matter is not personal. 102

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If they succeed in intimidating us this time, they will do it every time. We have learned this from your revolution.” The ambassador replied, laughing: “Our revolution was an armed one and was annihilated; yours is a revolution of ideas. Nothing can stop it.” Six days had passed since the Union had begun its campaign, and Kamel had 24 hours to leave the French territory. The exams were over, but the demonstrations and protests continued. At night, the phone in his room rang. It was Georges Dahdah, advisor to the Lebanese Ambassador. “Congratulations Doctor Mohanna,” he said, “the French government has agreed to our request and the expulsion order has been canceled.” The next morning the local newspaper of Tours headlined: “Victory of the General Union of Lebanese Students over the French Ministry of Interior”. Kamel had never belonged to a political party or organization. The Union was, since its formation, the only “party” which he had adhered to and for which he had fought with all his might. That party was not one of a unique color or of a unique leader, ruling unchallenged. It was left-wing without being totalitarian. It was a common terrain, in the image of the Lebanese society in all its richness and its diversity, feeding on its plural and multiple social, cultural, and political roots. They celebrated the victory, and on evaluating this experience of the Union, concluded that the Union was no longer in its stammering infancy. It had matured. The funniest part of the story was that an Egyptian 103

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journalist who published a periodical in Paris took up the cause of the Union and, carried away by an irrepressible enthusiasm, headlined his magazine: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Relations between Arabs and France in danger of rupture following the expulsion of the Secretary General of the Union of Lebanese students.â&#x20AC;? This fiery title reminded Kamel of the well-known presenter, Ahmad Said, who had liberated Haifa on the waves of the Voice of the Arabs radio station, as if he himself was marchingthrough Tel-Aviv at the head of the victorious Arab armies to liberate it, while in fact, the Egyptian forces defeated in Sinai were the prey of the most ferocious and destructive campaign ever conducted by the Israeli Air Force. Kamel had a derisive smile. So, the Arab countries would not forgive even France for trampling the rights of a single Arab citizen. He called the Egyptian friend and thanked him.

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The Motherland After the euphoria of the victory of the Union on the â&#x20AC;&#x153;motherlandâ&#x20AC;?, as lovers of France in Lebanon nicknamed it, and the joyful celebrations that followed, came the summer holidays. Most foreign students returned to their respective countries. Lebanese students packed their suitcases and took the plane to Beirut. There were more than twenty students who were in fact the operational command of the Union: Albert Jokhdar, Wassim Jaber, Kamel Falha, Abdel Hafiz Yasin, Sobhi and Issam Hamza, Nazih Awada, Hassan Mneimneh, Zouhair Ghalayini, Said Atoui, Mounzer el-Merehbi, Mustafa Bakri, Talal Jalloul, Marwan Bendak, Toufic Baalbaki, Elias el-Hajj, Najib and Bassam Issa, Khaled Zreika, Ghassan Zouhairi Ghazi Charara and others. Their common experience had welded their relationship and woven strong friendships between them. The Union had managed to bring out the best in each of them, revealing the moral fiber of which they were made. They had all voluntarily joined, and all complied with joint decisions. And since their actions were not limited to theory and ideology, but were reflected in practice, the common grounds that united them were numerous. With no room for neutrality among them, 105

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they put their entire ardor towards defending the cause of their country. Each exposed his point of view, opinions were measured against each other, be they converging or diverging, and their experiences gave the Union a dimension of diversity and plurality which added to its wealth. Certainly, these confrontations of ideas were not without compromises, but as Gandhi said that his “insistence on truth has taught me to appreciate the beauty of compromise.” There was no place among them for an enlightened prophet holding the absolute truth or a genius floating above common mortals. Each could be right or could wrong, and all learnt from their experiences and from their mistakes. Kamel examined the faces around him and felt submerged with an immense confidence in the future. “We can build a magnificent country together!” Through the porthole of the plane, he could see paths openingin the vast world before him.. All they had to do is make their choice, and the horizon was within reach. Once in Beirut, the friends separated, each joining their families. A few days later, they met to give a press conference organized by a friend, Yasser Nehmeh(1), at the head office of the syndicate of journalists in Azarieh building. During the press conference, Kamel explained in detail his

(1) Yasser Nehme was a unionist leader at the time, and general manager of Assafir newspaper. He worked with “Al Hurria” magazine that supported the students’ movement.

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disputes with the French authorities, the ins and outs of the deportation order issued against him as general secretary of the Union of Lebanese Students and the actions taken against this decision: campaigns, petitions, sit-ins among other protests, which finally led to its cancellation. It was a victory that boosted the credit of the students’ movement, both at home and abroad. He thanked all those who had supported the Union in Lebanon, the homeland being the source from which they drew strength and energy and the finality of everything they did. Of course, there were attempts from different sides to seize the movement and gravitate it towards a given party, but Kamel never failed to assert the Union’s independence at every interview, seminar, and meeting to which he was invited. One evening, while gathered at La Ronda café in Canon Square, that square whose hustle and bustle had fascinated him when he was a high school student, a friend surprised Kamel with an unexpected proposal that left him dumbfounded: “You should visit political and party leaders.” This was an idea that had never crossed his mind. Kamel naively asked: “Why?” His Beiruti friend peered at him in disbelief. “You have to start meeting leaders if you want to go into politics and become a leader yourself.” Kamel was stupefied. The suggestion seemed incomprehensible, because it was so foreign to his thinking. He kept silent for a moment, trying to calm the anger that was rising in him, then snapped back: “What makes you think I have political ambitions? Ernesto Che Guevara turned his back 107

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on leadership and left Havana to fight in the jungles of Bolivia. The whole world is offered to me, with so many just causes for which I can fight, and you want me to confine myself to a small dark alley?â&#x20AC;? Kamel spent the last days of his vacation in Khiyam. He visited the local families one by one. Sometimes, fighters from the Palestinian resistance drove through the village, armed with Kalashnikovs and RPGs. Their sight brought back memories of his childhood. He would revisit the images of Palestinians going through these same streets, their lives shattered, looking back at that land they had been uprooted from, their hearts hoping to go back one day. Here was a new generation of fighters forcing their way back,the dream of return still alive in their souls. This dream had something touching and he felt a deep solidarity with them. While on his way back to Khiyam, he remembered the myth of Antaeus, the son of Gaia, the Mother Earth. Antaeus had an invincible force that he drew from contact with the earth, his mother. However, when his enemies discovered his secret, in a merciless fight with Hercules, the latter lifted Antaeus up and kept him in the air until he died from suffocation. Kamel promised himself never to be separated from Khiyam, his own mother earth. She would be his home base, the haven he would always come back to throw his anchor. The summer holidays ended and Kamel went back to Tours.

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He had to sit for the second session of exams in September to compensate for the subjects he had missed when he was grappling with the authorities. A surprise awaited him at the university campus: the General Intelligence Directorate had left him a letter with the administration, asking him to report to their office as soon as he got back. He went there the next morning. An agent received him and asked him to sign a document which committed him to refrain from any political activity within French territory. The document stated that the security services would be watching his activities to make sure he respected his commitments. “Does this commitment apply to me alone or to the leadership of the Union as well?” “This is a general commitment,” answered the agent. “It has been signed by many of your elected colleagues.” “I am sorry,” said Kamel, “but I refuse to sign. It is true that I am here to pursue my studies, like all my fellows, but I remain nevertheless a Lebanese and Arab citizen having the legitimate right to defend the causes of my country and its nation. I do not come from nowhere, with no attachment in this world, and I am not an individual removed from my context. I also represent my country, and when my country faces danger, I do not merely eat tabbouleh and dance the dabke, tucked in my cocoon. However, I vow not to interfere with French internal politics in any way, in any activity that we undertake within the activities of the Union.” Kamel thought that the cancellation of his expulsion had given him a kind of immunity that would protect him from any 109

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new recourse. Apparently, he was wrong. His fiery speech left the agent unmoved. He nodded his head and said: “Whether you sign or not, we are watching your activities to make sure that they conform to this document.” A few weeks went by. Kamel was studying for his exams whilst also looking for a job at a hospital. It was the penultimate year of his studies and he had to work as in intern at a hospital to complete his curriculum. He got lucky: he soon found an internship at the hospital of Nevers with a salary of three thousand francs. Three thousand francs! He was a millionaire compared with the four hundred francs that his father had been sending him monthly. Moreover, he would live in the hospital compound free of charge. He packed his suitcases and said goodbye to his friends in Tours. That city had been an important part of his life: he had arrived there at the age of nineteen and was leaving with a background of knowledge, convictions and maturity. He arrived at the Nevers hospital in his 2CV. The trip had taken hours, but it had not affected his enthusiasm and his energy. He reported to the manager of the hospital where an unpleasant surprise awaited him. “You should have called before coming,” said the director, “your contract has been cancelled.” The world seemed to crumble around Kamel. “No one informed me.” “This is a question of security and not a professional matter. I run a hospital here, not a political forum. I apologize, but I am not in a position to discuss this decision with you.” Kamel remembered the damned document he had refused to sign. 110

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Was this the revenge of the General Intelligence Directorate? It was unthinkable that France was in reality ruled by a security apparatus like our Arab world. He started looking for a job in a hospital. He could not graduate without an internship. He went back to Tours and started looking again. He was accepted at the hospital of Le Mans with the same salary. Luck had smiled on him this time.

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The End of a Dream Kamel was starting to appreciate the stability of his situation at the hospital, when he received a phone call from Brigitte. “I am thinking of visiting you tomorrow with my friend Nadine” she said. “Are you abletohost us?” He answered her enthusiastically: “I’ll be waiting for you impatiently. Don’t be late.” His heart was pounding. The last time they had met was three years ago. Three long years, during which they had exchanged letters and spoken on the phone. It was Brigitte who called most of the time. His budget did not allow him to pay the phone bill. Often, he could barely afford a cup of coffee with his friends. The visit of Brigitte and her friend coincided with the arrival of his nephew Abdallah Awada, an architecture student in Germany, and a friend of his. They planned to spend the day in a park out of town. They prepared a picnic and drove out in two cars: Kamel’s 2CV and the car of Christo Meshhem, a friend from Mina, Tripoli, who had decided to join them. Brigitte sat next to Kamel. That glorious day, his heart was light as a feather and his soul sentimental. Taken with a romanticism polished by centuries of love, happy or otherwise, and driving on the roads of “the garden of France”, he started singing in 112

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Arabic, “One hour with my love... it is the sweetest hope in my life.” Brigitte laughed when he translated the words in French. She answered jokingly: “There is a word missing in this song. When you say one hour with my love you mean to say one hour in bed. French newspapers and media, when mentioning Arabs, talk only about sex and sleazy affairs, especially when it comes to oil princes. The latest such story is that of Eli Cohen, the Israeli spy infiltrated in Damascus, who managed to buy off many officials in the upper echelons of power by luring them with the offer of the key to an apartment full of prostitutes. So your achievements are hidden inside dark alcoves, while the Israelis are triumphing on the fronts.” At these words, Kamel felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He suddenly emerged from the vapors of that idyllic moment and all the romanticism enlivening him until them went up in smoke. His heart was still pounding, but with rage. He wanted to slap her or open the door and throw her out of the car. Her words had opened a wound in his heart that had never fully healed. “Arab military operation rooms are bedrooms.” He had read this title in a pro-Israeli newspaper, but to hear it from the girl he loved was an insult he could not accept, even if she had said it as a joke. He saw a dirt road to his left, and without thinking, swerved onto it. A car had been speeding behind him, trying to overtake him. Surprised by his maneuver, the driver honked and tried to avoid him by turning right, but it was too late. The car hit the left side of his bumper, skidded, 113

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and hit an electric pole before stopping in the middle of a field a few meters away. Kamel stopped and ran to rescue the driver. He was surprised to see a stunning young woman stepping out, wearing a tight T-shirt and shorts that revealed more than they hid. She had opened the door and stepped out without waiting for his help. Realizing his presence, she said: “Thank God! Are any of you hurt?” He refrained from kneeling down to thank her. The accident was his fault and had she not had the reflex to avoid him, he would have ended up in the morgue and with Brigitte . “I am a doctor, said Kamel. Do you need any help?” She became suddenly aware of herself, touching herself to make sure nothing was broken, checking her legs, her arms. She looked up at him and said: “What I really need is a good dose of sedative.” A faint smile touched her face, reminding him of Mona Lisa’s smile, which he had admired at the Louvre. She was not angry. She was a beautiful woman in her thirties. “I am sorry; I think it was my fault…” he said to her. “It was mine too,” she answered, “I drove over the speed limit.” They both laughed and exchanged looks like old friends. Brigitte’s face was pale. She looked at him and remained silent. Abdallah, trying to cheer up the atmosphere said: “Are we at the park already?” Minutes later they were all talking and gesticulating. They inspected both cars. Kamel’s was slightly damaged, while the young lady’s was dented on both sides, 114

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having hit the 2CV then the electric pole. They exchanged business cards, and Edith, that was her name, gave him her address and asked him to come to see her the next morning to fill the insurance formalities. She worked in real estate and had to hurry to an important appointment with a client. She got into her car, backed up to the highway and drove away. All Kamel had to do was wait for the next day. His had a hunch that their appointment would be full of pleasant surprises. As they got back on the road to the park, Brigitte, sitting next to him, burst into tears. “I am really sorry to have hurt you. I apologize if what I said made you angry; you know I didn’t mean it. It was just a joke.” He wiped her tears away, apologized to her for his outburst and did not talk about the incident for the rest of the day. But deep inside him, he felt that something precious had broken, and that nothing could ever mend it again. It was as if he had suddenly realized that she was French. It was nothing hostile, but a simple fact, as if he had opened his eyes. There might have been some truth to what she had said, but his heart had skipped a beat at those generalized judgments of Arabs without any distinction. She had resumed in a few words what the French and Occidental media had said in unison about the Arabs since the 1967 defeat. By her socalled joke, Brigitte had liberated all the anger within him. His grudge was not against her, but against the media. “Humiliated, scorned, we were so hurt that to us, even a joke was an insult. The gun of the Palestinian resistance gave 115

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us hope, and we dreamed of brandishing it in the face of the world.” That evening, lying in his bed, Abdallah spoke with Kamel. “I have a German girlfriend. I love her and I would like to marry her. What do you think?” Kamel knew that his nephew was not asking him this question to help him make his decision, but to be comfortable in his choice. “Marry her if you love her,” answered Kamel, ‘but make sure she understands the Palestinian cause. Our whole future depends on it.” Thus, he had introduced Palestine into the conjugal bed of his nephew and his German wife. Kamel was serious about what he had said. It was a long, endless night. As Kamel lay down, his eyes wide open, memories with Brigitte were going through his mind like a movie: the whispers of the beginning, the emotions of their first meetings, and the love that had lasted for years before it died off that day. He realized that his life’s companion could only be Arab, not for racist or political considerations, but for other reasons, deeply rooted in his subconscious. Even the words “I love you” in French seemed strange, as if cut off from his childhood and his teen years. And words condense in themselves the essence of our lives, like a mirror to our soul. The next morning he broke up with Brigitte, promising to stay in touch, and went to Edith’s house, his head buzzing with crazy hopes.

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He got to the said address and rang the doorbell. A man with an imposing stature opened the door and invited him in. “Edith has asked me to apologize for her; she had to go out unexpectedly. We can fill the insurance papers ourselves, I hope you don’t mind?” This time it was Kamel who had hit an electric pole.

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To Be a Revolutionary or to Be Wealthy â&#x20AC;&#x153;Dhofar is the Vietnam of the United Kingdomâ&#x20AC;?. This sentence had become the chant shouted at all the meetings organized by students in France in support of the military insurgency in the Arab area. The decision was taken to start moral and material support. Doctors and volunteer journalists would be sent urgently to Palestinian camps, to the Democratic Republic of Yemen, and to Dhofar. Among the first to volunteer were Jean-Pierre Viennot, Marcel-Francis Kahn, a French Trotskyist doctor, Dr. Fawwaz Traboulsi, a Lebanese historian, and Fred Halliday, a British journalist. They went to the Democratic Republic of Yemen and to Dhofar where they did a lengthy tour. They came back, drawing a gloomy picture of the situationthere. The sanitary conditions were terrible; there was no doctor in an area of more than a hundred square kilometers. It was imperative to remediate such a situation. Doctor May Messarra and her pharmacist brother Maurice offered their services, and so did Doctor Hany Srour. He went to Dhofar with a team from France and Great Britain, and produced a documentary that moved the European public opinion. The BBC also broadcasted a film that shed light on the cause. It was the first joint documentary produced by Doctor Fawwaz Traboulsi. 118

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The summer of 1971 was decisive in the dynamic of this movement of support. After a marathon meeting of the Gulf support movement in France, Kamel Mohanna decided to visit Aden in order to prepare with his friends the next step of their action for the following summer. He planned to join the revolutionaries of Dhofar and to work there as a volunteer for six months. Why choose Dhofar rather than the valley of the Jordan River, Beirut, or even Paris or Canada? That question persisted in his mind throughout his last year of studies and even more after his graduation. So many choices were offered to him, the whole world was a wide field he could crisscross.Nevertheless, the answer to his question was in his choice of life and conviction. “To be a revolutionary or to be rich” that was the question. After the cancellation of his contract in Nevers for political and security reasons, and his success to find, in a short time, a new job at Le Mans hospital, Kamel met again many friends from the leadership of the students’ movement: Najib and Bassam Issa, Khaled Zreika and Mohammad Badra. Najib and Bassam were members of the Syrian Nationalist Socialist Party, and their father, a well-known scholar in the region of Koura, was among the senior members of the party there. Najib had been elected Secretary General of the League and Kamel Secretary of Cultural Affairs before replacing Najib. Over time, and despite a certain competition, they forged a good friendship. At the time, the Syrian Nationalist Socialist 119

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Party was an ally to the Fatah movement, and Doctor Fouad Chemali, representative of the Party in France and Europe, was married to the daughter of Antoun Saade, the founder of the Party. At that time, Najib invited Kamel to meet some friends from Paris who were keen to talk to him. They met at the Café l’Universin Tours. It was the first encounter between Kamel and Doctor Chemali, who was in the company of Michel Moukarbel. Michel worked at a travel agency in Paris. As it later turned out, the owner of the agency was an accomplice of Carlos, the famous terrorist, and was later arrested in France. Fouad Chemali spoke with passion and enthusiasm about their student action and despite Kamel being closer to the political stands of the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine, the discussion was friendly. They decided to meet again in Paris the following week. Kamel and his friends were planning a trip to the capital to get provisions for the folkloric party they were organizing in Tours. This logistic supply of baklavas and pistachios was often offered by travel agencies owned by Lebanese like Michel Ghorra and Amin Bassim. A few days later they met at a restaurant close to the agency where Michel worked in the Quartier Latin. Kamel was in the company of Ghazi Charara and Albert Jokhdar. After exchanging views on the Palestinian cause and the armed resistance, Fouad said: “I am going to organize military training sessions for you in the Jordan River valley with Fatah during the summer vacations.” He was staring at their faces to see their reactions. The tone of his voice was more like an order

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than a proposition. Kamel looked at Albert who, like him, was politically aligned with the Democratic Front. “We approve of the idea”, he said tactfully, “but such a suggestion needs reflection. We will discuss it with our friends.” This answer irritated Fouad who snapped back: “I don’t like ambiguous situations.” It all stopped here. Later on, the media reported the arrest of Moukarbel for his link with Carlos. Fouad Chemali passed away a few years later after a struggle with Hodgkin’s cancer. The news of his death saddened Kamel who had a lot of respect for Chemali and his intellect. A military training session with the Palestinian resistance was one of the proposals made to Kamel which he had refused. The second proposal came from Canada. He was perfectly satisfied with his job at the Le Mans hospital, but he had noticed in his friends an interest to pursue their education in the United States and Canada. He found out that the Canadian Embassy in Paris was organizing yearly entrance exams, called ECFMG, for medical students wishing to pursue their specialization in Canada. The laureates would join a faculty of medicine in Canada and work as interns in a hospital, while studying for their specialization. Kamel took the exam with hundreds of students and was one of the few who successfully passed it. He received a letter from the embassy notifying him that he had passed. There was a list of hospitals he could contact for an internship. He contacted a hospital in Montreal and was accepted. He would report there the following year after the

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defense of his doctorate thesis at the Faculty of Medicine in Tours. But he changed his mind and declined the offer. It was the second opportunity that he dropped. Should he choose France, a country that was becoming his second home, having spent a little less than ten years as a student there? He had a relatively good salary at Le Mans hospital. He was preparing his doctorate thesis. The internship was an integral part of his education. He was eager to turn the page of his student life at the faculty and start practicing medicine at a hospital. The first specialization that he chose was obstetric gynecology. He was given a room in the building, so he could immediately answer calls in the middle of the night if he was needed. At first, he liked what he was doing, but after a while he found out it was not what he was looking for. He asked to be transferred to the ENT department. The head of the department was an elderly professor who encouraged him and started giving him minor surgical interventions such as the removal of tonsils. The professor had a pretty daughter who worked as the secretary of the department. They became close friends, which led him to believe that he would finally choose this field. However, after a few weeks, he realized that surgery needed total availability, which would exclude any public or political commitment that was an integral part of his life since he had left Khiyam for Saida, Beirut, and finally France. After thorough thought, he finally chose pediatrics. With children, he was betting on the future. His actions so far had been 122

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inscribed in the present. He joined the pediatric service under the management of Professor Jean Riveron and continued his work at the hospital during summer. He presented his thesis and got his degree in medicine. By now, he had many friends in Le Mans, in Tours, and in Paris. He could choose many destinations in France where he would finish his specialization, or even stay at the same hospital with a good salary that would increase with time. He also refused this third opportunity. He had two choices left: Dhofar or Lebanon. In fact, he did not have to choose either one or the other, but could compromise to manage both. He would start in Dhofar for six months then go back to Lebanon. The armed struggle in Lebanon was not so different from that in Dhofar. The destitute had the same faces, whether in the caves of Dhofar or in the refugee camps and the shantytowns mushrooming all over Lebanon. Between revolution and wealth, Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s choice of was made. All he had to do is put it into practice on the ground.

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The South is Not Near Geography On the 29th of January, 1973 Kamel Mohanna left Beirut for the province of Dhofar via Aden, the capital of the first Arab country to choose scientific socialism as a foundation for its regime and way of life. It was his second trip to Aden. As he boarded once again a small Yemda airplane, the Yemini airline, he handed his fate to divine providence. His first trip, the previous summer, had left him with a very unpleasant experience. He had taken the same plane from Beirut to Aden via Cairo. The plane had just taken off and started flying over the sea, when suddenly it hit strong turbulence and banked to the right. Kamel was ejected from his seat and landed, embarrassed, in the lap of a stunning young Swedish girl who was sitting in the seat next to his. She was travelling with her Palestinian boyfriend to discover the Marxist republic. The pilot announced that the two propellers of the left wing had stopped, but that this did not call for an emergency landing. There was no tarmac or strip of land to be seen anywhere in that vast expanse of water. The pilot asked the passengers to hold tight to their seats because he knew that most seat belts were out of order. They held on while their bodies leant horizontally to the right. Kamel thought: â&#x20AC;&#x153;I cannot end up eaten alive by fish and sharks before even joining the ranks of the insurgents in Dhofar.â&#x20AC;? 124

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But contrary to the rumor, the revolution protects its sons; the pilot managed, after several difficult maneuvers, to land the plane in Aden airport. Kamel remembered the hero of Antoine de St. ExupĂŠry in his novel Southern Mail where the planes of the AĂŠropostale were like flying coffins. The second flight was not as terrible as the first one. The plane kept all of its propellers and was only shaken by some minor turbulence. Kamel had to hold on to his seat with both hands. The cup of tea in front of him, so graciously handedto him by the steward, could tip over for all he cared, preferring to remain safely pinned to his seat rather than let go and regret it. He finally arrived. Aden airport was almost empty. Friends from the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine were waiting for him. They got in a car and headed to the headquarters of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Oman and the Arabian Gulf where he met Abdel Rahman al Nuaimi, who went by the war name of Said Saif () and Abdel Nabeel al Askari (Hussein Moussa) (), as well as other leaders. It struck him that during discussions, Palestine and Oman were mentioned as a single front, indicating total coordination between the Palestinian Democratic Front and the Omani Popular Front. Then, a Vietnamese delegation that had arrived a few weeks earlier and had visited Al Hawf and the western part of Dhofar was mentioned. The members of the Vietnamese delegation had expressed their admiration for the accomplishments of the revolution in Democratic Yemen and in the province of Dhofar. 125

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Kamel was overwhelmed. Palestine, Yemen, Dhofar, Vietnam, and South Lebanon… the winds of revolution were blowing and were proving that colonization was nothing but a straw man. One of the comrades, Mohamed Katamto, aka Abu Firas, took Kamel to spend his first night at a friend’s house. Aden was supposed to be a short stop on his way to the mountains of Dhofar. However, he stayed there for more than a week. Time seemed to stand still, and no one was in a hurry. After the fast rhythm of life in France where he led a perpetual race against the clock, he was starting to get used to time flowing gently like grains of sand. The stories of the insurgency and the revolutionaries were part of a long tale, each chapter leading on to another, like the stories of the vipers that Al Afif Lakhdar and Fawwaz Traboulsi, who had both preceded him to Dhofar, had warned them about. On the 16th of February, Kamel went to Aden airport to take another Yemda plane. The flight was three hours late, but he did not dare complain or show any sign of impatience. His friends’ impassive attitudes made him believe that delay was the rule, and punctuality would have been the exception. Finally, they boarded the wind-broken plane. Fawwaz had described it as “the village bus- good for the transportation of livestock, poultry, and anything else that may come to mind”. Two hours later the plane landed on the dirt runway of Riyan, close to the town of Al Mukalla. This town, made famous by the singer 126

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Fahd Ballan, ignited Kamel’s imagination by the promises it concealed: “O girls of Al Mukalla, you are the cure to all ills.” Kamel looked around him.There was no trace of girls. There was no trace of anything but dust and a scorching sun. They were in one of the most densely populated and richest regions of Yemen. This area, close to the Saudi border, was the theater of numerous insurrections against the British colonization. The “village bus” then took off for Al Ghaydah, capital of the sixth governorate, where they arrived an hour and a half later. A young man was waiting for them at the end of the dirt runway where the plane had landed. Sitting behind a table that seemed to have been put there in a hurry, he welcomed them without asking for any papers or passports. Each passenger went their own way. The Popular Front had sent a group of militia men to meet them and drive them in a Range Rover to the organization headquarters and from there to the residence of the military commander of the region. It was a rectangular room with piles of cushions in every corner, flanked by a bedroom with a sink and a toilet separated by a door. After lunch, they went on an exploratory tour, which they began with a visit to the Lenin school. The school was founded by the revolutionaries in 1969 under the name of “The People’s School” and the following year, with the strengthening of the left camp, it was expanded and renamed “Lenin School”. It was reopened in April 1970 under the supervision of “Comrade

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Huda”, the Bahraini activist Leila Salem Fakhro(1), who had joined the insurgency in Dhofar and had fought for the rights of women, whether in debates or on the ground. They then visited the “June school”, named in reference to 9th June 1965, the beginning of the insurrection. This preparatory school had been inaugurated the previous year, and had been successful, along with the Lenin school, in educating many youths. The Lenin School and the June school counted respectively four hundred and three hundred students. Both schools had a day schedule and a night schedule. Abdel Samad and Hamed explained that the schools adopted an intensive program, jumping steps to achieve the desired result the soonest possible. Each course lasted six months and had several objectives that were prioritized as follows: literacy classes (of only twenty minutes), followed by political culture where they discussed the fight against illiteracy or clan and tribal relationships, and finally critique and self-critique. The program did not neglect physical education: the students’ day started with a workout, and was followed by a training course in handling weapons. Students (young people in their twenties) graduated from the school knowing how to read, write and fight. Readings that would forge their revolutionary consciousness were imposed: (1) This pioneering women’s rights activist in Bahrain died in 2006 following an illness she had neglected to take care of, as she instead devoted all her time to the causes she defended.

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the Communist Manifesto, the Red Book of Mao Tse Tung, selected texts of Lenin, Ho Chi Minh, Castro, Kim Il-Sung, as well as testimonies from Viet Cong revolutionaries. It was also advised that they familiarize themselves with the principles of Stalin’s Dialectical and Historical Materialism. “I admit that such a hearty dose of culture in that tribal and pastoral society, which had no means of production could sometimes be indigestible,” said Kamel. . However, he was in awe of the feats performed by the two schools. The Sultan Said, when he was ousted in 1970 by his son, the current Sultan Qaboos, had left the country with only three schools: the Saïdya School in Muscat, the Saïdya School in Muttrah, and the Saïdya School in Salalah, the capital of Dhofar governorate. The three schools recruited students exclusively from the circles of the Sultan’s court and the families close to power. Naturally, only boys were admitted. Therefore, finding this relatively large number of students, equally divided between girls and boys, in the schools of the revolution, and seeing girls with access to the same education and training as their male comrades was a source of joy and pride, not only for the girls but for all students, teachers, and members of the administration. Faced with difficult living conditions, they drew support and consolation in the thought of Mao and his experience with what was called Soviet Revisionism. It was with this thought that insurgents and activists identified, as it was thought to reflect the concerns of the quasi-agricultural societies of Yemen and 129

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Dhofar, more than the Soviet interpretation of Marxism which were better suited for an industrial society, which was nothing short of utopic for the poor people of these two countries. Whilst visiting the June school, Kamel asked a student to shave his head. It was the best way to avoid lice, which came at the top of a long list of common diseases that his friend Hamed had informed him of, and which also included tuberculosis, typhoid, malaria, anemia, scabies, conjunctivitis, intestinal parasites, symptoms of malnutrition, and to top it all, leprosy. Thus, the enemyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bullets were by far the lesser evil to be feared by a doctor in Dhofar. At noon Abdel Samad invited Kamel to lunch in town. Kamel was surprised to find tables in the restaurant, but instead a wooden counter, forty centimeters wide, attached to the wall, encompassing the whole room. They were served their dishes, if they could be called that. The metal plates were corroded by the acidity of the food. Kamel also had the luxury of a rusty spoon that Abdel Samad had specially ordered for him, whilst the rest of the customers used their hands. Once the food was served, it was immediately attacked by a swarm of flies. Doctor Kamel willingly left them his meal, timidly swallowing a few mouthfuls of boiled rice. In the evening, Abdel Samad slaughtered a lamb in Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s honor, as if to compensate for the mediocrity of lunch. Kamel was delighted at the idea of this feast, but the way his friend

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cut the meat was clearly not intended to whet the appetite: he held one end of its leg with one hand, and the other end between his teeth, and cut it with a big knife. The morsels of meet were piled up on a metal plate that even a historian could not have determined the last time it was washed. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Fire cleanses everything,â&#x20AC;? Kamel reasoned to himself repeatedly, and with the help of hunger, he swallowed the pieces of roasted meat one after the other. He discovered later that such a meal was served on only three occasions: a wedding, the birth of a child, and... a death. The following day, he began his career as an activist. He was entitled to the full paraphernalia of a fighter: khaki uniform, belt, cap and military boots, and even the Kalashnikov with chargers. Once donned with all his gear, he could not help but laugh, feeling completely out of place. Fortunately, there was no mirror in the tent. In any case, he did not feel the need to check his appearance. At half past one, he left Al Ghaydah with a group of friends in a jeep. An hour later, bundled up in his heavy clothes, bending under the weight of his machine gun and ammunition, he was suffocating. He proposed to stop for a moment to try his Kalashnikov, explaining that he had not held a weapon since his military training in secondary school in Saida. The jeep stopped at the entrance of a mountain pass.They stepped down and began firing at targets. He felt the jolt of his Kalashnikov on his shoulder at every round fired. The targets were small 131

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rocks that he often missed. He turned to his companions and said, mocking his awkwardness: â&#x20AC;&#x153;I hope we will not have to deal with an army of dwarves.â&#x20AC;? They reached the end of the passable trail. The jeep stopped at the edge of a steep cliff where another friend was waiting. They explained to Kamel that this man would accompany him on foot to Dhalkhout, a coastal village. He bid farewell to his friends and began his long, difficult descent, his eyes fully focusedon the ground beneath him. He remembered the warnings of those who had preceded him on this steep trail. It was better to tell yourself that you have nothing to fear from vipers;that is fangs didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have enough venom to strike you right down. Unconcerned by all those dangers, his guide walked briskly, jumping barefoot from one rock to another, like a wild goat. At the bottom of the cliff was a deep blue sea over which seagulls circled, their white wings spread in the light air. It looked like a timeless landscape, frozen, immutable and in peaceful eternity. They were still on their way down when an old man approached them and offered them a basket full of seafood, as a sign of welcome. This gesture reflected the hospitality of the people of this region. At the sight of the basket, Kamel remembered his time as a student in France, when he could barely dream of sea food. This delicacy was so expensive that even a small quantity could be fatal for his budget whilstnot contributing anything to satisfying his hunger. 132

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The sun was setting when they finally reached a tent from which a great commotion emerged. They went in and found themselves in the middle of a lively crowd. The tent was swarmed with men, women, and children. There were more women than men. “We will spend the night here,” said his guide, “tomorrow we will go to Al Hawf by sea.” Kamel was so tired that he immediately fell into a deep sleep, oblivious to the commotion around him. “The South is not a geographic direction”. This sentence kept coming back to Kamel’s mind while he was slowly rocked by the monotonous humming of the dhow’s engine. The boat cheerfully cleft through the waves of the Arabian Sea, along the coast in the direction of Al Hawf, with its seven passengers on board: three girls and four men among them, the captain. The barrel of the machine gun fixed in the middle of the dhow was shining under the sun that was rising behind the mountains. The gun’s heavy and menacing presence contrasted the serenity of the landscape. Kamel asked the captain: “Comrade, is that machine gun capable of shooting down an enemy plane?” This question made the other passengers smile. Unperturbed, the captain inspected the sky and said: “Yes, if it’s one of agent Said’s(1) old, dusty planes. But if it is a British Hawker Hunter, the pilot has more chance of getting away unharmed.” They all laughed to hear him answer so confidently. This Omani (1) The Sultan Said bin Taimur who insurgents in Dhofar were trying to overthrow.

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sailor seriously believed that the heart of the problem lay in the British pilot and the Hawker Hunter, not in his 12 meters long boat. In such desperate situations, pride remains a noble and commendable attitude. Kamel remembered the story of Habkouk that his friends had told him. Habkouk was a fierce and obstinate fighter. One day, he was on a boat similar to theirs, called â&#x20AC;&#x153;the Voice of the Peopleâ&#x20AC;? in tribute to the Popular Front newspaper, when a British Hawker Hunter intercepted them. The pilot fired a first missile from a high altitude and missed his target. The passengers jumped into the water and swam back to shore. The pilot maneuvered and came back to fire from a lower altitude. Habkouk stood behind the machine gun and opened fire, spitting an endless string of profanity into the sky. He continued to scream, releasing his fury and proclaiming the victory of the revolution, until a missile struck the boat and blew it to smithereens. His body was never found. In tribute to him, a dispensary in Al Hawf was named after him; that was where they were now headed. Thus, the dispensary of the revolution became the Habkouk dispensary. The image of the Omani Habkouk defying a fighter plane revived in his memory an epic scene described by Ernest Hemingway in his novel For Whom the Bell Tolls, one where El Sordo, a republican hero of the Spanish Civil War, resists fiercely behind his machine gun on top of a hill, wildly cursing and making use of his last bullets against a Franco airplane before being killed. 134

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Kamel compared the Omani Habkouk to El Sordo thinking: “Reality is richer than the most fantastic fiction; it is truly an endless novel.” “And an old airplane”, he asked the captain, “you think it is possible to shoot it with this machine gun?” One of the fellows on board, who appeared to be a military commander decided to answer. “Said bin Taimur has six Provost Aircrafts dating back to World War II. The revolutionaries have already shot one down with a machine gun similar to this one, which pushes Said to use them carefully and cautiously, preferring to resort to the Hawker Hunters which take off from the British base of Salalah. That base has therefore become the revolutionaries’ favorite target.” The captain burst into a loud laugh. “You see that bird there?” He said, pointing at a large gull with dark wings hovering above the dhow. “The old planes are like that bird. They must fly over you at low altitude in order to bombard you. Our chances of shooting them down are better than theirs because they are bigger than the boat. I know all about those old planes,I served in that damned air base for years.” The young women were talking with the men. From time to time, one of them would burst out into laughter that she would timidly try to hide. With the atmosphere relaxing, the men’s faces lost their stiffness. The fighter’s hardness receded, making way for the peasant, the fisherman, and the mountain shepherd. Men are the same everywhere, and in the faces around 135

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him, Kamel saw the traits of loved ones, relatives, friends, and fellows who had lit up his life in Khiyam. At each new meeting, he was introduced as â&#x20AC;&#x153;the doctor coming from South Lebanon.â&#x20AC;? He was at sea, south of the Arabian Peninsula, between the coasts of Yemen and Oman, and yet he felt at home, as if among family and friends. A feeling of familiarity and profound joy gripped him. He wanted so much to see his parents to tell them that the South is not only a geographic direction.

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“The Doctor with a Spoon” in Al Hawf They arrived to Al Hawf where a small group of fighters was waiting for Kamel. They welcomed him and took him to the dispensary that was to become his residence for the coming months. One of the girls told him: “As you must know, the village is destroyed. The British planes bombarded the Front headquarters. They also destroyed the water wells and decimated the livestock. Eleven of our martyrs have fallen here.” When they arrived to the Habkouk clinic, he felt as if he was in a ghost town. It was a deserted, lifeless place. On the way, the comrades told him that Doctor Marwan had arrived to Al Hawf six months ago. He was the only doctor in the region. He had studied in Syria and had been sent there by the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine with the same mission as Kamel: to evaluate the medical needs of the region in terms of drugs and equipment, in order to establish a network of dispensaries;to organize training sessions for first aid, and to help pregnant women and sick people. Doctor Marwan welcomed Kamel warmly. “We have been impatiently waiting for you for the last week,” he told him. He introduced him to a group of young men and women who 137

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would be the first group to train for first aid. Kamel greeted and hugged each and every one of them. Their faces shone with excitement and impatience. A girl took him to a room in the “brax”, as they called the dispensary. There was a mattress in one of the corners and in the middle of the room, a table and chair facing a narrow window. That was where he was to live and work. The dispensary, built in sheet metal, consisted of three rooms. A few hundred meters away was the washroom, which was more like a cabin, almost in the open air, directly connected to a metal pipe, which ended with a rudimentary tap. But where were the toilets? This question made Marwan laugh. “You have the whole of nature at your disposal, my friend,” he replied. Kamel could not refrain from laughing as well, a laugh mixed with certain apprehension. He remembered the bathroom in his room in Tours. He always left the door open, day and night, so his friends could use it. Many of them rented rooms with families who forbade tenants to use the toilets, which often made them choose girlfriends they did not like that much, just to have access to a bathroom. Here in Al Hawf, when toilets take the proportions of nature, there was a very particular lifestyle and set of customs. He decided to take off his shoes, preferring to walk barefoot. He also chose to wear the traditional Omani “futah”(1). Tying the futah around the waist was a rather delicate operation. It looked like (1) A garment for both men and women that covers only the lower part of the body. Some are full and gathered at the waist, others are wrapped. Most commonly worn in Oman and Yemen.

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a skirt, but was wider and longer. It was tied around the waist so as to cover the legs,right down to the ankles. What made things complicated was that it was worn without undergarments. It was imperative to tie it well otherwise one could end up quite embarrassed, especially when squatting down to eat or when sitting down for discussions. The comrades took pleasure in telling the story of a girl who had visited the region. She had insisted on wearing the futah of Omani women, but it seems that she hadn’t had sufficient training in tying the garment. Consequently, her audiences were always quite thrilled by her presence and she attracted many delighted crowds! Kamel grew a beard and began to eat with his fingers, like everyone else. He discovered that the food was more delicious this way. It not only tempted the eyes and the nose, but also the touch, and the pleasure was increased tenfold. In any case, he had no other choice unless he wanted to carry around a spoon with him and be given the absurd nickname of “the doctor with the spoon” instead of the war name he had acquired in France, “Abu el-Walid”. After a long exhausting day, as he excused himself to take a shower before bed, one of the girls, Fatima, said “I’ll join you.” She had not said it discretely, but had almost shouted it. She stood up, grabbed her Kalashnikov and preceded him to the shower cabin. There, he stopped, hesitant: she was standing right next to him. She noticed his embarrassment and asked him: “Are you ashamed to undress in front of someone?” He smiled 139

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at her, incapable of guessing whether she was intentionally trying to provoke him or whether her remark was innocent. “In France, no one is embarrassed to undress in front of others,” he said, trying to regain the upper hand, “but here in Al Hawf...” “The revolution has imposed total equality between men and women,” she interrupted: “I am here to protect you.” The last phrase was pronounced with great seriousness and zeal, as if trying to reassure herself. He turned his back to her and dropped his futah. The first thought that could come to the minds of some is that such behavior is not at all feminine, as if “shame” and “timidity” could only be associated with women. Even Brigitte, his French love, would almost stumble and fall if she felt him staring at her from behind. Modesty is not a characteristic specific to the Orient, but the history of its women remains marked by centuries of submission, frustration, and enslavement. One could say that for the most deprived, repression does not differentiate between men and women, but this is not entirely accurate, because the subjugation of women is far more fierce and painful than that of men. He had realized this in his native village. In Khiyam, a man of feudal caste could choose a wife of the age of his daughter or even his granddaughter, and it would be unwise of her parents to oppose it. The feudal caste possessed a whole arsenal of persuasion, from cutting off water supplies in turn depriving men, beasts, and trees of this valuable asset, to slaughtering cattle and reining in defiant “subjects”. Such 140

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feudal men did not lack muscular men who were completely devoted to them and knew how to intimidate. Women in Yemen and Dhofar also lived in a state of total subjection to their fathers, their husbands, or society as a whole. They were servants to all the males of the family. And when it came to marriage, they had no say in the matter: their fathers chose their husbands. And dowries were oftenextortionate. Men wanted to recover the costs by shamelessly exploiting their “dear” wives, body and soul, in and out of the home, in the fields, in the kitchen, or in bed. And despite all these tasks and responsibilities incumbent upon them, women remained of lesser value than men, both before God and before Man. Then came the revolution with one of its priorities being the liberation of women. Any degrading treatment of a woman was forbidden: the dowry was fixed at a maximum of 12 Rials, calling her “woman” was forbidden, aswas external interference with the choice of husband divorce laws that were unfavorable to women and polygamy. Women were given the right to education, political and military training, and the right to fight alongside men on the front lines. Tens of women came out of the shadows and took arms. Women with aliases like “Crescent of the Island” and “Fatima the Omari”. “Fatima was beautiful like a midsummer night’s dream,” recalls Kamel. “I noticed her the day after I arrived. She came to attend the first aid course. I had agreed with Doctor Marwan 141

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that I would stay at the clinic to give the courses whilst he went on his rounds to treat the sick. Further down the line, we would take shifts at doing the village visits.” Doctor Marwan was surprised by her request to attend the course. “Comrade,” he said, “you are a fighter and a good one; why do you want to take a first aid course? The revolution needs fighters as well as first aid workers.” “Calm down comrade,” she said, “I want to fight as well as administer first aid. Is there any harm in that?” The doctor did not give up. “First aid is a full time task. It needs patience and a lot of compassion. A first aid worker must attend to the wounded, hold their hands for long hours to calm their pain. I don’t think you can hold a hand and a Kalashnikov at the same time.” He said the last comment with a laugh. Kamel felt that his colleague was being hard on Fatima, but she insisted: “I just want to be able to help a comrade if he is wounded in battle. You know how many wounded we have struggled down the mountains with, only to have them die upon their arrival to the dispensary. I think it is much better to save a comrade than kill an enemy. We have a lifetime to make war and kill our enemies, but a comrade is our most precious asset.” Marwan gave in to her arguments and said: “You will start your training tomorrow with Doctor Kamel.” Satisfied, she walked out, leaving Marwan and Kamel alone. “Why were you so hard on Fatima?” asked Kamel, “It looked like you wanted to get rid of her.” “Of course I wanted to get rid of her. She is kind of

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a Rosa Luxemburg(1) to the fighters. She volunteered two years ago and before even finishing her military training she started taking part in the attacks in the Asharqiyahregion(2), claiming that she knew the area well. All those who have fought with her say she is a kamikaze. Her life means nothing to her. Let me tell you why she is here: the military commander ordered her to come back to the camp after she risked her life and that of the whole unit because she disobeyed her superior. You know what she did? I’ll tell you. They had received intelligence that an enemy patrol of Baloch(3)soldiers and a British officerwere supposed to cross the mountain. They set up an ambush, taking positions on higher grounds, and waited for the patrol to show up. It never did. Night fell, and in darkness the ambush was meaningless. They were making plans to withdraw when Fatima said: “Our sources confirmed that the patrol is on its way. If it has not passed yet, then there must be a reason for that. Maybe they are preparing a surprise for us.” The commander disregarded such a possibility and ordered the men to retreat from the same route they had come from. Fatima accepted and volunteered to take the lead. Do you know what she did then? She ran a few meters forward and instead of staying in the narrow path and out of sight, she climbed on a rock in plain sight and started firing (1) German Marxist activist and theorist, born in Poland in 1871 and assassinated in Berlin in 1919. She was a prominent figure of International Socialism. (2) A region of the Sultanate of Oman. (3) The Baloch or Baluch are a people who live mainly in the Baluchistan region of the southeastern-most edge of the Iranian plateau in Pakistan, Iran, and Afghanistan, as well as in the Arabian Peninsula.

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in the air screaming: “Dirty agents, traitors, mercenaries, we know you are hiding. Come out of your holes!” Bullets started falling around her from all sides. It was a miracle that she did not get killed. Three members of the group were wounded and the other five got safely away. The commander says that they could have withdrawn quietly, had Fatima not committed this foolish act. But she maintains that they would have fallen into the ambush had she not done so. The commander insists on his version of the facts, and considers her to be ‘a kamikaze Lone Ranger.” She was court marshaled and was prohibited from taking part in combat for a month.” “So she can attend the first aid training course?” asked Kamel. “Come on comrade,” said Marwan. “I’ll bet you that she will, at the first occasion, throw away her first aid kit and grab her Kalashnikov. It would be best for everybody if she takes political education courses. Maybe this will help her to transform from a Lone Ranger Kamikaze to a real revolutionary.” Nevertheless, the rebellious woman joined the first aid course given by Kamel. The atmosphere between them was charged with electricity and tension, as if volcanoes lurched inside them. They both knew that the hour of eruption was fast approaching… *

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The Sap of Old Age Kamel started his rounds in the villages two weeks after he arrived to Al Hawf. Those first two weeks were spent giving the first aid course to Fatima, two other young women and three young men. He started the session by explaining the purpose of the training. “Revolutions erupt to fight three curses: illiteracy, disease, and poverty. Our weapons are the pen, the scalpel, and the rifle. Fidel Castro’s motto in Cuba was ‘Poor but healthy’. He achieved feats that made Havana the capital of health care in Latin America. The rifle cannot replace the scalpel, the same way a fighter cannot replace a first aid worker or a doctor. The human being cannot walk on one leg, and neither can the revolutionary.” He saw the shadow of a smile on Fatima’s lips, and continued. “The rescuer’s mission is no less hard or dangerous than the fighter’s. Both work in combat zones, and if someone can both shoot at the enemy and rescue a friend, then he is capable of fighting on two fronts, and holds glory from both its ends.” At these words Fatima’s smile turned into a loud laugh that quickly got to all of them, including Kamel. He had with him a medical book in Arabic to help him translate the medical terms

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that he only knew in French. After reviewing the theoretical, medical bases related to the human body, he with its practical application, especially relevant to the battle field: cleaning and dressing wounds, administering injections, etc. Having completed the first aid course, he started his rounds in the villages always accompanied by two assistants. From time to time, Fatima would throw a tantrum, wanting to accompany them. And this is exactly what she did when one day an old man came to the dispensary looking for help. “He must have been more than eighty years old. He asked us to go with him to help a woman who was having difficulty delivering a baby. He was afraid she would die. I asked him where he lived; he pointed to the top of the mountain, at the edge of Rub Al Khali(1). Two of my assistants went with me, while Fatima objected, accusing us of favoring men. I asked the old man ‘Who is going to take us there?’ He looked at me, nodding his head without answering. He started walking, and we followed him. I felt so shameful. It was noon, and the heat was unbearable, but the old man was walking brisklyahead of us, as if in his prime, while I was trailing behind, panting, and sweating. I was relieved that I had not allowed Fatima to come with us, so she would not see the sorry state I was in. I was also sure she would have gotten ahead of me. She was like a wild mare that nothing could stop. She was the fastest to assimilate the course information, as if she had been in a race (1) The Rub Al Khali‎(The Empty Quarter) is the largest contiguous sand desert in the world, encompassing most of the southern third of the Arabian Peninsula.

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against time, asking tens of questions and always demanding detailed answers. She was neither interested in the position of the woman during delivery, nor the care given to the new born. What she wanted to know was how to treat wounds, broken bones, hemorrhages. It was obvious she had the vocation of a rescuer, not a midwife. â&#x20AC;&#x153;We climbed the rocks for an hour and a half. The climb was difficult, but our efforts were rewarded with the majestic scenery from the top. We overlooked the sea from one side and the sands of the desert from the other. We entered the only tent in that remote, lost region. Inside, a woman was lying on her back. Between her spread legs, a new born was crying. The mother had given birth naturally, but the placenta was still inside her uterus. I applied my hands on her stomach and starting pressing. The placenta came out, and the woman sighed in relief. She was a young woman in her thirties and I wondered where her husband was. I was stunned when the old man insisted that we share the meat of his sacrificed lamb before we left. He was the happy father! â&#x20AC;&#x153;The encounter with this mountain dweller was like a breath of life for us. We left, happy to have witnessed the birth of a child on top of that mountain, where the only sign of life was their tent, perched between the rocks.â&#x20AC;? After that experience, Kamel felt that this region held so many mysteries. When had time stopped here? In what era did this old man and so many people in Dhofar live? Which wind had blown Marxism-Leninism to this distant country 147

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so sparsely populated, where birth remained the only means of production? Was there any interest in making this man understand the difference between Maoism and revisionism, historical and dialectical materialism, that we had spent so many years defending or denouncing, when all this man possessed in the world was a tent, a woman, and some cows? These questions asserted his firm belief that these poor people, forgotten by history, needed a committed doctor, not a political guide. Doctors were scarce while guides were in excess. This was an imbalance that the revolution must correct. When a hungry man looks at the moon, he only sees a loaf of bread. Only once he is sated does he starts thinking about poetry. It is well known that poetry is the salt of revolutionaries.

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Kamel the Dhofari During the weeks that passed between his work at the clinic and his rounds in the villages and inland, Kamel noticed that the wounded were transported to the clinic on the shoulders of their comrades, while the doctor was only called to the villages for childbirth, or to treat leprosy or infectious diseases such as tuberculosis and malaria. And in these cases, it was only after all traditional potions were exhausted, that the doctor was called, which often meant that the patient was already on their deathbed. Tasks were divided differently between Kamel and Marwan. One of them would stay at the clinic while the other would do the rounds. The village visits usually required more than one day, and a sleepover they would stay in a cave or a hut. During one of those rounds, Kamel arrived to an area inhabited by several families living in caves and huts built with the branches of coconut trees, near to a gathering of stables which gave off a suffocating smell of death and manure. A young man ran up to him, begging him to save a pregnant woman in her ninth month, suffering from excruciating pain. He led him to a cave between the rocks, and Kamel went in alone to see a woman, lying on her back, screaming with pain. Kamel reached out to examine her, but the woman pushed him away abruptly, resisting him 149

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fiercely. He backed up, understanding her reserve. He was the only doctor to have visited the region for years, if ever, and she preferred to suffer rather than uncover her body to a stranger, albeit a doctor. He was about to leave when women surrounded her and began talking and gesticulating animatedly. They finally managed to convince her to let the stranger examine her. She was in critical condition and her delivery was complicated. She suffered a slight hemorrhage due to a small injury to the cervix. He disinfected the wound and gave her medications to speed up labor. She could not have been more than seventeen years old, which explained her bashfulness. â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is our first child,â&#x20AC;? said her husband, who did not seem older than her. Kamel asked him to watch her and to call him when she started feeling contractions. Then he left the cave and walked with his two assistants, Ali and Mohammad, to the cabin of their comrade Saeed, located lower in the valley, a fifteen minutes; walk away.. Saeed had gotten married two days earlier so they celebrated the occasion. After finishing the meal and drinking tea, Kamel sent Mohammad to the clinic for medication that may be needed should the state of the pregnant woman worsen. Meanwhile, he continued his rounds, attending to others in need. He found a toddler that a cow had stepped on while his mother was milking it. His injury was not serious, but it was emblematic of the need for women of this community to work, even while 150

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carrying an infant. The family in this primitive pastoral society was confronted with the harshness of nature and relied on the contribution of all its members in order to survive. Kamel returned to Saeedâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home in the evening and fell asleep, exhausted, to be woken up at about three in the morning by the voice of the young man asking him to rush to help his wife who had gone into labor. In his haste to the cave, climbing the slope in the dark, his foot slipped on the edge of a rock. The barrel of his Kalashnikov hit his forehead and he felt a shattering pain in his right eye. He paused for a moment to regain his balance. The young man stared at him anxiously. He touched his forehead and discovered a small wound that was bleeding. He wiped it with a piece of gauze and went on his way, firmly holding his Kalashnikov. He had been carrying that weapon for weeks, even during his sleep. It had become some kind of talisman that protected him. It was true that he fired it from time to time, but the only target he had ever hit was his forehead. He laughed at the idea, remembering a story that his father used to tell them about a neighbor called Abu Ali, who had seen a wolf hovering around a lamb he had bought in spring that he was saving to slaughter in the fall for the winter provisions. Abu Ali decided to ambush the wolf. He readied his twelve millimeter hunting rifle and hid behind a rock. However, having waited for so long, he fell asleep, only to be awoken by sounds of sudden movement. He opened his eyes and saw the wolf about to charge the lamb. He shot at him, reloaded 151

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his gun, and approached to finish him off, only to discover, to his greatest surprise, the lamb lying in its own blood and the wolf gone. He became the example the village used to give of someone who wants one thing but gets quite another. They reached the cave where the woman was letting out heartrending screams. He examined her: the injury of the cervix was still bleeding, but the contractions had not yet begun. This could take hours. He cleaned the wound, worried that the woman would pass out and there would be no way to conduct a normal delivery, especially since a cesarean seemed a very surreal solution in this remote place. Whilst waiting for the contractions to begin, Kamel went out, lay down, and watched the sunrise, remembering his work in the obstetrics section of Le Mans hospital, before opting for pediatrics. It had never occurred to him that the short time he had spent in this section would allow him to save a young woman, giving birth to her first child in a bare cave, frozen in the Stone Age. He dozed for a while and woke up to find Mohammad back with the medicine he had requested. They drank a tea while the womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s screams evolved into a continuous moan. He went in and examined her again. The contractions were closer. He prepared the instruments he would need to deliver the baby and went back out. Two long hours passed, until suddenly they heard a piercing shriek come out of the cave, echoing through the valleys. He ran to the woman. She had started labor, but the 152

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umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. He had countered two such cases before at the hospital of Le Mans, and in both cases he had managed to save the newborn. With careful maneuvering, he began to clear the umbilical cord, all the while encouraging the young women so she did not lose consciousness. Once the neck of the baby was free, he shouted to the mother: “Push harder!” She pushed, delivering her new born safe and sound amidst the father’s claps, the women’s shouts and screams, and the mother’s tears of joy. The birth of a child is a miracle. Such was Kamel’s conviction. Despite the fact that it has been happening since the dawn of time, he still considers it a miracle, a miracle of creation. That excruciating pain, a prelude to the coming of a being from the darkness of the womb into the light of life, that sound coming from that bloody bundle of flesh to announce the arrival of a child filling the world with blessings. “What joys I would have witnessed had I continued my specialization in obstetrics!” thought Kamel. The young husband told him with emotion “This is our first child. We shall call him Kamel, after you.” The doctor, once more, felt touched by divine grace.

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Of Scorpions and Vipers At that time, the population of Dhofar counted between one hundred and two hundred thousand. The revolution, which had “liberated” two thirds of the province, put two doctors, Marwan, and Kamel at the service of the people. One did the rounds while the other was on call at the dispensary. Their mission was inspired by that of “the barefoot doctors” of Mao. They were also responsible fortraining a number of first aid workers. The two doctors worked in rotation to better share the tasks, as well as the inherent risks. In fact, there were two dangers that “the barefoot doctors” faced in Dhofar, one of military disposition, the other natural. The military dangers were the bombings, the air raids, the sea attacks, the ambushes, and the snipers’ bullets. To protect themselves against these dangers, they kept their Kalashnikov at hand even while sleeping. As for the natural dangers, they were far more powerful in this region: between steep flanks of towering mountains, deep ravines, sharp rocks, and scorpions and snakes crawling everywhere, danger was lurking all the time. Against these dangers, they could only rely on their instincts and their senses. Kamel had been given instructions: “Look closely where you put your foot. Wherever you are, whether in bed or in a cave, if you feel a foreign body 154

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touching your toes, head, or any part of your body, immediately jump aside. If you manage to be the fastest, then your mother’s prayers are answered.” Faced with the reptiles and their deadly poison, Kamel felt as vulnerable as Achilles: this “barefoot doctor” could save lives and heal the sick, but his weak point remained his heel. He tried hard to protect himself as much as possible, but the task was not easy. Kamel experienced one of the biggest frights of his life during an evening at the beach. He was sitting with friends around a campfire, boiling a pot of tea. He noticed that every now and then, his friends would catch something moving in the sand with their fingers and throw it in the fire. As the conversations continuedlively, he did not give it much attention. But soon, his curiosity was aroused. He looked at the sand around him, trying to find that “moving thing” and saw a scorpion crawling. Terrified he jumped up. Seeing the surprised looks that peered at him, he tried to control his fear and said, stuttering, “I think we are sitting on top of a scorpions’ nest.” They all burst out laughing. One of men said to him “You should not be afraid of scorpions. They crawl towards the fire seeking warmth… and we give them a hand.” Kamel repressed his fear and sat back down. He took his courage in both hands and, like his friends, caught a scorpion coming towards him and threw it quickly into the fire. After a while, his fear emerged again. If this place was infested with scorpions, then the dispensary where he slept was too. He knew that if he did not find a solution for it, this could mean endless 155

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sleepless nights for him. He asked his friends, in a casual tone, “Are these insects as pacifist when they crawl into our beds at night?” He was hoping for a reassuring response. One of them answered: “Scorpions don’t crawl into bed, they crawl under the mattress. Snakes crawl into the bed seeking warmth, but these…” he stopped, catching a scorpion and throwing it in the fireand then continued, “I think we cleaned up the dispensary from the snakes, we killed many there.” He swallowed hard and touched his “Achilles heel”. The fear of snakes did not abandon him throughout his stay in Dhofar. He read all he could about the different species, their behavior and shapes, the venom of each one, as well as the necessary first aid in case of bites. He found out that the viper was more dangerous than the grass snake, and the mountain snake was more dangerous than those of the plains. At night, he would not get into bed before turning it upside down and inside out, and inspecting every corner of the room. Even when he dozed, his sleep was haunted by snakes. He recalls one morning while he was sitting on the floor with Doctor Marwan and some workers at the dispensary, when he felt something soft move under him. He jumped up like a jack in the box and started hopping around. The only thing he saw was his bottom’s imprint. The jumping incidents occurred often. During one of the rounds in the eastern region, they spent their night in a dark narrow cave between rocks, with Rafic Salem Al Attar, a poet of the revolution. Doctor Kamel put his Kalashnikov aside and lay down by the members of the medical team and their host, 156

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while the other family members lay at the other side. He was exhausted and immediately fell asleep. During the night, he woke up suddenly to the feeling of something touching his toes and crawling up his leg. Terrified, he thought, “It’s a mountain snake, the most dangerous kind.” He sprang up screaming, waking everybody up. The first lights of the creeping dawn showed them a small kitten that had come in, trying to warm up against his body. During all his stay in Dhofar, he never saw a single snake.

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The Death of the Fisherman’s Son The whole world is drowning in tears Life is a long confrontation with death But the day of salvation will inevitably come The doctor remembered these verses by Nicolai Ostrovsky when he looked at the face of the young boy lying on the floor in a pool of blood. He was no more than sixteen years old; his friends had carried him on their shoulders from the central region. He had been hit by shrapnel in the head during a raid on their camp by a British Hawker Hunter. His friends had tried to stop the bleeding by bandaging his head with a piece of cloth before carrying him to the dispensary. When they arrived, he had lost most of his blood. There was no surgical facility at the dispensary. All they could do was clean up his wound and give him a morphine shot to ease his pain before transporting him to the hospital in Aden. When they reached the dispensary at four in the morning, he was coming to his senses from time to time, trying to utter a few words. He might have smiled when he saw them from behind his closing eyelids. Kamel took his hand and told him: “Don’t worry, you will live. We will transport you by plane to the hospital and you will make it.” The boy’s hand was 158

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cold as he held it, and when he died, Kamel felt a cold chill go through his body. The son of a fisherman! The doctor knew fishermen in Saida and used to fish with their sons. His fifteen year old friend Khaled never went to school. He would accompany his father, a fisherman, on his fishing trips. Khaled and Kamel spent the weekends in the harbor, enjoying the weekly dose of fresh sardines or seasonal fish. They were both fond of stories of treasures lying at the bottom of the sea off the coast of Saida and Sour. Khaled would dream of buying modern diving equipment and going to look for sunken ships. He would say: “I never read history, but my grandfather used to tell us about the treasures of Alexander the Great and the Italian galleons, laden with gold and gems, sunken off the coast of Lebanon. Once, he told us about a sunken city, the old Saida. It was an island surrounded by the sea. It sank after it was hit by an earthquake. It is still there under the sea, full of priceless treasures.” The Lebanese fisherman’s son was full of dreams, as was the Omani fisherman’s son. The revolution had given him the chance to make his dreams come true and given him the hope that the day of salvation would inevitably come.

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The Improvised Revolutionary Poetry One evening, Kamel made a list of materials and equipment that were needed at the clinic. At the top of the list was a refrigerator to keep the medicines in and a generator to operate it. Aftersome discussion with Marwan, they decided to ask the command for vaccines against infectious diseases. They would vaccinate everyone, children and adults. They lacked almost all medicine and equipment. Marwan complained: “The Revolution Command treat us like a short pit stop, a waiting room before transporting the wounded and the sick to the hospital of Al Ghaydahand then to Aden or socialist states’ hospitals. The doctor here is only a kind of intermediary with the task of exporting the wounded or dead. It is necessary to correct this perception; we need to help each other in that.” His criticism of the revolution command was harsh, but it was evident that Marwan was frustrated. Kamel tried to boost his morale. “Maybe some people in the command thinks that our mission is to only spread health awareness among the citizens. It is easy to dissipate this misconception.We shall write to them; maybe this list will show them that our mission is field work and not just explaining health and hygiene rules and theories.” Marwan agreed and said: “Don’t you think that, 160

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with the money we can save by treating the wounded and sick here, we can build a modern hospital? Furthermore, when we send our wounded for treatment abroad, people think that our revolution is financed by oil money. The revolution must be sincere with its people; it must tell them the truth that it is poor. This is how the Russian Bolshevik party stood up to the Kerensky government in 1917 after Kerenskyalmost triumphed in drowning the people in unfulfilled promises.” Marwan seemed to have recovered his sense of combat. Kamel left him and walked to the tent of the wounded from which melodic music was emerging. It was in that tent that he spent most of his evenings. Revolutionary songs written and interpreted by comrade Abu Aref were recorded there. Among Abu Aref’s repertoire was a song entitled “The Martyr”. The song had a strange story to it. Abu Aref recalls it: “While I was in the Eastern region, I felt the urge to urinate. I went out, it was pitch dark. I found a small rock and climbed on it to avoid splashing my feet. Once relieved, I went back to the tent. The next morning I felt the same urge. I went out and headed to the same rock, when I discovered the atrocity that I had committed: I had done my business on a monument constructed over the grave of a martyr. To make penance, I stayed three days without eating; then I composed a poem in which I implored the forgiveness of the martyr. I put the poem to music, and it became a hymn.” Kamel does not remember the lyrics, but it was a cry from a heart thirsty of martyrdom. 161

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During the day, the wounded and sick were treated in the tent, but at night, it became a socializing hub. There, Kamel met many comrades from well-known families from the Gulf countries. Most of them had come from Qatar and Bahrain to take part in the armed struggle. He also met slaves who had escaped from the Sultan’s palace and joined the revolution. One evening, an old man from the local area joined them. He recited a poem by Al Salimi, one of the old Omani sheikhs. Kamel remembers the following lines: Cunning is the weapon of nowaday Christians And we are not even aware They conquer us by dupery And this is stronger than canons While the old man’s intention was to share with the comrades their hostility towards the British, historically labeled as “Christians”, this was met with cries of indignation: “Don’t say the Christians!” Abu Aref stepped in, saying “I am going to put this poem in music, but I will replace the word Christians by the word Kisra(1).” The idea was met with enthusiastic applause even by the old man himself. There was no need for the revolution to apologize to Sheikh Al Salimi; after the poem was put in music, it became one of its hymns. (1) There are a number of different versions of the legend with Kisra sometimes being depicted as a religious and military rival to Muhammad near Mecca around the time that Islam was founded.

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Just as Abu Aref’s specialty was revolutionary songs, comrade Abdallah’s specialty was political anecdotes. No evening would end without listening to a few of them. Among his best ones was a story from the civil war in Northern Yemen, between republicans and royalists. A young republican soldier, manning a road block stopped a man riding his donkey. He said: “Halt! Are you a republican or a royalist?” The man excused himself, took his donkey aside, and came back. “I am a republican,” he said. “Why did you take your donkey aside?” asked the soldier. “My donkey is a royalist, and I am afraid he will denounce me.” Another one of his anecdotes was about a man who found out that his neighbor was drinking wine. He repeatedly asked him to stop, but to no avail. So he disguised his three children as angels, covering them from head to toe with white sheets, leaving only two holes for the eyes. They sneaked into the neighbor’s house in the middle of the night and woke him up screaming and shouting, threatening him that he would burn in hell if he did not confess his sins. Terrified, he fell on his knees crying, and said: “I confess I drank wine.” The children said: “Abstain from drinking wine. What else?” “In the past, when I was young, I used to sleep with my neighbor’s wife when he went to work,” he said. Appalled, the children ran home. “Mission accomplished?” asked the father. The eldest answered: “Yes father, we went to his house as angels but came back as sons of a b….” Political humor was a weapon that spread like wildfire. 163

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The Revolutionary Does Not Count the Dead “If you kill in your own name, you are a criminal, but if you kill in the name of the party, you are a revolutionary.” Kamel does not remember where he read this sentence, but it dawned on him in Hadeb, when he met Talal and Abu Hamed whilst on his way to attend a seminar about the trials of counter revolutionaries and collaborators. During the conversation, Abu Hamed said that a comrade was asked about the number of counter revolutionaries and collaborators he had put an end to. “I do not know. It is the revolution that punishes the traitors, not I.” The comrade in question was a revolutionary, not a criminal. Any responsibility for the deaths was incumbent on the revolution, and he wasregarded as perfectly innocent and did not have to count the number of those he killed. Hearing that, Kamel felt a heavy weight on his chest. He remembered the play The Righteous by Albert Camus, which perfectly illustrates such a dilemma. One of the characters, Stepan Fedorov, spent years in prison where he was tortured, killed and ordered to kill without any hesitation, while Ivan Kaliayev, a poet, could not throw the bomb at the carriage of the Grand Duke Sergei 164

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Alexandrovich. The Grand Duke’s nephew and niece were on board. The plot to kill the Grand Duke failed and Stepan lost his temper, accusing Kaliayev of letting his personal feelings interfere with his revolutionary convictions. But this kind of dilemma seemed so irrelevant in this region, where the absolute and exemplary hero remained Stepan. This conversation left Kamel perplexed. The seminar was organized by the Popular Front and the National Front. The delegate of the Popular Front was Ali El Hajj, a member of the local Executive Committee, accompanied by Abu Kamel who was responsible forweaponry, whilst being a poet in his free time. The delegate of the National Front was the officer Saeed Khalifah, member of the revolutionary tribunal. Kamel noticed that the subject provoked a heated debate, quite different from the discussions that took place during political conferences in which theory was predominant. Dozens of men and women from Hadeb came to attend the meeting. Many speakers took the floor to express their support of the trials, including Saeed Khalifah, who pointed out that the Front law was perfectly clear: “Any person guilty of treason is liable of the death penalty. Anyone who joins the ranks of the enemy or assists in collecting information about the revolution or denounces the activists is guilty of treason.” The discussion was open, but few participants dared to tackle, even with great caution, delicate issues, like the question of exemption from the death penalty for those who had deviated from the path of revolution, misled by tribal leaders, particularly in 165

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the Asharqiyah area, if they reintegrated into the ranks of the revolution. The answers consisted mostly in further clarification on the absolute necessity to use capital punishment on those who were defecting because they were considered even more dangerous than the enemy. Hence, the real subject of the debate was the old comrades who had defected. According to information circulating, the revolution had begun effecting the death sentences after the “Hamrin Conference”(1) in 1968. Thus a number of commanders of the Popular Front for the Liberation Dhofar were executed, including Saeed Bin Ahmad Jaidi, the former secretary general of the Front. Executions followed one after another to a record peak in 1971, which included a large number of comrades and a number of leaders and military commanders. The participants at the conference were on the defensive, and the excessive zeal and enthusiasm they showed was an indicator of a looming crisis, although it had still not been declared. The seminar ended with cheers to the Democratic Yemen,to the revolution in Dhofar and with death slogans against the deserters and traitors, followed by a march during which participants raised their rifles in the air and chanted revolutionary songs. Kamel was left with a bitter taste in his mouth. (1) Conference organized in Hamrin in Dhofar that changed the program of the revolution and changed the name “Dhofar Liberation Front “into “Popular Front for the Liberation of the Occupied Arabian Gulf” with the preponderance of the Marxists-Leninists as leaders of the revolution.

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He was sure that something was not right, but he could not tell exactly what it was. He remembered a book he had read during his studies in France. The book was about the revolution against Portuguese colonialism in Mozambique(1), an African country on the border of South Africa, governed at the time by the British throne. The book talked about a group of revolutionaries who went on a mission to Moscow, where they trained for two years before going back to start the revolution. They started annihilating the witchdoctors of the tribes as they considered sorcery as incompatible with dialectic thought and scientific materialism. Moreover, the revolutionaries considered that witchdoctors were either collaborating with the colonial power, or trying to reinforce their power and their influence on the population. The revolution broke out, but it failed to gain ground and was squashed. Another delegation was sent to China on a similar mission and came back after two years to declare war on the colonialists. Its first initiative was to assemble all the witchdoctors of the tribes for a series of meetings. They were given the red book to read and were assigned with organizing volunteers and a delegation of representatives to participate in all revolution command councils. Within six months the revolution was declared in 1964 and spread all over the country. After weeks of rounds in the mountains of Dhofar, and dozens of meetings with the people living in grottos and huts, (1) Mozambique took its independence in 1975. It was then run by a MarxistMaoist government.

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Kamel could not help but compare the revolutionaries of this region with those of the forests of Mozambique. And although the Omanis were known for their practice of witchcraft, it was the sheikh who ruled the tribes and not the witchdoctors as was the case in Mozambique. Even though Kamel’s comrades were inspired by the Maoist experience in China and rejected Soviet revisionism, in their attempt to cut corners, they declared war on the tribal system. They considered the tribal sheiks enemies and deprived them of all authority, going as far as executing some of them. This later gave Sultan Qaboos(1)the opportunity to consolidate his power after overthrowing his father. One of the first decisions of his reign was to restore the tribal chiefs’ power; he even offered them a salary. In 1970, this policy proved fruitful as it sparked a divisionary movement in the eastern regions of Dhofar where a number of influential sheikhs united, formed troops like the Salaheddine division and rallied the Sultan to fight old comrades. It certainly was not in solidarity with those who had defected that Kamel felt bitter, but in fear of seeing the revolution hurry to cut corners. Maybe there was another, deeper reason that was coming back to Kamel from his childhood in South Lebanon; he saw in (1) Qābūs bin Sa’īd ‘Āl Sa’īd; born 18 November 1940 is the Sultan of Oman. He rose to power after overthrowing his father, Said bin Taimur, in a palace coup in 1970. He is the 14th-generation descendant of the founder of the Al Bu Sa’idi dynasty.

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the faces of the comrades in Dhofar the faces of his compatriots, the faces of the people of Khiyam. He started thinking of what it means to defect. In the aftermath of the Nakba(1) in 1948, certain names kept coming up in every conversation. These persons were smuggling, with the help of the border police, food supplies and other merchandise to the Israeli settlers. This smuggling was all the more surprising as the Southerners felt great compassion and deep solidarity with the Palestinians in their misfortune, some of whom, forced into exodus, had taken refuge in Khiyam and settled there. Despite these circumstances, the villagers spoke of these “smugglers” in a rather neutral tone, with a strand of resentment sometimes, but not more. “They are poor, they have children to raise. All that they want is to make a living.” These arguments were engraved in Kamel’s mind since his childhood. He could never justify defection or collaboration with the enemy, but he had learned not to have a definite, irrevocable opinion, and rather to take into account the nuances and subtleties of life. He preferred to see the positive side of things rather than the negative, to favor light over darkness, and to lean towards pardon rather than revenge. Such a deliberate choice in life was not always easy. “I constantly felt that I was walking on a tight rope,” he explains. This choice exposed him to being accused of rationalizing treason. He remembers once when he was on guard duty all (1) The 1948 Palestinian exodus, also known as the Nakba (“al-Nakbah”, literally “disaster”, “catastrophe”, or “cataclysm”), occurred when more than 700,000 Palestinian Arabs fled or were expelled from their homes, during the 1948 Palestine war.

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night. Marwan spent the evening with him. Taking advantage of the situation, he told him about his perplexity concerning the trials and the executions. He doubted whether this policy was likely to serve the revolution in a society where tribal structures remained strong, and wondered about the possible consequences that the execution of a person could have over his tribe and region. Marwan remained calm and answered: “You seem to forget that the tribal system is the main enemy the revolution aims to fight. We should demonstrate every day that the tribal ties cannot protect anyone, that nothing can prevent a revolutionary from judging his father or his brother, and even executing them if they are accused of treason. I know that such a situation is never easy, but you need to remember that you cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs. And the egg of the tribe is the most dangerous of all.” Marwan was like this revolutionary who did not count the dead. Kamel remembered the faces of those “collaborators” in South Lebanon, hanging at the end of a rope, or with their heads blown out by a bullet. That night was peaceful and Kamel lost all desire to continue the conversation. “Killing is not my profession,” he thought. “It is true I carry a Kalashnikov and my finger is on the trigger at all times, but my reason, my heart, and my mind remain in that bag where I put my stethoscope and my scalpel. I am a doctor after all, and the doctor uses a scalpel to save lives. But doesn’t the revolutionary also use his rifle to save lives to insure a decent life for his compatriots and their children?” 170

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“Satisfy their hunger and then apply the legal punishment.” That was the message of Omar Ibn Al Khattab(1)to the Walis(2)when drought and famine had ravaged the country. The people of Dhofar were struggling against disease and hunger due to a two years food blockade imposed on villages by Sultan Saeed bin Taimur. To rationalize treason would be catastrophic, but to rationalize executions would be even worse. Marwan broke the silence. He asked Kamel: “Do you plan on investing yourself in politics when you go back? You know that Che Guevara and many others have chosen politics. When a doctor gets involved in politics he multiplies the efficiency of his role.” When he tried to answer, it was as if he was talking to himself. He said: “Look around you, what do these people living in caves and huts need? The Red Book they were all given will, on a long term, serve its purpose; when they understand it, they will regain their dignity, but before that they have to regain their health. When a child is born in good health, he can serve the revolution better than a child born handicapped or frail. Men are perfectly capable of escaping poverty and underdevelopment by awareness and struggle, but when they get sick, they need a doctor to cure them. This pregnant woman in the cave now needs a doctor more than she does the Red Book. Don’t you think?” (1) Omar Ibn Al-Khattab (Omar the son of Al-Khattab) was one of the most powerful and influential Muslim caliphs in history. (2) A Wali was the governor of a province.

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With this tirade having sprung from his heart like an overflow, Kamel felt relieved of a heavy weight. This question had been torturing him and he could not find an answer to it. Should he build a hospital for the poor or open a branch of a political party or organization; should he build a dispensary for sick children and pregnant women or give up his career as a doctor and join a “revolutionary pit” as Che Guevara did? He continued without waiting for Marwan’s answer. “Look at what we are doing here. We are both doctors and Dhofar is one of the revolutionary pits preached by Guevara. It is true that we both carry Kalashnikovs and that we came here under the banner of the PFLP, but the mission we both came here for does not require too much thought. These revolutionaries and their families suffering from poverty have a pressing need for healthcare infrastructure, an infrastructure that only we are able to build. We do not need to immediately build an army of barefoot doctors as Mao Tse Tung recommends.We can begin by establishing a number of medical centers, by training dozens of young men and women, teaching them to provide nursing care for the wounded and providing the necessary assistance to pregnant women. These nurses can in turn train others. I am inclined to believe that doctors protect revolutionary pits much more than fighters do.” He ended his plea with this fiery defense of the profession he considered a noble and altruistic mission. He knew for sure that his Kalashnikov could not replace his scalpel.

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The Immaturity of the Left... and the General The radio announced that the Popular Front for the Liberation of Oman and the Arabian Gulf had sent a telegram to Baghdad, capital of Iraq, on the occasion of the World Conference of the Committee on Friendship, emphasizing the need to intensify the Omani and Iraqi people’s struggle against colonialism, British American imperialism, and local reactionary forces. “We have nothing to do with the bourgeois governments!” exclaimed Saeed. Yusuf, a nursing aide, replied: “If you are talking about the Iraqi government of Abdul- Salam Arif(1), that government brandishes the slogan of the struggle against reactionary thought, imperialism, and Zionism. It is a nationalist government, although it represents the petty bourgeoisie and certain segments of the middle class. It offers the Front unconditional help, has no influence on our political choices,

(1) Abdul-Salam Mohammad ‘Arif Aljumaily (21 March 1921 – 13 April 1966) was the second President of Iraq from 1963 until his death. He played a leading role in the 14 July Revolution in which the Hashemite monarchy was overthrown on July 14, 1958.

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and does not affect the course of our struggle. After all, not all our friends are Marxists.” They were sipping tea at the dispensary while listening to the news on Radio Aden. “The bourgeois governments will not hesitate to sell us when their interests dictate it,” objected Saeed. “We need to build our alliances with the people, the Palestinian armed struggle, the revolutionaries in democratic Yemen, and with socialist regimes: Cuba, Vietnam, China, and North Korea. These are our true allies. And ultimately, we must rely on ourselves.” Saeed must have been in his fifties, but when asked his age, he would say he did not know. It was the same for many inhabitants of this region. Age was not important, neither were the dates nor the days of the week. But when it came to the struggle or to the revolution, he would jump and start a tirade where “colonialism, Anglo-American and Zionist imperialism” were considered a single enemy and were cursed five times a minute. And even when the Soviet Union began to offer assistance to the Front, he persisted on accusing it of “revisionism”, assuring that “such aid comes from the people, not the Kremlin.” Saeed followed a one-way path from which he never deviated. Was he an example of revolutionary purity, as some comrades described him, or was he a living symbol of that “leftist immaturity” over which so much ink has been spilled, thinkingthat the word “compromise” is blasphemy? In any case, Saeed remained a ferocious fighter and a tough activist. 174

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After having listened to the news and to the two comrades’ conversation, Kamel headed to Al Hawf with Abu Hamed and Mousallem, the military responsible of the quarantine service, to visit the new office of the Front, the old one having been destroyed by an air raid. The office was actually one room. Jumaan Salem, the responsible in the National Command Office, told them that thirty British Hawker Hunters had landed at the Salalah airbase, and that they expected the spring air raids to be more intense than those of the previous years. Comrade Mousallem commented: “We have received three anti-aircraft artillery pieces lately, so we now have seven in total. Their air raids on the camp will not be a joy ride for them.” Abu Hamed took a pack of White Cow cigarettes that were distributed twice a week from his pocket. He lit one and they all headed to the beach. Mousallem asked Kamel: “Is your aim better now?” “Of course” said Kamel, laughing. “I recently fired two rounds.” The two men asked him to prove himself. They prepared their weapons, chose targets on the beach and each one fired two shots. Mousallem hit both targets, Abu Hamed hit one, and Kamel needed a hunting dog to find where his two rounds ended up. When he went back to the dispensary that evening, he found out that Marwan had fired Youssef, the assistant nurse, after a fight they had had. He added, trying to justify his decision: “This boy will never be a true revolutionary, even if he spends 175

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his whole life reading Marx, Lenin, and Mao Tse Tung. He is obtuse and insubordinate. He does not obey orders.” It was not Marwan the doctor who spoke to Kamel, but the general, the police commissioner, and the politician all at once. Kamel knew Youssef; he was a farmer and a shepherd in the mountains. He had told Kamel that he had joined the ranks of the revolution because he could not afford a dowry to get married. “The decision of the revolutionaries to lower the dowry to 12 Rials has opened the door for me” he explained. “Now I can get married and have children.” Youssef had attended literacy classes until the sixth grade, and though he still found it difficult to decipher the names of medicine in foreign languages, he was not discouraged and kept trying. This incident irritated Kamel. He said to Marwan: “We need Youssef, we don’t have enough nurses. And do you think quarrelling with someone and firing him is revolutionary behavior? There are no molds to put people in and turn them into perfect revolutionaries. We teach them and learn from them, we walk with them not lead them. This is what I learned from the Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine, of which we are both members. There is no revolutionary act without revolutionary thought. And this principle means clarity of vision in reality and on the ground, not only for us but also for others, before taking any action.” Kamel spoke calmly. He had learned to suppress his anger, to the point that he felt pain in his spine. He continued, laughing to ease the tension. “Will you let me attempt a mediation that 176

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would preserve your dignity and allow Youssef to keep his job?” “Let him work with you,” Marwan answered dryly, “I don’t want him to work with me.” And he retired to his room. Kamel smiled. Marwan had given him half consent, and that was the first step towards compromise. Kamel admits that he is a man of compromise, and on the social front, compromise is his mission. He knows that the revolutionary does not compromise his principles, but principles are agreed upon with the aim of helping people achieve happiness. . The difference lies in the means, and compromise does not cancel difference nor does it cancel those with different means or different opinions. It builds bridges, narrow or wide, long or short. Its mission is to maintain those bridges as places for the meeting of different parties. As for severing these bridges, it comes only as a last resort, as the final treatment. And, as the doctor he was, Kamel made sure he always started a treatment from its beginning.

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Of Love and War On his birthday, the 11th of February, Kamel proposed to Fatima, laughing, “Listen, they say that you are a first class kamikaze so you should no object to marrying me.” “I’ll marry you after the revolution’s victory,” she replied in a teasing tone. “And don’t say I am a kamikaze. It’s true that I do stupid things, but we all do. After the triumph of the revolution, I will marry you and we will stay together.” He objected her suggestion. “No, we get married and go to Beirut in a few weeks. I won’t let you walk barefoot; I will buy you six pairs of shoes, French shoes. Your parents will be thrilled to see you parade these mountains in French-made shoes.” She answered, seriously: “I can assure you they will avoid me like the plague. Even my mother would not come near me. Do you know why?” Without waiting for his answer she continued: “Because shoes are for lepers, dear Doctor. When someone has leprosy, it is our custom to isolate him in a cave, far from people. He sleeps there and food is delivered to him and left in an agreed spot. When the leper comes to take his meal, everybody moves away, leaving the greatest distance possible between him and them. People here think that leprosy 178

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is also transmitted by air. The leper has to wear shoes to move around, because his footprints could be contagious. Now do you understand why my parents wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t welcome me with open arms if I went back to them wearing your French shoes?â&#x20AC;? In the softness of twilight, the comrades were sitting on rocks overlooking the Arabian Sea, with the desert sands behind them. They watched the setting sun, listening to the incomprehensible babble of women and girls in Amharic(1). They sang an African song. Charmed by the melody, he began singing and clapping along with them. Fatima was sitting on a rock next to Kamel.

S h e

looked like a mermaid, with her copper complexion, her velvety skin, her full cheeks, her supple and firm waist, her jet black eyes, and her hair falling over her shoulders. He felt that she was closer to him than any girl he had known in France, even Brigitte whom he had loved. Was it the wind of revolution blowing and ravaging the hearts in its path? Fatima had only her rifle and her nonsense that she brandished in the face of death as she tried hard to build herself a better future. Like her, he only had his medical degree, his stethoscope, some scalpels, and the anguish that he carried from South Lebanon to the south of the Arabian Peninsula in his quest for a better future for humanity. At that moment, he realized that the relationships between those who have nothing are the real human relationships. They are not hindered by the chains of ownership and the constraints of social classes. Here, love comes from the heart, not from (1) Semitic dialect spoken in Ethiopia by the majority of the population.

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a luxury car, a lavish apartment, or even French shoes. Love is a total and absolute gift of oneself, which only people who have nothingare capable of giving. She asked him, breaking the silence: “Do you have to leave? You know I love you, I don’t care if we get married, what unites us does not need papers or witnesses. I love you and want you to stay… You know I can’t go with you.” He could see in her eyes how sincere she was. He knew that if Fatima left her mountains she would die like a fish out of water. But could he stay here with her, on the banks of this eternity, tormented by the dreams of all these sailors, fishermen, shepherds, peasants and freed slaves? He knew deep inside that both activism and love were like wandering clouds, without a homeland or roots. When he had volunteered with the revolutionaries in Dhofar, he had made his choice to be with the persecuted wherever they may be. He had rejected the temptations of France, the promises of Canada, and the attraction of the posh quarters of Beirut. He had chosen to stand by the side of the deprived and the poor,oppressed people who carried the dream of a better life at the tip of their rifles. They needed him as much as he needed them; they gave meaning to his life, whether here in the Dhofar mountains, or there in Amel mountain or the plains of the Bekaa and Akkar or the shanty towns surrounding Beirut. He said: “Listen to me Fatima. I am going to tell you something I never told anyone before, I love you, and I may have loved before you, but with you it’s different. It is not chance, but fate that has brought us together

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and I believe in fate. I cannot know what tomorrow or after tomorrow brings. The only thing that I am sure of is that at the gates of my village there is a monster, an enemy of such cruelty and savagery that Arabs have ever seen before in their history. It is an enemy that has been pursuing me relentlessly since my childhood, crouching even in the corners of my dreams. It even threatens my family and loved ones. Your country is in these mountains, you fight your enemy on your land. In my country, there are hundreds of thousands of refugees, exiled by force from their land. They have been there, at the border, waiting, for a quarter of a century. Today, they take up arms, determined to reconquer their lands, their farms, their homes, their most basic rights. I have to help them. What I’m living here in Dhofar is an experience for me, but home, to me, is there.” He thought he saw tears in Fatima’s eyes. “I will always love you,” he added. He wanted to hold her in his arms, but he held back, as if France’s habits had suddenly become strange to him. “I don’t want to get married, I don’t love you, I just like you, that’s all.” He had said that to all the girls in France except Brigitte. Here and now, he was in love again, and as with Brigitte in the past, love made him chaste. It was a fire that warmed his heart far from the thrill of desire. He was no puritan; he had repeated the verses of the poet Adonis “Blessed be the Lord Body”. But here, with Fatima, in this country lost between the sharp peaks of high mountains and the vertiginous cliffs that plummeted into the sea, sheer nature instilled in him its purity. 181

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His soul opened to feelings and emotions that his body could not translate. “When do you plan on leaving?” asked Fatima. “In a few weeks, maybe in a few months,” he answered. “I am going away in two days, but I won’t be long, I’ll come back to see you.” He took her hand and pressed it in his. He felt he was holding the world in his palm. He did not get to say goodbye. She left in the morning with a group of fighters. They were heading towards the eye of the storm in the eastern region, where the fighting was at its heaviest.

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The Autumn of the Patriarch Lying on his mattress at dawn, he felt lice crawling on his body.He scratched himself to relieve the itching then went back to sleep. When he had shaved his head, he thought he would deprive the lice from a hatching ground, but he was wrong. A single hair on the body was enough for them to lay their eggs. Suddenly he heard the boom of anti-aircraft artillery. He jumped up, grabbed his Kalashnikov, and ran outside. The artillery was firing from different position at a target in the sky. Someone shouted: “It’s a British Hawker Hunter, disperse and take cover!” It was not the first time that the British fighter jets had appeared in the sky of Al Hawf. They had bombed the town in the past, destroying the offices of the Popular Front, the Lenin school, and the water wells, as well as decimating entire herds. “Disperse and take cover” was the order to minimize casualties in the event of air raids. “They are on a reconnaissance mission,” someone said while they watched the plane fly away towards Salalah. The tension eased, but they remained on alert. Such scouting out of the area could be a prelude for bombing raids. Kamel hurried to the “brax” and started putting all the medicine in a crate that he could carry away in the event of a

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raid. The medicines were his most precious possession in such moments. They gathered near the dispensary that night to drink tea in the open air. Fatima was there and he only had eyes for her. Saeed Zeydan, a member of the Popular Front executive committee tried to summarize the current military situation: â&#x20AC;&#x153;The revolution is fighting three armies: the British Special Forces, the Iranian elite troops, and the local army composed mainly of Baloch soldiers recently reinforced by traitors and collaborators. Their aim is to empty the area of inhabitants in order to better isolate the revolutionaries and decimate them. For that purpose, Sultan Qaboos has adopted the policy of the carrot and the stick: he has intensified the air raids andis killing livestock, burning crops, and destroying water wells to force the inhabitants to flee. He is coaxing the local population with material lures, paying monthly salaries to the notables of the tribes, putting converts in positions of power, and even offering free weekly flights from Salalah to Muscat. The Sultan has promised to modernize the country and to ensure prosperity and welfare to all its inhabitants, but up until now, these promises have been nothing but empty words.â&#x20AC;? Saeed confessed that the fall of the Ho Chi Minh path that linked the eastern, central, and western regions together and was used for the transportation of supplies had intensified the pressure on the revolutionaries; but he assured them that they had regained their determination and had even made some breakthroughs, managing to break the imposed blockade and 184

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to pass supplies on camel backs under an escort of more than 600 fighters, which had greatly attenuated the effect of the fall of the path. However, the main objective of the occupation armies was to cut the lines of supply of the sixth governorate. For that reason, the military base of Sarfit had been established just west of western Dhofar. From that base, attacks on Al Hawf and Hadeb could be launched in preparation for the occupation of the coast, which was the demarcation line between Dhofar and the sixth governorate of democratic Yemen. “For our part,” explained Saeed, “we are trying to consolidate our positions in Asharqiyah region of Jebel Samhan and Hasek. I believe that, for the time being, they will stick to bombarding us and landing troops to attack our positions that overlook the sea, given that they are unable to carry the cost of the occupation.” During the troubled years of the revolution, Dhofar lived two autumns: the autumn of the mountains and the “Autumn of the Patriarch”. The autumn of the mountains spanned from June to September and coincided with the spring of the revolution. The monsoon blowing from the Indian Ocean carried clouds from the west to the mountains. A veil of mist and drizzle covered the area and transformed it into a thick forest protecting the fighters, who could then move without fear of being spotted by the RAF. The British forces tried in vain to establish bases in the mountains. When the fall started; they were forced to retreat 185

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under the attacks of the revolutionaries. “General Autumn” was the ally of the revolution. Dhofar also lived through the “Autumn of the Patriarch”, the autumn of Said bin Taimur. The strange events occurring in the world of the “Patriarch” as depicted by the famous author Gabriel Garcia Marquez in his book was were almost similar to the world of the oriental dictator. What an extravagant world was that of this oriental despot! It was impossible to separate fact from fiction. Mohamed El Hajj, alias Abu Nasser, member of the executive committee of the Popular Front, and one of the first revolutionaries recalls his memories: “The first operation of the revolution was the thwarted assassination attempt against the Sultan, after which Said bin Taimur issued a series of orders such as: the prohibition to wear glasses, to walk in twos in the street, or even to open the windows of houses. These decisions were added to a long list of prohibitions, the most notorious of which were: the prohibition to play football, to ride bicycles, to wear western style trousers, to wear shoes, to own electric batteries, and to listen to a radio except with a license. One day, a tribal notable listened to a ‘licensed’ radio with members of his tribe. When the Sultan found out, he had the notable thrown in jail because he had allowed his tribe’s members to listen to the radio with him. The most annoying prohibitions were the need for a special authorization to travel abroad or even to go from one town to the other, the banning of entering the capital Musqat after 186

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ten PM, or walking in the street at night without carrying an ‘official’ torchlight. As for smoking and drinking alcohol, they were serious breaches of public order.” Like Marquez’s tyrant, Said bin Taimur remained hidden up in his fortress in Salalah, which he had made his permanent residence after the assassination attempt. He spent fifteen long years without making public appearances. During his final years he completely disappeared until the palace coup occurred. The revolution at that time was trying to breathe life back into a country numbed by the “autumn of the Patriarch”. Abu Nasser said: “The revolution started when a group of comrades went up to the mountains, armed with only seven old rifles and two daggers. In the beginning, the mountaineers were afraid of them and refused to help them or give them shelter. They were accustomed to the uprising of the tribes against the wali(1) for an injustice. But it was not the case with these comrades who did not even belong to the same tribe. The revolution was announced, but it was not led by the tribal leaders. The people did not understand that until the insurgency was officially launched on June 9, 1965. For the first time in the history of Oman and the Gulf, authorities found themselves unable to mount the tribes against each other, because they had all already risen. The revolutionary pits were spreading from Dhofar to Djebel Al Akhdar, and further north to Ra’s Musandam in the Strait of Hormuz.”

(1) Similar to a local governor

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Abu Nasser went quiet for a moment then said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Believe me my friends; it is impossible for the revolution to fail. It might weaken, it might lose, but it will not fail. We have succeeded to topple Said bin Taimur, which is a great achievement. We have forced the occupier to fight our program with a similar program that implements our claims: the construction of hospitals, streets, and schools, the abolition of taxes, the cancellation of prohibitions... and this too is an achievement.But our greatest achievement will be the triumph of the revolution and the unification of the Arabian Gulf, with the support of the United Democratic Yemen.â&#x20AC;? In this arid region on the confines of the Arabian Peninsula, frankincense trees raised their knotty branches skyward, pearled with dreams that perfumed the air...

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The Tamer of Leprosy While he was on his way to one of the villages in his round, Kamel received a telegram from a comrade: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Kamelâ&#x20AC;Ś we are sorry to inform you that your brother, Judge Ahmad, was involved in a serious car accident in which two of his colleagues died. Ahmad was taken to the hospital with injuries in his lung and leg.â&#x20AC;? He dropped his bag and went back to the clinic. He read the telegram over and over again. If two passengers were killed, it meant that the accident was very serious and his brother was in danger. He tried to think of a way to call his family, but for that he had to go to Aden to place an international call. The round trip required fifteen days, and he only had two weeks to complete the ongoing first aid session. He had always felt a special kinship with his brother Ahmad. Kamel saw in him an ideal to follow and admired his ability to build and earn friendship and respect. But no matter how much he worried, he could not do much for his brother, but here, he could help tens and hundreds of patients who urgently needed medical care. He had no illusions: he was not going to change the world, but he could make a difference. He had toured this entire arid, mountainous region; visiting all the inhabitants in all the villages, treating a great number;he had distributed thousands 189

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of medications andhad helped women to deliver their babies in good health. He stood up, took his bag, and walked out of the clinic towards the mountains, accompanied by Mohammad Atef and Ahmad Bakhit. This time his purpose was to look for lepers. What Fatima had told him about their situation foreshadowed a world of superstitions and prejudices in relation to lepers, which he had himself believed, until he had done his research and found out more about the subject. Last year, while preparing for his first trip to Aden, he had accompanied some Popular Front leaders from Beirut to Damascus. One of them had very clear leprosy scars on his face and hands, and had insisted on greeting them all with a warm nose to nose. Fearing to offend him, they abided by this Omani custom, resigning themselves to receiving his breath straight up the nose and even the mouth. Wanting to address the subject without hurting anyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feeling, Kamel asked if the same greeting was also used between men and women. The comrades laughed at the idea, but that did not calm his fears. It is true that the comrade had healed, and that he no longer posed any risk of contagion, but fears obey no logic. They dig their devious paths into the darkness of the mind, like a mole. We are made aware of its presence by the little mounds of darkness that it throws back, without ever seeing it. His apprehensions did not abandon him during his visit. Once back in Beirut, he rushed to the medical encyclopedias, looking to read up on leprosy. He discovered that, like all infectious diseases, it is transmitted through touch

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or by using the patient’s objects. It is enough to isolate the leper in a room and wear gloves and a mask to protect oneself from contagion. To exile a leper in a far-away cave without providing treatment would be a death sentence, with a torture period that could last many long and painful years. They visited Salem Al Attar, a poet of the revolution. He was waiting for them in his cave with his wife Fatima, his son Ahmad, a comrade “Fireplace”, and a few others whose names Kamel could not remember. They ate dinner in the moonlight, and then Salem started singing popular songs until late in the night. Before going to sleep, Kamel asked Salem if there were any cases of leprosy in the area. “There is only one that I have heard about. It is an old woman living in a cave three hours up in the mountain.” In the morning they took to the road. Kamel explained to Atef and Bakhit the purpose of their round. At the mention of the word leprosy, they both froze. Bakhit broke the silence: “The only difficulty is to find her and know if she is still alive. The people here banish the lepers far away. I hope someone can show us the way to the cave where she is.” Bakhit was a young man from the Al Chakhra tribe, which had been among the unprivileged tribes before the revolution. He performed the tasks assigned to him with great zeal, showing great finesse and intelligence. He was about to finish his twoweek first aid training. When they reached the top of the mountain, they found caves and some huts. Women were chatting and laughing. 191

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There were no men in sight. Kamel asked if there were any sick people who needed help. One of the women showed him a little girl standing at the door of a hut and told him something in Amharic. Bakhit translated: “The little one suffers from scabies.” He examined the girl. Her scalp was infested with scabies and lice ravaged certain parts of her body. His experience of common diseases in the region and his personal experience had taught him that lice and scabies go together. Lice crawled, and scabies followed in their wake. He himself had paid the price when he had once spent four consecutive days touring the villages, sleeping in caves where other men had slept sharing these makeshift shelters that housed all kinds of insects. He had panicked at first then had grown accustomed to the idea, waiting to go back to the clinic in order to proceed with the treatment of his new guests. Atef took the initiative and asked the women if they knew where they could find the leper. There was a silence, and then a young woman answered in Amharic. Bakhit translated: “She says there is indeed a leper, she lives in a cave on the other side of the mountain.” The woman showed them a trail winding down between the folds of the mountain to their left. Aref asked: “Can one of you accompany us to show us the place?” They hesitated for a moment then a young woman volunteered. They walked for about thirty minutes. The young woman stopped, pointed to a cave, and walked back leaving them to continue alone. Kamel asked the two men to wait for him 192

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and walked alone towards the cave. He did not do that to be courageous, but simply because he had only one pair of medical gloves and one face mask with him. He stopped at the entrance of the cave. A putrid odor, similar to the smell of a decomposing corpse, suffocated him. Was she dead? He noticed an inert black heap in a corner. Kamel said in a loud voice: “I am a doctor. Are you ill?” The heap didn’t budge. He approached it and said: “I am a doctor… médecin… dakhtar…” When he said it in the local dialect, he noticed the black heap moving. He stepped forward and froze at the sight of her. The entire right side of her face was completely eaten away by the disease. The jaw was covered by thin, stretched skin. He thought for a moment to run away, escaping that terrifying nightmare. The case of the woman was hopeless; he could not do anything for her. She was going to die however much he tried to help her. She slowly sat up uttering words he did not understand. He moved closer and told her, pointing at the mask on his face, “Dakhtar… dakhtar,” and asked her to accompany him to the cave entrance. She did not seem to understand. He walked towards the entrance and motioned to her: “Come… come.” She slowly followed him. His hope grew stronger with each step she took. “She might survive. Maybe the disease has not done irreversible damage yet, maybe I can save her” he thought. Once outside he pointed to a flat surface of dirt and asked her to lie on her back. He was trying to communicate with her in sign language, but she seemed to understand Arabic 193

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and immediately did what he asked of her. As he bent over her to examine her chest, she stared at him with such a heartrending look that moved him deeply. The left side of her body was normal, but the right side was plowed with deep lesions. The stench of death dissipated in the open air. A fresh wind was blowing. He searched her face for a moment trying to guess her age but could not tell. Her hair, still black, indicated that she was not yet in her forties. He took the leprosy medicine out of his medical bag and gave her an injection. For three long hours, he treated the lesions while the woman moaned in pain. When he finished he was dripping with sweat. What to do with her now? Should he take her back to her cave? He sat next to her wondering what to do next. It was unthinkable to abandon her as prey to the world of superstitions. The time when lepers were considered outcasts was over. The revolution had freed the slaves, given women their rights, and broken the chains of the oppressed. It had established absolute equality with no distinction of tribe, class, or region. Could he let superstition and false believes get the best of people and their health? Sitting next to this leper, he knew she was not just a mere medical case, but a bridge between two eras. If he succeeded to continue her treatment within the community, then a great taboo would be broken and with it, the foundations of power which had until then fed on popular superstitions. It was imperative to continue treating this woman. He said to Aref and Bakhit: “I want a stretcher to transport her near an inhabited area. I’ll stay with her.” 194

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He expected his plan to face difficulties and reluctance. But after two hours, he was surprised to see Aref and Bakhit come back with four men and three women carrying a large cow hide. A man called Mohammad said: “We will carry her; we have prepared a place for her.” The girls got busy around the woman without touching her. They kept a distance that showed fear and caution. When they arrived, Kamel asked: “Is it possible to isolate her in a nearby place?” One of the men answered: “Don’t worry, we have prepared a hut nearby for her,” pointing to a hut that was a hundred meters away from the others. Kamel asked: “Do you think the people will accept that? They are not used to living near lepers.” Mohammad answered: “Seeing us near her will give them courage. She has a son, a shepherd. We will send someone to fetch him. We’ll teach him how to take care of her.” Hesitating a moment he added “Do you think she’ll recover?” Kamel knew that the chances of recovery did not exceed thirty percent. But how could he explain to these young people that it was not her recovery that was the issue, but breaking the barriers of superstitions that prevailed in dealing with lepers, and which could consequently mean saving the lives of multiple others in the future. He answered: “Yes, there are very good chances if we take turns to provide her with the necessary care. I will try to visit her every day.” They spent that night near the cave. From time to time, he would enter the cave to make sure she was well. 195

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After the massive dose of tranquilizers he gave her, she slept through the whole night. It was her first night of sleep since she had become sick, a month earlier. Kamel dozed under the stars. Shooting stars crossed the horizon. At that fleeting moment, he thought that yes, he could change the world. He remembered verses by the poet Nicolai Ostrovsky: Man’s dearest possession is life It is given to him but once And he must live it so as to feel no torturing regrets For wasted years Never know the burning shame of a mean and petty past; So live that, dying, he might say: All my life, all my strength Were given to the finest cause in all the world, The fight for the Liberation of Mankind For a whole week, he visited Oum Seif daily. He was pleased to see that the disease was regressing. This was not only due to medication, but to her rising spirits. Surrounded by her son and her neighbors, the woman had regained her will to live. And as he knew from experience, a patient’s spirits are half the treatment. He bade farewell to Oum Seif and the young comrades and then paid a visit to Salem Al Attar on his way back. “I 196

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am going to dedicate a poem to you entitled The Tamer of Leprosy. What you did, my friend, is on everyone’s lips, from here to Asharqiyah. The people here do not stop raving about what you’ve accomplished with this woman. The comrades say that when the revolution can triumph over leprosy, nothing can stand in its way. We shot down a British plane two days ago. It was a great victory for us. But defeating leprosy is a feat that no military action can match. Do you know why? Because it is not the doing of fighters alone, but of the whole society. This is the first time in the history of Dhofar that such a thing has happened. This is huge, my friend, enormous.” Carried away by his enthusiasm, Salem hugged him passionately. Kamel felt that what linked him to this region, its frugal and simple people, was something he could not express. It was as if he had lived with them forever. Kamel felt reborn again, but the time of departure was fast approaching.

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The Mine Blows up Twice During his last days in Dhofar, Kamel had only one concern: to turn the dispensary of Al Hawf into a hospital, ensuring qualified medical teams and equipment, and establishing a health safety network, which would take care of civilians in liberated regions and provide them with the necessary treatment and medicine. He had established a list of diseases prevalent in the region, including lice, scabies, and leprosy, and sought to stockpile medicine and vaccines to counter these. One evening, a delegation of the Executive Committee of the Front came on a surprise visit to the dispensary. They expressed their interest in the initiative that the medical team had started, and the possibility of developing it. Kamel felt that the seeds they had planted were starting to bear their fruits. He said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;If the objective of the enemy is to empty the liberated regions from their inhabitants in order to isolate the revolutionaries and quash the revolution, then our objective is clear. We must provide medical care for inhabitants in their areas of residence. And while the enemy concentrates on mining the mountain paths, destroying the water wells, killing the herds, and burning the crops, we shall provide health care for these people and their children, increase our illiteracy eradication sessions, offer whatever assistance we can to fishermen and peasants, 198

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and transform the “people’s council” into workshops among civilians.” He also added “The enemy outperforms us with the destructive weapons it has recently received, but we are still ahead in building civil society and its foundations: education, health, and eradication of poverty. This will encourage people to remain rooted in their land. Leaving will no longer be an option if we provide them with these services.” A member of the delegation said: “You know that our possibilities are very limited, but maybe we can equip the hospital. It is the closest point to the battle fields and we have many casualties which we cannot send for treatment abroad.” He was reasoning in “military” terms: the hospital, if equipped, would serve both civilians and combatants. Before the departure of the delegation, Kamel suggested that they campaign with the “Gulf Committees” in Europe and contact NGOs there to get the necessary medicines and equipment for Al Hawf hospital. The idea was approved unanimously. He walked the delegation out. In the horizon, the mountains of Dhofar seemed to smile with life after centuries of deprivation and poverty. The next day, they were invited to dinner by the mayor of Al Hawf, comrade Saeed Bin Othman. After dinner, he offered Kamel a copy of his book “The Vietnamese Revolution”. A discussion started about the hospital, the illiteracy eradication committees, the agricultural committees, and the role of the People’s Council which was at the time called the “Council for Solving the People’s Problems”. Kamel suggested that these 199

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committees include a nurse or a nurse aid, and that they start seasonal vaccination campaigns against contagious diseases. Saeed suggested they follow the example of the Vietcong revolutionaries who had managed to achieve self-sufficiency in rice production. He said that constructing a number of dams would help resist the economic blockade, and dams only needed muscle power and some explosives. He said that small sardines, if packaged and conserved well, could provide a main meal for people, and not only for cows, as was the case then. He recalled that during World War I, harvests of the Salalah plain were sufficient to supply the British armies of the East. In order to reach self-sufficiency, agronomists could help the farmers by teaching them how to make good use of their land and providing them with seeds and pesticides. Discussions about civil society, its needs, and the means needed to support it took up almost the whole evening, until one of the comrades inquired about the military situation of the revolutionaries. The answer was reassuring: three hundred defectors had refused to join the Salaheddine division, composed of traitors. The majority of these three hundred were from the Asharqiyah region. Furthermore, the Iranian unit, which had tried to reinforce its positions on the Ho Chi Minh pass, had suffered heavy losses. The comrades had seized a big quantity of modern weapons, including ammunition and mortars that could reach 17 kilometers. Said added: â&#x20AC;&#x153;We lost Fatima and three of her comrades to a mine explosion in the Asharqiyah region.â&#x20AC;?

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“Fatima the Omari?” cried Kamel. They all looked at him, intrigued by his reaction. “She took first aid courses with me.” he said, explaining. It was as if the mine had exploded again inside him, shattering his heart to pieces. In Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, the old man says to the enormous fish: “You can destroy me but you will never defeat me because man was not born to be defeated.” After days of struggling, the old man managed to catch a huge sword fish that for days dragged his small boat far into the ocean. The old man finally tied the fish to the boat and rowed back to shore. Attracted by this easy prey, sharks started feeding on the fish. Once in the port, the old man was left with nothing but the skeleton. From the window of the plane taking him back from Aden to Beirut via Cairo, Kamel watched the huge skeletons of oil rigs in the desert and along the Gulf coast. Oil was the gigantic fish attracting the voracious sharks from overseas. The only choice the fisherman had was to fight. They could break him, but they could never defeat him, because he was not born to be defeated. In 1980 colonel Tony Gibbs, commander of the British Special Forces in Oman, published a book on the war in Dhofar. He wrote in the introduction: “That war was first and foremost about people. Each of the parties tried to win the support of the people of Dhofar. In the end, the war was won through the 201

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development of civil society, and military action was only a means to this end.â&#x20AC;? That introduction perfectly sums up Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s experience in the mountains of Dhofar. It also does justice to the revolution that had taken up arms in order to build more schools, hospitals, and roads- the foundations of the development policy of civil society.

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Three Cages Three cages awaited Kamel upon his arrival to Beirut airport from Aden via Cairo: political leaders trying to confine him to the cages of their parties, his parents with their various marriage plans and golden cages, and the cage of the luxurious clinic on Corniche Al Mazraa, a “golden egg”, according to his friend Sobhi Hamza, the dentist who suggested partnering up for the project. Each of these cages held its attractions. One evening, a friend spent the whole time flattering his courage. Carried away by his verve and enthusiasm, he chainsmoked a pack of French “Gauloises” cigarettes while recalling Kamel’s “heroic actions at the head of the Union of Lebanese Students in France and actions against the imperialism in Dhofar. He then spoke about his own experience in the political party he belonged to. He asked Kamel: “Do you know that most political, as well as party and syndicate leaders in the world have emerged from student movements? But they were only able to assert themselves after joining a political party, a syndicate, or an organization. I can assure that with your past in politics and as an activist, you will make an excellent leader. You have all the qualifications for that. Furthermore you have something very few others have: charisma.”

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Kamel was not being enticed to be a simple “member” of the party, but a “leader”. The bait was ready and all Kamel had to do was set foot in the cage to get it. He neither accepted nor refused the offer, but said he would think about it. The same scenario repeated itself many times when he met with politicians or party leaders whom he respected. Every time, he was under the impression that they looked at him as a “recidivist” who was only waiting for a signal to swoop in, using all available ammunition. With his past, that image was not entirely unfounded, be it due to his youth in South Lebanon, jeopardizing his future in France, or risking his life in Dhofar, everything he had done till then betrayed a man who lived with his finger on the trigger, like those dark western heroes who never back down from danger. But that wasn’t the whole picture. The doctor was closer to a painting he had seen near the River Seine in Paris where amateur painters gathered. The painting depicted a volcano throwing its lava and ash high into the air, and the lava falling to the bottom of the mountain on a blue lake with lotus flowers blooming in its waters and on its shore. The flowers were “volcanic”, vibrant with colors. Under the painting, carved on a small copper plaque, was the word “adulthood”. The doctor stood mesmerized by the picture for a long while. It was for 40 French Francs, which he could not afford at the time. It had remained engraved in his mind, like that “English bread” in Palestine. He had effectively reached “adulthood” when he had returned to Beirut, deciding to throw his volcanic lava into

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the rivers of blood and tears that flowed from the South of Lebanon to Beirut.His professional relationship would be with the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. As for the second cage, his parents had opened its gates wide. His brother Mohammad tactfully tricked him into visiting a family whose daughter was pursuing a medical degree. He found the girl very attractive: she was pretty, intelligent, and witty. He spent an enjoyable evening there, but once back home, any idea of a relationship dissipated into thin air. The reason was not the girl, but rather her stately family home, furnished with refined taste. Ensuring such a home for his future bride implied the need for him to have a “convenient” career in a luxurious clinic where he would treat high society patients suffering from obesity or diabetes. This was not the lifestyle of a doctor who followed the dream of Che Guevara, or who helped to alleviate the suffering of the people of Dhofar, going from cave to cave looking for those in need who he would treat for free,amassing lice and scabies in return. The family repeated its attempts, especially his mother who, with such adoration for her son who had returned from France, became almost desperate. She told his older brother: “Kamel lived alone in France for ten years. I don’t know what he ate or drank, who washed his clothes, or how he slept. He wants to live alone. My heart bleeds for him. Help him get married.” When his brother relayed his mother’s conversation to him, the doctor’s heart almost bled too. He couldn’t imagine 205

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hurting the feelings of the woman who had carried the burdens of a home bustling with children and visitors.. He told his brother: “Tell her that I will get married as soon as I’m done establishing my private clinic and my marital home,and please fabricate some loving bride who is awaiting me.” After that, his mother’s questions were no longer limited to “when will you get married?” but extended to “when will you be done establishing your clinic and your home?” It was a good bargain; talking about the characteristics of a bedroom and visiting furniture stores was infinitely easier than talking about the characteristics of a bride and knocking on doors looking for her. This solution was not his idea, but that of a friend who had shared his struggle in France. This friend had the habit of responding to any suggestion that was not to his taste: “The idea is good, but to start with we must discuss the prior steps.” Naturally, the discussion never went beyond this. The third cage awaited him in Riviera building on Corniche Al Mazraa, in the heart of Beirut. It was a three-room clinic. His friend, Sobhi Hamza, made him an honest proposal: “You graduated from France, which is rare for doctors here, in Lebanon. Your name and specialty on the door would open new horizons for the clinic. You can choose whichever room you want, and you won’t have to contribute to running costs for the first year.”

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Opening a private clinic had always been a dream for Kamel, just not in a luxury building on Corniche Al Mazraa, but rather in a neglected neighborhood. The communities of those parts were his cause. He would provide them care and medicine, and in return, they would give meaning and purpose to his life.

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… And Three Territories

Khiyam, the Palestinian refugee camps, and the marginalised regionsof Lebanon, these were Kamel’s territories. He worked there, overflowing with happiness. To him, these three places formed the same battle field that only geography divided. From Khiyam to Kfar Chouba, Kfar Hamam to Rachaya al-Foukhar in the South, from Haret Hreik, the camp of Bourj el-Barajneh, and Bir Hassan to the Fakhani neighborhood in Beirut, the capital’s southern suburbs, then Borj Hammoud, Nabaa, and Tal el-Zaatar in North Metn, the poor, the marginalized classes, and the Palestinian resistance populated those areas with their suffering, their pain, and their hopes. When he came back to Khiyam after his ten years spent in France and Dhofar, he did not find the small peaceful village he had left behind. Khiyam now sheltered the Palestinian resistance. It had become the rear base of what was known after

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the famous Cairo agreement(1) as “Fatahland(2)”. The village of his childhood had committedto protect the Palestinian resistance. It had become an open front that enemy artillery and planes regularly pounded. Its houses welcomed the displaced of Arkoub after the Israeli incursion into the area in May 1971, the invasion of the central and eastern areas in February 1972, then the great invasion in September of the same year, which 80 civilian Southerners fell victim to, and which sparked waves of migration to the slums of Beirut. But Khiyam also had a happy side. Dozens of young men and women had completed their university studies and joined parties that went beyond traditional political fractures and feudalism: Communist, Baathist, Syrian Nationalist, and Progressive Socialist after it aligned with the left. Some of those graduates had managed to find jobs, mostly in education, while others went to swell the ranks of the “academic proletariat”, (1) The Cairo agreement or Cairo accord was an agreement reached on 2 November 1969 during talks between Yassir Arafat and the Lebanese army commander General Emile Bustani. Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser helped to broker the deal. Although the text of the agreement was never published, an unofficial (but probably accurate) text appeared in the Lebanese daily newspaper An-Nahar on 20 April 1970. The agreement established principles under which the presence and activities of Palestinian guerillas in Southern Lebanon would be tolerated and regulated by the Lebanese authorities. (2) Fatah Land refers to parts of Southern Lebanon where Palestinian fedayin, driven out of Jordan after the Black September, set up their bases.

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rebelling against a state incapable of offering them work opportunities. Khiyam, like Dhofar during the time of Sultan Said bin Taimur, did not have a single dispensary. The “Sultans” of the capital and the “beys” of the South in Parliament dealt with it, like they did with the other Southern villages, as a territory controlled by the Palestinian resistance, the Arab League, or even the United Nations, as such washed their hands of it, considering it nothing but a project of “scorched land”. There was a dispensary under construction, a project of the socio-cultural club of the village, but construction went at a fickle rhythm, with a few days of work followed by weeks or months of interruption. Kamel took it upon himself to chase after the officials and the concerned parties until the clinic was complete. Meanwhile, he asked his elder brother Mohammad if he could use the clinic he had established in the family home to conduct free consultations. Mohammad approved the plan with enthusiasm. He said that the village needed an army of doctors, not just one, “but it is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness,” he said, smiling enigmatically. Kamel did not understand the allusion. “As you must know,” explained Muhammad, “the patient hangs on to the smallest illusion. But that’s not the problem. It is when the healthy are on the lookout for the smallest illusion as well, the situation gets complicated.” Those were pretty abstract considerations that Kamel could still not comprehend. He did not get the extent of them until he had spent a few weekends at the clinic. He received almost two 210

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hundred patients on Saturdays and Sundays, which had him turn the whole house into a waiting room. At the beginning, he was delighted to see his fellow villagers and those from the surrounding hamlets again, to meet those among them that he did not know, their children, and even their grandchildren. He came to know their health problems, the woes of their love lives, and their financial difficulties. He was their physician, psychologist, mayor, and even counselor for their administrative procedures with the authorities. He was also their mailman, carrying letters and messages between the village and Beirut. He eventually discovered that trying so hard to take the pulse of the country through his patients was dangerous; it encouraged among some a form of addiction to disease: they missed no consultation weekend, even inventing imaginary ails. More importantly, this came at the expense of the real patients who needed real care and regular monitoring. He still remembers a woman, pregnant with her first child, who visited him one day complaining that the baby was constantly kicking. He explained that it was normal for the baby to kick and that it was a sign of vitality. “I sleep next to my husband,” she objected, “and when the baby kicks, my husband wakes up!” “I cannot give the baby sleeping pills to prevent him from kicking at night!” “No, but you can give some to my husband.” He gave her placebo sugar tablets and told her to give one to her husband every night until the baby is born. “After that, your husband will need a whole box when he hears the baby crying.”

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Another day, a man in his fifties came for a consultation. He whispered: “I have a huge problem, Doctor. My wife is possessed by an evil spirit.” “Have you seen it?” asked Kamel. “No, but every time I try to touch my wife, she shrieks. It is the demon showing its jealousy.” “How old is your wife?” asked Kamel. “Nineteen,” he said, “I married her recently.” “Are you financially comfortable?” He nodded. “Then go to Beirut, bring plenty of gifts, and offer them to the demon. Nothing beats a nice gift to appease evil spirits.” The man thanked him and hurried out to do as he had been advised. Not content at playing the exorcist, Kamel occasionally turned into a love advisor. A young man in the prime of life came for a consultation one day. Bursting with vitality, he did not seem to be ill. He said, “Doctor, I sometimes feel my heart beating so hard, as if I were about to faint.” Kamel took his pulse: his heart rate was as regular as a Swiss watch. He thought for a moment then asked: “When does this happen?” The young man blushed: “When I see my sweetheart, I feel I cannot breathe and I’m afraid to faint”-another candidate for the sugar pills. Kamel gave him a vial and told him in a professional tone: “Keep these pills with you. When you see your sweetheart, put one under your tongue and let it melt. Your heartbeat will return to normal and you won’t faint.” The young man wanted to hug him. He took the medicine and walked out. Kamel spoke with his brother, informing him of the trouble with his patients. “Resorting to an imaginary cure for an imaginary disease may prove fruitful in certain circumstances,” 212

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he said. “It has at least the merit of calming the patient, if one can call it that; but what about the real patients who really need diagnosis and treatment?” Then he asked: “How do I tell an imaginary patient from a real one?” His brother laughed and said: “It is very simple, stop treating patients free of charge. Ask for a symbolic amount. You’ll see for yourself. You’ll be surprised by the results.” Kamel decided to ask for a nominal fee of two Lebanese Pounds per consultation. The number of patients automatically dropped to less than half. He was able then to devote more time to them, and in exchange for the modest sum they paid, he gave them free medicines. Kamel applied the motto: “He who does not do good by his family does not do good by people.” His family was and would forever be the people of Khiyam. The refugee camps and the bases of the Palestinian resistance were his second arena. It was not a choice he could accept or reject. Palestine had always been part of his family history, as it was part of the history of the South. It will forever remain engraved in the earth of the area and in the heart of its inhabitants. The same geography conditioned the fate of both people, and the same Zionist enemy was lying in wait for them. In 1948, it had not spared the villagers of Hula, gathering them in two houses before blasting them, killing more than eighty Lebanese civilians. The day before, on 30th October of the same year, Israel had carried out an incursion in Salha, one of the seven villages that had been occupied that year. Israeli forces 213

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had gathered the villagers in one house then reduced it to rubble, causing the death of 94 unarmed civilians. This enemy that had inspired a fear mixed with horror during Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s childhood had become a savage herd, raging mercilessly, beating, abducting, and killing at its own free will. There was no possible neutrality when facing it. The only choice was resistance, and Kamel joined this resistance as a doctor. Every Sunday afternoon, he toured the resistance camps in Kfar Chouba and Kfar Hamam and to a clinic that had been set up in the church of Rachaya al-Foukhar with the help of the Popular Aid. Calling them camps was not entirely accurate. A number of villagers had opened their houses to the fighters, considering them one of their own. Despite the fact that harboring resistance men often meant the destruction of the house if spotted by the Israelis, the villagers accepted the sacrifice, especially that, after the intensification of the shelling, women and children had been moved to far away villages and even to the shanty town belt around the capital. Kamel remembers Abu Ahmad, the owner of a house in Kfar Chouba, who used to invite him to drink tea with the men of the resistance. A rocket had hit the house, destroying a wall and part of the roof. Abu Ahmad lived with his family under what remained of the roof. He would serve them tea in tin cups used by the resistance. They all sat and talked about their military activities and their infiltrations into the occupied territories. They were not all Palestinians. There 214

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were Lebanese, Yemenis, Algerians, Syrians, and Iraqis among them. Sitting with them, Kamel remembered the mountains of Dhofar and the revolutionary pits so dear to Che Guevara. After the 1967 defeat, the Palestinian Resistance had become the driving force of revolutionary activity in the Arab world. The presence of these Arab brothers next to the Palestinian fighters brought him back to the time when “knights of the liberation army” walked past his house in Khiyam, on their way to Palestine. Things were different now; the fight was led by the Palestinian revolution, not by the Arab bourgeois regimes that had fallen like autumn leaves after the 1967 war. What he did not know was that the guns of October of that year (1973) were ready to attempt to rehabilitate the Arab cause. There were no sick people in Kfar Chouba or Kfar Hamam, but fighters recovering from minor injuries. Those seriously wounded were taken to hospital in Tyr, Saida, or Beirut. As for the church clinic in Rachaya al-Foukhar, it swarmed with sick people from the village and its surroundings, mostly children and elderly, on Sundays afternoon. At first, the church bell was sounded once to announce Kamel’s arrival, but later, his arrival time became known to all, and they stopped tolling the bell. He never once treated less than twenty patients in that clinic. Kamel established his headquarters in Haret Hreik in the southern suburbs of Beirut. It became his starting point of his tours of the poor areas on the outskirts of Beirut. He rented a clinic that had belonged to Doctor Abdallah Suleiman, and that had previously been the home of the General Secretary of the 215

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Communist Party, Nicolas Chaoui. It was an apartment on the ground floor with a small garden. Three months later, the owner wanted the apartment back and Kamel moved to the opposite building. He rented a floor and turned it into a clinic and an apartment. Then he bought a small car, a Volkswagen, which his brother Aziz offered to pay for, and which he later exchanged for a Peugeot when the clinic started generating some income. It was not long before he realized that appearances were part of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;toolboxâ&#x20AC;? in Beirut, and that he absolutely had to get a degree in pediatrics from a prestigious university in order to give meaning to his action, certifying that it was really a deliberate choice to work in marginalised neighborhoods, and not something imposed on him by circumstances beyond his control. Hence, he enrolled at the Grenoble School of Medicine, which had signed an agreement with the Faculty of Medicine at Saint Joseph University in Beirut. It was agreed that he would be on duty at the St. Georges Hospital in Achrafieh, and work under the supervision of Professor Ernest Majdalani. They were a group of doctors, some of them friends of his: Farouk Bazzi, who gave him the first year lectures, Ziad Naja, Samira Sahyoun, Antoine Harmouch, Kamal Barghach, Hilda Chacar, Georges el-Hajj, Jean Sidi, and Joseph Khoury. This took up a lot of his time, and he had to find a way to continue daily consultations at his private clinic in Haret Hreik. He shared it with two friends of his, Doctor Ziad Naja and Doctor Farouk Bazzi. His weekly program now included, in addition to night duty at the Orthodox hospital, consultations

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at his clinic and in a medical center of Bourj el-Barajneh, in Bir Hassan, one the poorest regions of Lebanon, as well as the “Naqaha” clinic in Fakhani on Tarik el-Jdideh. It was a clinic run by the Democratic Front under the supervision of Doctor Ali al-Zein. During the weekends he would go to Khiyam, Kfar Chouba, Kfar Hamam, and Rachaya al-Foukhar where patients waited for him as usual. This constant moving between villages and slums drew the outlines of two opposite worlds: the world of the poor, which research carried out by the French sociologist Yves Schemeil between 1973 and 1974 estimated at almost 57% of the population, that’s to say more than half of the population, whose annual income ranged between 1850 and 2750 Lebanese pounds, an average not exceeding five Lebanese pounds per day; and on the other hand, a world where the middle class accounted for less than a quarter of the population,23.4%, and whose income did not exceed 5500 Lebanese pounds, and a rich class that constituted 19.5% of the population, and whose income was more than 7350 Lebanese pounds. These figures revealed the extent of class inequality within Lebanese society. Moreover, they revealed the reality of the daily lives of people, especially in poor neighborhoods. Farmers coming from the South and the Bekaa had difficulties finding regular work. They may find something for a few days but were generally out of work most of the time. They constituted the bulk of that “precarious proletariat” of which Marxists spoke, and their income was limited to three pounds per working day, less than a dollar. They waited for Kamel at the clinics where he

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did his rounds. One day, one of them came with his son in his arms. The child was barely one year old. “Yesterday I thought he was dead,” explained the father, crying. “I told his mother that he was dead, but she insisted that he was alive and held him close all night. In the morning, he opened his eyes.” The baby was crying, and when Kamel examined him, he found out that he was suffering from acute malnutrition and diarrhea, which had weakened and dehydrated him. He kept him in the clinic and gave him a serum drip, as the father waited, motionless in a corner of the clinic. The father himself had intermittent bouts of coughing that he tried to smother with a dirty handkerchief. His cough seemed serious. Kamel beckoned him over and examined him: it turned out that his case was no less serious than that of his son. He showed symptoms of tuberculosis. He told Kamel that he had been living in the camp of Bourj el-Barajneh for years, which worried Kamel. The disease could easily spread in the camp. He asked his assistant to take care of the baby and drove the father to the Orthodox hospital. After a blood test that confirmed tuberculosis, Kamel undertook the necessary formalities to admit him to Bhannes medical center, specialized in treating tuberculosis patients. He then went back to his clinic to accompany the baby and his mother to the hospital. He felt so tired that he asked a friend to drive the car. Kamel sat in the passenger seat while the mother and the baby sat in the back. Rocked by the gentle sway of the car, he closed his eyes and started thinking about his exhausting day. Life in the slums of Bourj el-Barajneh was much harder

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that life in the caves of Dhofar. The omnipresent nature in Dhofar gave people some immunity, while in the camp, sewage poured its waters out in the open air, families were crammed into swelteringlyovercrowded spaces and swarms of flies and mosquitoes competed in spreading diseases and epidemics. Nature became hostile here. There were no incense trees in this labyrinth of dirty streets, rather ponds of stagnant water infested with bacteria. Compared to tuberculosis and other diseases, lice and scabies seemed harmless. Thankfully test results showed that the tuberculosis had not spread to the woman and child. But the real shock came when the father refused to be admitted in Bhannes for treatment. “My family will starve if I stop working,” he explained, “I am their only bread earner.” Kamel and his friend insisted that they would care of his family during his treatment. His friend pulled out a 25 Lebanese pounds bill from his pocket and slipped it into the mother’s hand while Kamel assured him that he would take care of their milk and medicines. The man was finally forced to accept. In the evening on his way back home, drum rumblings sounded in his head, announcing an impending war between those who have and those who have not.

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Abu Georges “Justice is strength” says an Arab proverb, whereas an American proverb, quoting Shakespeare says: “force should be just.” And so, when the Egyptian armed forces crossed the Suez Canal sweeping the Bar Lev defense line to liberate the occupied Sinai and the Syrian army stormed the Israeli fortifications in the occupied Golan Heights, and the image of the Israeli superman began to falter against the just Arab armies who were seeking to liberate their occupied lands, the powerful American war machine swooped down, with all its military, diplomatic, and economic might, to eliminate the right of the people in repossessing their land. The “Ramadan War” of October 1973 ended in rivers of blood that would soon flow into Lebanon. Lebanon did not take part in that war. It was busy with its own wars. Since the signing of the Cairo agreement between the Palestinian resistance and the Lebanese government in 1969, Israel considered Lebanon to be an open war front. After any Palestinian operation, wherever it might be in the world, it was Lebanon that paid the price. The South remained the first target and suffered bombing, destruction, and invasions.But the Israeli response was not limited to this border region.It also 220

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targeted the capital, and even the refugee camps in the northern part of the country. Scenes of entire Southern families carrying mattresses and fleeing under the shelling in search of shelter had become familiar sights in the media. Families carried nothing but the essentials for spending a night or two away from bombs and rockets, to then return to their homes. Not even in his darkest nightmares did a Southerner ever imagine not returning to his home and his land. Palestine occupied an important place in the memory of the South. It meant unconditional attachment to the land, to the point that it could cost one’s life. Attachment to the land was not an empty slogan or rallying cry, but a reality that Kamel discovered daily in his field work. One evening, after he was done examining patients at the clinic of Rachaya al-Foukhar, “Abu Georges” came in with a bottle of wine. He told Kamel he had bought it fifteen years ago in “Derdghaya”, and was waiting for a special occasion to open it. That day, driving to Khiyam for his weekly rounds in the South, Kamel heard on the radio that the enemy forces were shelling Kfar Chouba, Kfar Hamam, Rachaya al-Foukhar, and most of the other villages of Arkoub. He immediately changed his destination and headed to Kfar Chouba. His doctor’s instinct drove him to where he was needed most, where shelling was leaving many dead and wounded, in an area that had no doctors. He stepped on the gas, and as he got closer to the sound of shelling, a military road block stopped him in Souk el-Khan. A young soldier told him: “The entire zone is cordoned off. 221

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You can either wait here for the shelling to end, or turn around and go back to where you came from.” The medieval night inside him woke and said: “Listen, you are a soldier and I am a doctor. We are both needed in time of war; you with your rifle and me with my scalpel. There are wounded people who need me, and you want me to run away? Would you run away if a shell fell nearby?” He was so tense, he could have rammed the road block. The soldier moved aside. “Try to avoid the main road, that is where the shelling is concentrated.” In his eyes was a look of solidarity and brotherhood that Kamel would never forget. As he drove to Rachaya al-Foukhar, the falling shells around him made his spine tense to the point of breaking but he reassured himself that a spine needs the weight of 380 kilograms to break. He arrived to the village and headed to the church where he found the inhabitants, gathered to escape the bombs. They ran to greet him with hugs and kisses. “Thank God you’re safe,” said an old man. “The Virgin Mary saved you,” said a woman carrying a baby. “How did you avoid that shell? They were targeting you, it fell right behind you. We all saw it and were scared you would be hurt.” said a young man. For a moment Kamel felt fear, fear in retrospect. So an Israeli soldier had been observing his car, giving instructions to target it. He felt the urge to go out and scream and curse, like Habkouk on his boat cursing the British plane in Dhofar. But he was alive, and he was in no hurry to die. He found only one wounded. A shell had fallen near his house and his face was shattered with glass. After Kamel had

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cleaned and disinfected his wounds, Abu Georges had found his special occasion to celebrate with the fifteen year old wine. The shelling had stopped and he had invited Kamel to his house. He opened the bottle and took a long whiff. “It has aged well,” he said, handing the bottle to Kamel who took a sip and gave it back. Abu Georges took a big gulp. After the wine ritual, he sighed and told Kamel: “You know, for twenty years I worked as a waiter in restaurants of Keserwan, Bhamdoun, and Beirut. My father wanted me to become a potter like him, but pottery was a dying trade. I worked hard and managed to make enough money to build this house, get married, raise a boy and two girls, buy the best plot of land and plant it with tobacco. It was the life I had dreamt of when I was working fourteen hours a day serving people, washing dishes, and sleeping on tables. My dreams came true. Then what happened? Men from the army intelligence came, had coffee, and asked my son Georges ‘Will you work with us? We’ll pay you a hundred Lebanese pounds a month and give you an M16. All we ask is that you prevent saboteurs from entering the village or you denounce them”. He took another gulp of wine and continued. “That night, I said to my son Georges, ‘why don’t you work for them? With one hundred pounds we can pay your sisters’ tuitions. As for the M16, all you have to do is go to the our tobacco field once or twice a week, fire a few rounds in the air, then report that you had spotted saboteurs and fired at them. In any case, it will help guard the field.” Abu Georges laughed. “Those imbeciles want us to open 223

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a war front for one hundred pounds a month and an M16! Let them fight their own war. All they do is write reports.” He remained thoughtful for a while before continuing his story. “Then came Abu Ammar’s(1) men. They told my son: ‘You will work with us. We will pay you one hundred and fifty pounds a month and give you a Kalashnikov. We will also help you harvest your tobacco.’ I said to my son: ‘Why don’t you work with them? One hundred and fifty pounds are better than one hundred. All the people in the area are working with them. If Israel bombards the area, it won’t spare our house or our fields, whether we work with the fedayins(2) or not. Plus, I need that Kalashnikov because I will not allow anyone to seize my field or kick me out of my house.” The bottle of wine had done its job. With the last gulp, Abu Georges was reaching the end of his story. “I sent my family to a cousin living in Borj Hammoud. My son Georges is in his second year of law school at the Lebanese University. As for me, I only have this house and that field. All the armies of the world can invade; I will never leave my land or my house, even if I have to… I will never be a refugee.” Abu Georges let out a curse that wonderfully expressed his determination, but would be inappropriate to include in these pages.

(1) Abu Ammar is the war name of Yasser Arafat. (2) Arab guerrillas operating especially against Israel.

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The Three Ps Before, during, and after the October 1973 war, Lebanon turned into multiple fronts. There was semi-open warfare between the Palestinian Resistance and the Lebanese Army: the army bombed the camps and the resistance retaliated by bombing Beirut Airport. The Melkart agreement, reached in May 1973 between the Lebanese government and the PLO, imposed a cessation of operations by the Palestinian resistance against Israel from South Lebanon. But the signing in May 1974 of the disengagement agreement between Israel and Egypt, and then between Israel and Syria, left the Palestinian Resistance with the Lebanese front as the only choice to carry out military actions against the Israeli enemy. The pro-Syrian Palestinian movement, Al-Saiqa, followed by the Rejectionist Front movements of the Palestinian resistance announced the abrogation of the Melkart agreement. The Lebanese National Movement, led by Kamal Jumblatt, supported that position, demanding the disarmament of Christian militias. Sunni leaders, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, backed the resistance. Imam Moussa Sadr, leader of the Movement of the Disinherited made a strong entry into the political arena. He raised the case of the Shiites, not as a religious sect, but as people from deprived areas and communities and 225

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in the name of the Supreme Islamic Shia Council called , to adopt an economic program including the implementation of the Litani and West Bekaa irrigation projects, the construction of schools and dispensaries, higher tobacco crop prices, and the development of deprived areas. The Movement of the Disinherited was riding high on what was known as the “Shiite ascendency”. Salim Nasr wrote the following: “in the forties, Shiites formed a marginalized rural community, with 75% of illiterates governed by a divided and backward feudal elite. In the sixties more than two thirds became urban community, led by a dynamic and extremely active intelligentsia, an ambitious economic elite of returning emigrants, a revolting political elite spread over the whole range of Marxist and Arab nationalist, and a political movement led by a charismatic and popular leader with much influence over the community: the Imam Moussa Sadr.” At the time, Kamel Mohanna was a laic Marxist, but he was attracted by the positions of Imam Moussa Sadr who embraced the demands of the syndicates and the needs of the deprived. Kamel did not care that the Imam’s fight was religious. He had revived the class struggle between the rich and the poor. The doctor felt that field work could unite the believer and the laic, as what mattered were the results. He had the opportunity to put this theory to the test when the Khiyam Medical Center was created in collaboration with the socio-cultural club. The Center was established in the Al Aziz family house in the Berkeh neighborhood, with the 226

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help of Hassan Hamid, Suhaila Awada, Riad Kanso, Ibrahim Sadek, and Ahmad Abu Abbas. Fifteen doctors from different specializations, belonging to different political parties and religions volunteered to work there. When Doctor Kamel told one of them that it was his “Khiyam genes” that had brought him back from France and Dhofar, the reply was: “They are the Imam Hussein genes, we’ve been carrying them for generations, whether you accept it or not you also carry them.” His friend’s genes did not matter to Kamel, as long as he took care of patients and cared about the kingdom of this world, and not about the kingdom of heaven and the conditioning of his genes. He was certainly aware of the conflicts between and within sects during those turbulent years of Lebanon’s history. A Christian colleague from Zghorta in North Lebanon, who did not know Kamel, tried luring him once into a conversation. He started by asking him his name, then his religion, and which area he came from. On deducing that they were allies, he said: “The alliance of the Frangieh (Christian) family and the elAssaad (Shiite) family is a guarantee for Lebanon.” Kamel burst out laughing. After all these years away from Khiyam in Saida, Beirut, then France, before joining the revolutionaries in Dhofar, he was back to square one in the lap of the el-Assaad family. In the eyes of that doctor from Zghorta, Khiyam was too vast to categorize Kamel.. In his need to define Kamel, he simply assumed that he related to the feudal leadership of el-Assaad family! 227

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Kamel stopped laughing and said: “Do you know what I am going to do after the liberation of Palestine? I will go to Nicaragua in Central America to help the Sandinistas liberate their country from the dictator Somoza, then after that, I will go to neighboring El Salvador where there is a large Palestinian community I can mobilize to help the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front overthrow the government and set up a Marxist Maoist government. Then it will not be hard in Trinidad, with its large Lebanese and Syrian community, to set up a Marxist regime as well.”He forgave his Zghorta “ally” for voluntarily relating him to the al-Assad family. His brother, Doctor Mohammad, who was director of the Medical Prevention Department at the Ministry of Health, advised him to apply for the position of director of the governmental hospital in Marjeyoun. His application was accepted and signed by the Minister of Health, but his nomination was rejected for lack of “adequate references”. Kamel had never one day imagined having to go through the intricacies and small political calculations of the “Lebanese Equation”, which he considered bankrupt and about to fall. The local election of 1974 in Nabatiyeh flawed yet another contradiction between what was being said and what was being done on the ground. There were four candidates running: the first backed by Kamel el-Assaad, the second backed by Imam Moussa Sadr, the third backed by the communist party and the communist action organization, and the fourth backed by the Iraqi Baath party. Imam Moussa Sadr had managed to unite the 228

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Osseiran family and the al-Zein family even though they were secular foes. As for the communists, they led a fierce battle among them, each berating his opponent and pretending his candidate was the stronger. Imam Moussa Sadr won and all the others lost. Why? Each of the communists was trying to discredit the other, even though communists were a minority in Nabatiyeh standing against despotism, but rather than fighting their opponents, they fought each other. Kamel built his political and social action on what he calls the “Three Ps”: principle, position, and practice. He explains it further: “Some people adopt a given principle, and it is their right, but their position does not conform to their principle, and it is our right to hold them accountable. Others adopt a principle and support it with a corresponding position, but their practices are a total denial of the principle and position. Others, ordinary people, stand out for exemplary practices and highly commendable action, but their practices do not serve a principle or a position. I believe that all the ills that impede our society and our politics come from these flagrant contradictions between Principle, Position, and Practice.”

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If Kfar Chouba Could Talk Kamel took the specialization exams in pediatrics at the University of Grenoble and obtained a diploma with honors. Professor Baudoin, head of the specialization diploma at the university, sent a letter of congratulations to Professor Majdalani who was so proud that he bragged to everyone about his students. By way of celebration, Kamel opened a new dispensary in Horch Shatila near the camps of Sabra and Shatila where, with the increase of Israeli aggressions, many families from the South and the Bekaa had taken refuge. He annexed the dispensary to the â&#x20AC;&#x153;Popular Reliefâ&#x20AC;? organization led by Doctor Mohamad Dakik who played an important role in social and medical action. Kamel also devoted one day a week to a clinic in Sin el-Fil, where most patients were refugees from the South. His weekly schedule was divided between his private clinic in Haret Hreik, his duties at the Orthodox Hospital, his rounds in the camps of Bourj el-Barajneh and Bir Hassan, the Naqaha clinic in Fakhani, and the clinic of Horch Tabet in Sin el-Fil, an area where groups of Palestinians and poor Lebanese had lived before the 1975 civil war. On weekends, he went to the South. He started with the clinic in Khiyam where he spent Saturday and Sunday mornings, then the fedayins camps in Kfar Chouba 230

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and Kfar Hamam, and ended his rounds in Rachaya al-Foukhar. Afterwards, he went to Beirut, often through the Masnaa pass, where he would spend a relaxed evening with friends, watching a good film. “The busy bee has no time for sorrow.” This famous quote by William Blake illustrated Kamel’s busy life. Little did he know that sorrow had its hour to strike in Lebanon, in a lightning strike that would transform the country into a veritable hell. He spent New Year’s Eve of 1975 in Khiyam. He was seeing a young girl from Metn, who he had met at his private clinic.She was a student at the Faculty of Education who had started accompanying him on his rounds of the dispensaries, helping whenever she could and sitting with Palestinian and Southern families listening to the elder women complain about their problems, and encouraging the young ones to rebel: “It is your right to wear what you like, love who you want, refuse to submit to traditions and customs that do not suit you. You are free...” Girls swooned with excitement upon hearing the advice of that Maronite Christian. She used Marxism to affirm women’s rights and freedom. Such childish exploitation of Marxism sometimes irritated Kamel. One day he asked her, “do you love me because I am Shiite? I mean, you could be using love at the service of ideology, to prove that you are a real secular Marxist. You do not love me for my person but for what you consider to be rebellion against your confession. Have you

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thought about that?” She answered him in French without hesitation: “I don’t belong to any party and I was not ordered to love you.Getting out of that sectarian ghetto gave me the chance to discover the country in which I live, and to make the acquaintance of a ‘Metwali’(1) like you. In their eyes, you are a ‘Metwali’ regardless of the diplomas you received in France, or your adventures saving lives and curing lepers in the mountains of Dhofar. To them you remain a ‘Metwali’.” He was well served: from the vassal of the el-Assaad family into that of the “Metwalis”... He was madly in love with his “wonderful Maronite”. It was her who had suggested that they spend New Year’s Eve in Khiyam. She had said: “I know nothing about the South or its people. I see them on television or in newspapers, carrying their bundles on their heads, to and from their homes. I also see them in the camps and the shanty towns of Beirut suburbs. Let’s spend New Year’s Eve in the South. I want to get to know them in their land.” She spoke of southerners in the third person. Kamel felt that this small Lebanon was a collection of continents and that his Maronite girlfriend was sailing out like Christopher Columbus, to discover a new world, the world of southern “Metwalis”. While he drove his car on their way to the South, she marveled like a child at each valley they crossed, each mountain they (1) Metwali is the surname given to Shiites in parts of Lebanon, especially in Mount Lebanon and Jabal Aamel.

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climbed, and each hole they fell into. He said to himself: “As soon as day breaks in Khiyam, I will marry her.” The party was limited to a small group of friends, some from Khiyam and others from Beirut. It was not so much a party as it was a gathering. In the beginning, the atmosphere was rather reserved. Kamel knew the reason: it was the presence of this unknownMaronite. His family did their best to respect their guest. “Who would have thought that the price of a dairy cow would fall to 250 pounds?’ wondered his father. “Even twenty years ago, it sold at no less than 300 pounds on the market of Bint Jbeil. Five years ago prices climbed to 1000 and 1200 pounds per cow but suddenly, farmers started selling their poultry, live stocks and herds and prices fell. You can buy a donkey for 25 and a hen for 2 pounds nowadays. Can you imagine?” “Those who have been displaced from their houses and villages by the Israeli shelling can carry some mattresses and some furniture to Bourj el-Barajneh, Nabaa, or Shatila, but they definitely cannot take their cows, donkeys, or chickens with them.” said Kamel. “It is not just the Israeli bombardment,” replied his father. “People, in general, resist. Farmers have nothing but their land, so they hold on to it. But the persistent talk on TV, radios, and in newspapers of a fifth war is what frightens the inhabitants of border areas, because they will be the first victims. They say that war will break out in the spring and the Jews will occupy the entire eastern region and will not abandon ever again.” 233

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His girlfriend cut into the conversation, saying: “We should not only fear Israel.The country is divided, and it is not much of a secret that weapons are being sent from Israel to certain militias. I saw hand grenades carrying Hebrew markings with one of my friends, he showed them to me like he was flaunting them.” Someone said: “There are weapons everywhere. Everybody is armed to the teeth. In Tripoli, police stations are being attacked by gangs not by militias. Kaddour gangsters attacked the police station of Bab el Tabbaneh to free one of theirs members who was held in custody. If war breaks out at the border it will spread inland. Lebanon is like a barrel of gunpowder ready to explode at the slightest spark, and the first victim will be the unarmed citizen. We should all acquire weapons to protect ourselves. Those in charge of protecting us will be the first ones to betray us, like wolves protecting sheep.” The conversation was lively and lasted until two in the morning, but it was certainly not a conversation worthy of New Year’s Eve. Suddenly they started hearing that deep rumbling sound, and all of the doctor’s senses awakened, it was the sound of artillery shelling. It was familiar, but this time it was different; it was more intense than usual and the source was the central region. One of them shouted: “Did the invasion start?” Kamel ran to the phone and called the mayor of Rachaya al-Foukhar, Khalil Jrady who immediately answered the phone in spite of the late hour. He said: “The shelling started more than fifteen minutes ago. It is concentrated on Kfar Chouba. It is an 234

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unusual shelling; artillery rounds are reaching the outskirts of our village, as if they are preparing for an attack.” The mayor ended the communication saying: “We are preparing ourselves to move to the church. God help us!” The New Year was starting very gloomily. A dismayed silence fell on the house. The South was ablaze. Kamel told his girlfriend: “I will go to Kfar Chouba in the morning.” She said: “I will go with you.” Kamel said: “Let’s get some sleep, tomorrow is going to be a long day.” He showed her into a room where she could rest undisturbed. He lay down on the bed in the adjacent room but could not sleep. The sound of explosions brought back to him the faces of Abu Georges, Abu Mohammad, and the comrades. At dawn, he got out of the room to find his girlfriend waiting for him. His father was drinking his coffee on the porch. They sat with him. The sound of bombs was getting closer and more intense. His father said: “They have not stopped shelling for more than three hours, if they are targeting the houses, not a single wall will remain standing.” He paused for a moment then asked: “Where are you two going, to Kfar Chouba?” He spoke softly, trying to hide his worry. Kamel knew his father; he dealt with him and his brothers as grown up men, trying as much as possible to hide his feelings. “A loud voice only comes from an empty drum,” he once said. “You think a gun can stop them?” said Kamel jokingly. “May be not a gun, but its carrier,” answered his father laughing. 235

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He added: “The Israeli soldier is a coward when he is alone. He is capable of giving up his wife if threatened even with a knife, let alone a rifle. This is why they attack in packs, like a pack of hyenas. But as you know, the hyena is afraid of its shadow, even though every one of them is equipped with the latest weapons, enough to arm a whole barrack.” The Six Day War had not been enough to change the image of “the Israeli coward” in his father’s mind. The victory had not been due to Israeli courage, but due to the weakness of the Arab regimes and the plots of the great powers. Faced with a history of defeats, the image of the valiant Palestinian fighter with his kaffiyeh and his Kalashnikov fed the popular belief with the idea that the fighter, even with his gun, can make a difference. Kamel had inherited this conviction, albeit somewhat modified, about the fighter and his gun from his father. The June 1967 war had brought nothing but defeat to the Arabs, and that of October 1973 had led to nothing but concessions that were closer to surrenders than to compromise. The only viable alternative was the “popular, lengthy, liberation struggle” to liberate Palestine and “organized revolutionary violence” to bring down the bourgeois Arab regimes. And on both fronts, he stood alongside the Palestinian fedayins who led the battle from Lebanon. His father hugged him, bidding him farewell. He left for Kfar Chouba with his “Maronite” girlfriend. The shelling continued as they neared the military roadblock of Souk elKhan. When they reached it, they found that the population of 236

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Kfar Chouba had beat them to it. Hundreds of people, men, women, and children, a desperate crowd out of Dante’s inferno was gathered there. Children crying, women screaming, and men shouting in anger completed the image of tragedy. They had not even had the chance to change their night attire or bring their mattresses. A young man said: “the shelling destroyed all the houses, and now they are crawling in with tanks and armored vehicles. They want to occupy the village, but the resistance is still holding.” A woman shouted at a soldier: “Don’t sit watching us!Go and fight; the army’s duty is to protect us!” It was not raining, but it was freezing cold. Most of the displaced, especially the children needed warming up. Kamel told the officer in charge: “We need vehicles to transport the women and children to a warm place. Do you have enough?” The office seemed completely lost in that human tide of anger. However, he pulled himself together and took some initiative. “I will call the headquarters in Marjeyoun and ask them to send the necessary vehicles,” he said. Kamel’s friend was gone, engulfed by the flood of women and children. He was certain that the discovery of this “new world” was going to shake her universe. After hours of talks between the representatives of the nationalist parties and the Palestinian resistance, it was decided that the women and children be taken to the school of Marjeyoun. The vehicle sent by the army had arrived, along with cars volunteered by civilians. He told his girlfriend: “From

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now on, we will be working in Marjeyoun and the volunteers of the Khiyam clinic will meet us there.” Twelve doctors, men and women, from the Khiyam clinic volunteered to work at the Marjeyoun school where more than eight hundred displaced people from Kfar Chouba had been given shelter. They were followed by people from Kfar Hamam and Rachaya al-Foukhar. Sometimes, their number exceeded one thousand, spread throughout the twenty rooms. Kamel panicked when he diagnosed the first case of scabies. “Am I in Dhofar again?” Most of the time, the water was cut and the heating system did not work, although there was central heating in all the rooms. He thought the reason was fuel shortage, but was later informed that the boiler room was flooded with water, and the burner ignition was out of order. He was worried about the scabies case he had discovered. With the density of people, over forty in each room, it could turn into an epidemic. The common cold turned into pneumonia and spread among children. Influenza became another worry. There was a water shortage in Dhofar, but they relied on underground springs. In Dhofar, there were no roads, no electricity, no communication networks, and no sewage systems or toilets; whereas in the school of Marjeyoun these were all available but none of them worked. Marjeyoun was on the border line, a faraway forgotten continent only a few kilometers from the capital, Beirut. The fellow doctors, Chukrallah Karam, who was later 238

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killed, Alawia Farhat, Mohamad Yassine, the late Joseph Diabagastroenterologists, Ziad Naja and others, worked at the temporary clinic in Marjeyoun. Kamel tried to ensure, with the help of his brother Mohammad, medical supplies and medicines from the Ministry of Health and from friends and NGOs in France and other European countries. Everybody was busy trying to ensure weapons for the Army and the Palestinians, while the “Khiyam team” was busy elsewhere: treating sick people, avoiding the spread of epidemics, and finding medicine. It was a marginal fight that the media didn’t seem to merit with its attention.

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Africa, Capital of the South Yasser Abd Rabbo(1)said to the doctor, trying to provoke him, “Come on Kamel, you are from South Lebanon and you ignore your own region!” Kamel, sensing conspiracy in his words, replied: “I can close my eyes and draw you the map of the South town by town, village by village, and street by street; as for the tobacco plants, there are one million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine, and if you don’t believe me, go and count them yourself.” They burst out laughing, then Yasser said seriously: “I mean to say that one of three Southerners is an emigrant. Most of them immigrated to Africa; don’t you want to get to know them?” Kamel replied: “I know some of them. They are rich and pay monthly salaries to fedayins; they also offer financial contributions to help displaced families.” He interrupted him: “This is what I was getting to. They

(1) Palestinian leader and politician, member of the executive committee of the PLO and minister in the government of Mahmoud Abbas.

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are die-hard revolutionaries. Some of their youth have been arrested. Pack your suitcase; you are going to meet them.” He opened a drawer in his desk and handed Kamel an envelope. “You will go to the Ivory Coast and Sierra Leone for ten days. This is your accreditation letter. You will go as the spokesperson and the representative of the PLO. A delegation of the National Movement will accompany you.” Kamel was caught off guard, but the proposal was interesting. “You want me to trigger an armed revolution, or just a military coup?” He asked jokingly. “They did not wait for you,” answered Yasser. “They are governing both countries and we are supporting them”. Three days later, Kamel left Beirut accompanied by a delegation composed of “Africanists”: Ali Bilal, Joseph Khoury, Ali Khatib, and Carlos Zraik. Africa had been a dream of Kamel’s since childhood; the land of lions, tigers, and elephants; the homeland of Tarzan, King of the jungle and his beloved Jane; not to forget Cheetah, the ape with her big red lips and acrobatics that made him laugh to the point of tears when he was a boy. Now that was all grown up, he made a political reading of the story of Tarzan. He was the “white man” who “good blacks” called to rescue them from the “black villains”. And in the end, Tarzan accepted nothing less than the total domination of the whole jungle- man, vegetation, and wildlife. As for Cheetah, he saw her as the “collaborator” of this white “colonizer”, but because he loved her, he found her 241

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mitigating circumstances: she was Tarzan’s surrogate mother, and a mother does not care whether her child is a black or white ape. Then the black continent started to break free. Names shone, like Patrice Lumumba, Jomo Kenyatta, and Ahmed Sékou Touré, inspired by the stars of the north, Gamal Abdel Nasser and Ahmed Ben Bella. The former French and British colonies now started exporting revolutionaries after they had been exporting nothing but slavesfor centuries. Although African revolutions waved leftist slogans, their Muslim populations, a majority in some countries like the Ivory Coast and the Sierra Leone, welcomed them with open arms. After the expulsion of the white colonialist, they saw partners in their Muslim brothers coming from the Arab World, from the Middle East and North Africa,capable of filling the vacuum left by the white colonialists and settlers, whether to stimulate business activity or to build government institutions. It is not known when the immigration of Lebanese southerners to Africa began. Kamel’s father recounted that the insurgency of Djebel Aamel in 1936 was triggered by Ali Beydoun, the father of historian Ibrahim Beydoun. He had been an emigrant living in Africa before returning to his native village, Bint Jbeil. He circulated a petition requesting the French Mandate authorities to improve the situation of tobacco farmers in the South. The French authorities raided his house, seized the petition, and arrested him. The next day, demonstrations broke 242

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out, in which three people were killed. Afterwards, insurrection spread in the whole South, from coast to mountains. The young man, who became known as Hajj Ali Beydoun, had brought the early seeds of revolution with him from Africa. The big wave of immigration to Africa started in 1948, after the Nakba and the Palestinian exodus. Before that, the South was relatively prosperous. It was linked to Palestine by a geographical continuity that wove strong ties of complementarities and interdependence between them. Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s father, in his travels to Palestine to buy livestock, and his sister and her husband who lived in Haifa, testified to that. The Southerners did not trade through the port of Beirut, but through that of Haifa. Potters and tanners sold their products on the markets of Palestine. Beirut was a distant political capital dominated by feudal lords. The economic capital that attracted traders, farmers, and artisans was Haifa and its surroundings. It was therefore logical that the Nakba had a direct and dramatic impact on the South, which would then be the main stage for the struggles and fighting that followed. It had not only separated brothers who lived on the same land and to whom borders were only abstract lines on paper, but it had mostly cut off the artery that connected the body of the South to its heart, Palestine. After the Nakba, the South turned into a desolate land. Its inhabitants were caught between a ruthless enemy force and a voracious feudal political caste. The first coveted their land and water, to the point of claiming the outright annexation of their 243

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land, as it announced in leaflets dropped over several southern villages. As for the second, it relentlessly confiscated their products and assets. In that context, emigration was no longer a choice but a necessity. And Africa was the Promised Land. “We’ll be landing in a few moments at the airport of Abidjan,” the pilot announced. Kamel was gazing out the window; he could see neither lions nor elephants, only green forests that stretched to the horizon. The airport was not what he had expected for a country that recently claimed its independence. It was clean and numerous planes were parked on the tarmac. An “honor delegation” composed of Lebanese and Palestinians had come to welcome them in the waiting lounge. They all, except the Arabs, spoke French. He noticed the same thing at the hotel. It was as if they had grown in Paris. Joseph Khoury said to him: “Remember that the French came to this country in 1842 and left in 1960. They ruled here for more than a century; in Lebanon we speak French even though the French mandate only lasted a quarter of a century. Also, contrary to what happened in Algeria, citizens of Cote d’Ivoire still consider France as the ‘Loving Mother’.” “Have you visited Abidjan before?” asked Kamel. “No, never, but I did some research about it before coming,” answered Joseph. Kamel regretted not doing the same to learn a little about the country. But the warm welcome given to the delegation was enough to fill this gap, and he soon forgot his regrets. All the Southern families were represented in Abidjan. As Yasser Abd 244

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Rabbo told him that the Lebanese community had an excellent relationship with the authorities, beginning with the president himself. Kamel met the Ambassador of Algeria. “This country is the most prosperous of all countries of Equatorial Africa,” t the ambassadorpointed out, “and the influence of the Southerners is much stronger than in your capital Beirut.” Then he added, laughing: “I do not think that the choice of a son of the South to head the PLO delegation was a coincidence. The emissary always speaks for his people, and those are your people.” Their arrival had been preceded by a wave of arrests among the Lebanese and Palestinian youth. Demonstrations had erupted in the heart of the capital in support of the Palestinian struggle. Kamel’s friends told him that some demonstrators had wanted to protest the Lebanese way by breaking traffic signs, which led the security forces to arrest them, then let them out on bail. The government had nothing against the Palestinian cause. The ambassador of Algeria put a room in the embassy at their disposal. It was open to the gardenand could accommodate a thousand guests. They organized a ceremony that began with the screening of a documentary about the Resistance. After that, Kamel gave a speech during which he assured that the Lebanese and Palestinians were brothers in arms in the same struggle. He predicted the fall of bourgeois regimes by popular liberation wars, which, according to him, would inexorably lead to the reconquest of Palestinian territories. With the ceremony finished, the delegation left, carrying 245

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basketfuls of donations, among which were checks for amounts exceeding ten thousand dollars. They instructed representatives of the resistance and the national movements to consolidate them into one check that would be cashable in Lebanon, as it was impossible to continue their trip carrying suitcases full of money. The delegation spent three days in Abidjan. Three packed days, during which they did not have the chance to explore this vast country of more than fifteen million inhabitants, and with an area exceeding 25 times that of Lebanon. The meetings followed one after the other and never ended before midnight. Lebanon and Palestine were two stars shining in the clear African sky. Sierra Leone was more “southern” than the Ivory Coast. And as Hashem, a Lebanese friend who lived there explained: “This is a democratic country, but the number of effective voters does not exceed three: Jamil Said, Hajj Moussa Abbas, and Samih Hashem.” At first, he thought his friend was joking, but after many meetings with immigrants, he realized he was serious. What distinguished these “three knights” was that they coordinated their actions. Not only did they agree on a presidential candidate, but also concerted on appropriate political formulas for the country. It was out of question for Abbas to let the delegation stay in a hotel. He offered them a modest house where Kamel had to sleep in the same bed with Ali Bilal. Ali was stout, and it was 246

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enough for him to turn in his sleep for Kamel to be propelled towards the ceiling. He spent two nights braced to the edge of the mattress, like a drowning man clasping to a drifting log. They also organized a reception, during which Kamel gave a speech and Ali collected donations. The immigrants were generous, especially the Arabs, as well as some citizens. Joseph Khoury explained to them that the country was sixty percent Muslim and that the “Islamic Association” presided by Ismail Beydoun played a major role in mobilizing the population in favor of the Palestinian cause. On the last day, more than thirty people met in Hashem Hashem’s house. A servant came in and told Hashem that the chief of police was at the door, asking to talk to him. The news cast a chill upon them. “Is it a house search?” someone asked. Hashem went out and came back after a while to resume the conversation. Kamel asked him “Is it something concerning us?” “The chief of police wanted to know if you need a police escort to the airport, I thanked him, and he left,” laughed Hashem. Kamel remembered the words of Yasser Abd Rabbo: “The Southerners govern the country.”

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Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s father, Hadj Assaad Mohanna Kamelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mother, Hadja Maryam Haytham Abou Abbass

The mother surrounded by her sons Mohammad, Ahmad, Abdel Amir, Aziz, Kamel, and Issam

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The late Bachar Kamel Mohanna

Kamel Mohanna after the graduation ceremony of his son Assaad with his wife Fayda, and his three daughters, Zeina, Maryam, and Nour

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Kamel student at the Raml El Zarif Highschool

Kamel medical student in France

Kamel after his election as First Secretary General of UGELF (Clermont-Ferrand 1968) with doctors Hassan Mneimneh, Albert Jokhdar, and Ali Awada

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Kamel with Doctor Marwan in Dhofar (1973)

Kamel with a group of revolutionaries in Dhofar (1973)

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Kamel Mohanna with members of the German Green Party, Mounir Abou Fadel representing the Speaker of The House, of Chafik Mneimneh representing the Prime Minister, and the ChargĂŠ dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Affaires at the German Embassy Klaus Heineman (1982)

End of a Professional Formation ceremony in Hay el Sellom (1983)

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Bestowal upon Kamel Mohanna by President Fran¢ois Mitterand of the French Légion d’Honneur (1995)

Bestowal of the Lebanese “Order of the Cedar” at the Presidential Palace in Baabda (1985)

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Kamel Mohanna and his family at the presidential Palace with President Hraoui And the First Lady

Prime Minister Selim El Hoss honoring Kamel Mohanna in the presence of his wife Fayda during the Patriotic Work Symposium (1996)

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Honoring Kamel Mohanna at the Arab Cultural Club (1997)

Kamel Mohanna receiving the Honorary Shield of the Antelias Cultural movement (1998)

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Kamel Mohanna and Bernard Kouchner dancing the Dabké in Hasbani (2003)

Kamel Mohanna and Ignacio Ramonet, ex-director of the monthly “Le Monde Culturel”, at the “Youth and Dialogue Center” in Jdeidet Marjeyoun. (2004)

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Kamel Mohanna with Bernard Kouchner and Talal Salman at the Amel Center in Khyam after the Israeli agression of July 2006

Kamel Mohanna with RĂŠgis DebrĂŠ and the historian Henry Laurens at the Khyam Amel Center (2007)

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Kamel Mohanna with the Ministers Kouchner and Fneich in St. Cloud (2007)

Representatives of the Civil Society at the St. Cloud meeting (2007)

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Kamel Mohanna during a ceremony honoring him at the Arab Nationalist Forum (2008)

Inauguration of a Youth Project at el Dana Hotel in Ibl el Saqi, Marjeyoun (2008)

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Sit-in in front of the UN seat with Lebanese and Palestinian representatives of the civil society during the Israeli war on Gaza in 2008-2009

Kamel Mohanna at the French Ambassador’s residence upon bestowal of the “Legion d’Honneur” Officer Grade (2009)

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The Executive Committee of Amel: Albert Jokhdar,Joseph Kraykir,Yasser Nehmeh, Ibrahim Baydoun,Jamale Gibril,Ahmad Abboud Nabil Machmouchi,Darwish Chaghri, Qassem Allouch Zaki Taha,Mohsen Zeineddine,Ahmad Dirani,Hajj Said Bazzi

Inauguration of the Professional Center Formation of Amel Association in Saida

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Oath taking by nurses at the Borj el Barajneh center

Kamel Mohanna at a conference at the UN

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Kamel Mohanna with Yasser Nehmeh, Ibrahim Baydoun and Jamale Gibril members of the Executive Committee of Amel

Kamel Mohanna with President Jacques Chirac during the Inter-Religions Dialogue Conference in Paris

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Kamel Mohanna with the Great Ayatollah Mohammad Hassan Fadlallah

Kamel Mohanna with the Japanese Ambassador, the MP Mohammad Raad, Patriarch Kfoury and the representative of the Commander in Chief of the army during the Inauguration of the Amel Center in Khyam (2001)

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Kamel Mohanna during the annual celebration of Amel in Tyr, with Chawki Rafeh, Yasser Nehmeh, Darwish Chaghri, Said Bazzi, his wife Fayda and their daughter Maryam and representatives of the UNIFIL (2005)

Kamel Mohanna with the Swiss Ambassador, and the UN High ommissioner for Palestinian Refugees Jacques Mae (2009)

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Kamel Mohanna with Minister Assaad Diab and the Japanese Ambassador visiting The detention Center in Khyam (2005)

Kamel Mohanna with the thinker Mohammad Arkoun during the Inter-Religions Dialogue Conference in Paris

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Kamel Mohanna with the ex Palestinian Minister Saleh Zeidan and Ali Fay¢al at Amel’s HQs (2009)

Olivier Bernard, ex-president of Médecins du Monde with Kamel Mohanna

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Kamel Mohanna signing his biography at the UNESCO palace on 17/06/2010

Kamel Mohanna with Prime Minister Salim el Hoss at the UNESCO palace

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Kamel Mohanna with Chawki Rafeh

The biography signing ceremony

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Sami Machaka, Ibrahim Beydoun, Dr. Charles Corm and the artist Amin Bacha at the Arab Cultural Club during the book exhibition 0n 14 June 2010

MĂŠdecins du Monde delegation at the head office of Amel

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Kamel Mohanna with Patrick Eberhardt ex president of MĂŠdecins du Monde

Kamel Mohanna with Nahla Haidar, CEDAW, and the ambassador Najla Riachi

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Catherine Ashton, vice president of the European Commission and High Commissioner Of the Union for foreign affairs and political security, Antonio Guterres, UN High Commissioner For refugees with Kamel Mohanna during the visit of Amel center for refugees in Haret Hreik, June 2013

Kamel Mohanna and Bernard Kouchner in Khyam after the Israeli aggression of 2006

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Amel civil defense recovering bodies after an Israeli bombardment

Amel civil defense transporting bodies of casualties

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Amel sending wounded for treatment in Italy

Evacuation by air of wounded for treatment in Belgium

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Evacuation by air of children for treatment in France

Nurses training session

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Children vaccination campaign

Medical care at Amel center in Khyam

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Blood donation campaign

Protecting the environment. Amel volunteers planting trees in a municipal garden

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Awarding of medals to Amel football team composed of Iraqi, Syrian, and Sudanese Refugees

Efforts for the healthy development of youth, the right to recreation

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Wars of Shadows Civil wars do not erupt suddenly.Boundaries are not drawn by fighters with the stroke of a pen, and societies do not collapse over the simple fact that they are in ideological conflict over a clear and well defined cause. It is true that the Lebanese were divided over the Palestinian resistance, but these divisions were a tradition that was part of what was called the “Lebanese equation” and the political life in the “Switzerland of the East”. But to move from political disagreement to armed conflict is a step that cannot be reduced to a single dimension. This conflict was more like a game of shadows in which it was difficult to distinguish the form from its shadow. The events of January 1975 threw light on the game of shadows: the extensive Israeli aggression in the South had led to the exodus of the people from Kfar Chouba, Kfar Hamam, and Rachaya al-Foukhar, followed by confrontations in Marjeyoun between the displaced on one hand and the army and the police on the other, resulting in a number of casualties among civilians. Thus, the confrontation with Israel had turned into a confrontation between the people and the authorities, whose primary mission was to protect its citizens. The Palestinian resistance interfered, and one of its organizations bombed the army barracks in Tyre. Meanwhile, a group from the Rejectionist 279

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Front composed of a Lebanese, a Palestinian, and an Algerian hijacked a French plane from Orly airport. Five Arab countries, including Lebanon, refused to allow the plane to land, and it was finally forced to land in Baghdad. It turned out that the “Fools of Orly”, as referred to them by the French media, had wanted to exchange the French hostages with Monsignor Kabouji, who was being held prisoner in Israel. In Beirut, a unit of the “Socialist Revolutionary Movement Central Command -group of the martyr Mohammad Mansour” broke into the offices of CBS news. The American television station had two offices in Beirut: one in a hotel and the other on Sanayeh Street. The unit announced it had seized documents incriminating the agency of contacting the Israeli enemy. Meanwhile, the state authority which had lost its status in the South, tried to recover it in the North. The army and police launched a campaign against the “Republic of the Outlaws”. Troops surrounded the marginalised quarters in Tripoli, which constituted half the city. After fifteen days, the “President” of this“Republic”, Ahmad Kaddour, and some of his aides were captured. Kaddour, who had terrorized the merchants and people of Tripoli for months, confessed after fifteen days of interrogations: “I was the leader, Abdel Ghani Kammoun (killed) was the minister of defense, and Faysal Atrach (Syrian) was the minister of interior.” He also said that a member of the Lebanese Parliament was paying him 100 Lebanese Pounds a day for the “services rendered”. A Syrian military delegation came to investigate with another Syrian member of the gang,

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Ahmad Joumaa Meslmani who had disappeared after the October war. He was thought missing in action and his family was collecting his salary until he was found in Tripoli as one of the leaders of the gang. “The fifth war” was the subject of the summit held in Chtaura between President Suleiman Frangieh and President Hafez al-Assad, during which President Assad showed President Frangieh a map that the Syrian Intelligence Services had managed to obtain, showing that Israel was planning on occupying the Eastern sector of the South. He offered to send Syrian troops to Lebanon. Israel warned that any foreign troops entering Lebanon would mean war. Moscow offered to supply Lebanon with three missile systems. Washington warned against any Syrian attempt to “occupy Lebanon”. Syria settled by sending Palestinian forces of Al-Saiqa across its borders. The economic situation of the “Switzerland of the East” was not better than the security and military situations. The tobacco farmers in the South declared a strike, refusing to deliver their crops to the “Regie”(1) and asking for a 20% increase in price. 21,000 public schools teachers joined the strike with thousands of private schools teachers. The main demand was asalary increase. The minimum wage for a teacher was 287.5 Lebanese pounds, less than 10 pounds per day. For the first time, the Lebanese knew what“Ration coupons” were, using them to buy sugar and rice at reduced prices. (1) In Lebanon the tobacco industry is a government monopoly. The Regie is the government owned cigarette factory.

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The situation in Lebanon evolved at a rhythm of intense political theatre, full of twists and turns, some dramatic, some anecdotal. And even in this darkest time, there were moments to laugh at. Kamel remembers during those dark days when he was invited to a festival at the Beirut Arab University, in support of the revolution in “Arab Eritrea”. The festival coincided with university elections, in which the “progressive forces” had decided to present a unified list. These forces included the Jordanian Communist Party, the Syrian Communist Party, the Lebanese Movement in Support of Fatah, Fatah, the Democratic Front, Al-Saiqa Movement, the Progressive Socialist Party, the Organization of Communist Action, the Syrian Social Nationalist party, and the Lebanese Communist party. This unified front had defined a clear and simple electoral program: - Maintaining the strategy of the long term people’s liberation war; - The amendment of the Lebanese constitution; - The opening of the university canteen. The canteen had the same strategic importance as the war of liberation and the Lebanese constitution. All those serious and benign events took place amid conflicts between Lebanese, Syrian, and Arab nationalisms, between absolute secularism and sectarianism, between Muslims and Christians, between different denominations within the same religion, and between Soviet International Revisionism and Chinese International Maoism. These conflicts were not 282

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confined to theoretical ideas confronting each other. Each party, with few exceptions, had its militia or its armed wing, equipped to “convince” the other that it held the total and absolute truth. And when the truth becomes an exclusive property, compromise becomes a word of the devil, refuted by all. The “Switzerland of the East” was becoming a cluster of frightened people who became pawns on an oversized chessboard. The Arab countries were no less frightened. The Syrian President was afraid Egypt would sign a peace treaty with Israel, backed by Jordan. Unknown individuals bombed the Egyptian and Jordanian Embassies in Damascus to express that fear. The PLO, led by Yasser Arafat, was equally wary of everyone and feared by all, especially the Jordanians. The Arab and regional forces were exporting their fears, turning it into the scene of regional wars of shadows by proxy.

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Dreams and Nightmares Kamel lived through the Lebanese civil war and took part as a doctor, translating his political convictions with the stethoscope and the scalpel. Like any doctor, the scalpel was his field weapon, moving with it through the barricades of the resistance and through the barricades of the poor and displaced. When Radio Lebanon announced the massacre of Ain el Remmaneh on 13 April 1975, he was on his way back from the South after his weekly rounds. He took the Masnaa road, pulled over to listen to the details, and with every word he heard, anger ran down his spine. “It’s civil war then.” He was alone in the car, but he said it out loud, probably to ease the pain in his back. He shot his car off towards Beirut. The “fascists” had opened fire on civilians, just like in the Spanish civil war, where the “Phalanges” of General Franco had opened machine gun fire on the populations in Asturias, because it was the area of the laborers, who were considered communists. The Lebanese Phalanges(1)of Pierre Gemayel had chosen the Palestinians and the poor Lebanese… Kamel felt sure that the war was between two factions: a

(1) The Phalanges or Kataeb party was formed in 1936 as a Maronite paramilitary youth organization by Pierre Gemayel who modeled the party after Spanish Falange and Italian Fascist parties. The party played a major role in the Lebanese Civil War (1975–90).

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fascist faction using the sectarian sword to protect a creaky and impotent regime, and a leftist secular faction offering the Arabs an alternative to the 1967 defeat and the 1973 war concessions the US Secretary of State, Henri Kissinger, was using,with the aim of neutralizing Egypt, thus protecting Israel. He drove past their old house in Ain el Remmaneh. He knew many people in the neighborhood and wanted to ensure that they were okay. The streets were almost empty. He pretended not to see a group of armed young men in the entrance of a building overlooking Chiyah, and continued towards Chiyah where armed people were moving around openly in the back streets. He finally arrived to his clinic in Haret Hreik, where the phone would not stop ringing. A friend from the Democratic Front called him and suggested he stayed on duty at the “Naqaha clinic” the next day.He said “I know your clinic is on the first floor, you’re lucky it is not exposed, but it would be better if you were careful moving around. We have spotted the delivery of heavy weapons to Ain el Remmaneh.” When Kamel informed him that he just came through Ain el Remmaneh he shouted: “You’re lucky, let it be the last time you go there.” Within one week, the war had established its rules of engagement: shelling, followed by a cease-fire agreement, violated by sniping, kidnapping, and blocking of roads, then shelling again, repeating the endless, vicious cycle. Politically, the ideological fault lines were clearly drawn from the first week. “The ‘Popular Congress’ decided to isolate 285

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the ‘Phalangist party’,” and the general conference of the “Lebanese Monks Order” answered by blaming the war on the “presence of homeless people, destructive ideologies, and the lack of patriotic feeling by some Lebanese.” It was the war of the left against the right, secularism against sectarianism, and armed resistance against the motto “the strength of Lebanon is its weakness.” It was not a war with only Lebanese implications; it had Arab and International ramifications. When the revolutionary pits flare up, the flames do not spare the oil wells nor the occidental interests. That was his conviction. Havana, Hanoi, and Dhofar where impatiently waiting for Beirut to join the list of uprisings and rebellion. Lebanon had harbored so many dreams, before the violence had sparked, yet those dreams became nightmares, that everybody was responsible for and that spared nobody. When the war broke out, Kamel chose his camp without hesitation. He was on the side of the armed resistance, wherever it may be. After a few rounds, demarcation lines and axes of engagement were determined. He moved around between those axes from Choueifat to Laylaki to the hotel district, without cancelling his weekly rounds in the South, where the front lines were as hot as those in the capital. For security reasons, he closed his clinic in Haret Hreik. His financial situation was deteriorating faster than the security situation. He reluctantly started borrowing money from friends and receiving some help

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from his brothers. He was a volunteer doctor and received no remuneration, whilst the fighters received their monthly salaries on top of their “spoils of war”. His situation improved when he got a position as a pediatrician in a Beirut clinic with the Ministry of Public Health for a salary of 1500 Lebanese Pounds. When he received his first salary, he felt rich. The war already had its traditions, the most important being the “the salaries truce” that lasted three days. At the end of each month, fighting completely lulled for three days, allowing employees to collect their salaries and do their shopping before the fronts flared up again. He made sure to buy his own gasoline without resorting to the free coupons the revolution leadership distributed to the factions and the fighters. The work Kamel was doing in the poor areas and on the front lines brought him a satisfaction and pleasure that was unmatchable. It was the pleasure that doctors know when they save a life or alleviate pain, especially that of a child. It made him feel in harmony with life, giving him an overwhelming feeling that he then reflected back into the world. But that pleasure could also turn into a nightmare. One autumn Friday, while he was getting ready to go to the South, a friend whispered in his ear: “Can you postpone your trip to the South this weekend? We need you in Beirut.” He asked: “Where do you need me?” “In the hotel district tomorrow.” The fifth round of the war had started a few days earlier and Beirut lived a “night of rockets” in retaliation to the kidnapping 287

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of more than one hundred persons including William Haoui, the military commander of the Phalangist militia. The “National Dialogue Committee” of twenty members, chosen on confessional basis that was formed a few weeks earlier, could not manage to impose a cease fire in the town. Prime Minister Rashid Karami had refused once again to deploy the army in Beirut. Rumors of mutual incursions and attacks were all over town. The next day, Saturday, at one in the morning, a military jeep took Kamel to the “Holiday Inn” hotel. The driver told him: “We have taken over the hotel and are in the process of cleaning up from the ‘Kataeb’ forces.” When he walked in, Kamel saw dead bodies scattered all over the charred entrance. He could not tell if they were Palestinian Resistance and the National Movement fighters or Kataeb. A group of fighters greeted him and asked him to go to the fourth floor where there were many wounded. He counted more than seventeen. Blood covered the floor. He immediately got to work. All he could do was bandage the wounds, try to stop the bleeding, and then find a way to transport them to a hospital. While he was working, he heard a commotion outside. A group of young men came in pushing a Kataeb fighter with the butt of their rifles. He was a young man, not even twenty years old. He was wounded and bleeding profusely. “We caught him hiding in a bathroom,” said one of them. The young man had difficulty standing, and then suddenly fell down. Kamel kneeled by his side, trying to 288

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feel his pulse. He said: “He is still alive, give me a few minutes to clean his wound before transporting him.” He did not grasp what happened exactly after that. The men grabbed the wounded fighter and carried him out on the porch. Kamel heard a terrifying scream, and then everything went silent. He felt faint. He thought: “This is not war, it’s crime!” And as if they read his thoughts, one of them told him: “Don’t be upset Doctor, had you been in his place, they would have done the same to you. This is a war without prisoners.” When he later reported the incident to a military commander, the answer was: “It was a joint operation between three factions, and not all are disciplined.” Retaliation came the next day. The Kataeb forces and their allies launched an attack on “Karantina”(1)front, leaving thirty five dead and hundreds of wounded. Lack of discipline had become the common denominator among all fighters, on all fronts.

(1) The Quarantine, which is colloquially referred to as Karantina and sometimes

spelled Quarantina,

predominantly

low-income,

mixed-use residential, commercial, and semi-industrial neighborhood in

northeastern Beirut. The Karantina

massacre took

place

early

the Lebanese Civil War on January 18, 1976. Karantina was a predominantly Palestinian Muslim slum district in mostly Christian east Beirut controlled by

forces

the Palestine

Liberation

by Kurds, Syrians, and Palestinians.

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Organization (PLO), inhabited

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False Identity “Dhofari, we need you at the Borj Hammoud medical center” saidthe Democratic Front commander who knew that Kamel’s experience in Dhofar would be his “passport” to Borj Hammoud. Kamel had visited the medical center and worked there for a week before his trip to Dhofar. From time to time, he also worked at the Sin el-Fil dispensary. He did not know the area too well and had not visited it since he went to France. All he knew about its frontlines was what he had read in the newspapers or heard on the radio. The medical center was supervised by Doctor Mohammad Berjaoui who was pursuing his studies in Spain, Doctor Salah Chahrour, and a Swiss doctor who had volunteered to work with the Palestinian Resistance and who was renowned among the fighters for his shooting skills, given that he had undergone, like all the Swiss, mandatory military training. With the worsening of the security situation, the three doctors had left the medical center, although most of the area’s inhabitants, refugees from the South and Palestinian fighters, were in dire need of their assistance. In order to guarantee his safe arrival to the medical center, Kamel had to accompany the “Liaison Forces” crossing the 290

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demarcation line at the Museum gate. He was keen with the idea of working in the area because the center was in Nabaa, close to the Tal el-Zaatar refugee camp that was home to over one hundred fifty thousand persons, Palestinians and Southerners. Many worked in the factories of “Mkalles” for a measly 3Lebanese pounds a day, and were welcomed by the factory owners, like the rich Palestinians were welcomed by the financial groups of Beirut. One man’s meat is another man’s poison. On the day of the trip to Borj Hammoud, he passed by the “Naqaha” clinic in Fakhani and filled his Peugeot with all the medicine he could get his hands on, then headed to the museum to join the Liaison Committee convoy. At the last road block before the museum, he was surprised by a fighter telling him that the Liaison Forces did not operate under bad security conditions, like that day. He added: “Sharif al-Akhawi(1) said on the radio that the road was safe and practicable today; I don’t advise you to listen to him because the situation can change any minute.” He remained parked near the road block for over an hour. Three cars crossed, slowing down before the Adliyeh road block. He decided to do the same. He started his engine and drove very slowly. The barricade

(1) Sharif al-Akhawi was a presenter at the official Lebanese radio, where he gave a newsletter on road safety during the civil war.

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at Adliyeh was the one that scared him the most. It enjoyed a violent reputation for the summary executions that took place there, which earned it the nickname the road block of the “rams”. It was manned by a group of Syriac(1) Christiansfrom Msaytbeh in predominantly Muslim West Beirut, who had been forced to abandon their homes and flee to the Christian East Beirut, along with other groups that had volunteered to fight with the Phalangist militia. They were a minority that had to prove its commitment or get its revenge… and they did just that. The “rams” were deployed on both sides of the road. They did not hide behind stacked sandbags, but sat exposed in small groups. He confidently crossed the road block without blinking, as if he were from the area. After all, he was a Lebanese doctor who had studied in France, driving his new Peugeot laden with medicine. After the road block, a grim silence prevailed, not a single soul, not even a cat or a dog on the street. The silence was deadly. The image of the notorious Achrafieh sniper rushed to his head. He spared no one, not even cats. “Was I within his range of fire?” He asked himself and felt a shiver creep down his body. In Badawi, he saw a Phalangist tank. He feigned indifference, drove past it, and crossed the bridge to Sin el-Fil. On Farhat Street he heard that familiar sound: a soft (1) Syriac

Christianity encompasses

the

multiple

Churches

of Eastern

Christianity whose services tend to feature liturgical use of ancient Syriac, a dialect of Middle Aramaic that emerged in Edessa in the early 1st century AD, and is closely related to the Aramaic of Jesus.

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hissing followed by the muted sound of an explosion. It was the sniper. He pushed on the accelerator, and the Peugeot went flying. He did not stop until he reached the medical center in Borj Hammoud. He stepped out of the car and inspected it. There was a bullet hole in the roof above the rear window. The sniper had missed this time. He remembered his father’s reply when he had once asked him whether he was afraid travelling at night to Palestine, Syria, and Saida: “There’s no caution against fate.” That answer had become a rule in his life. His unexpected arrival at the center was a pleasant surprise to everyone. They told him that all fronts were ablaze, especially that of Horch Tabet, and the constant shelling had forced an exodus. People were leaving under the protection of the Liaison Forces and the Coordination Committeewhilst the Phalangist forces were seizing the supply trucks, and only drips and drabs of resources were reaching the center. They unloaded the medicine crates from the car, which he then parked in an unexposed backstreet. A bedroom was prepared for him at the center and he immediately got to work. In the days that followed, he would go to Tal el-Zaatar in the morning to treat the sick and wounded, and then would come back to the center in the afternoon where he examined between thirty and fifty sick and wounded. A week later, the Liaison and Coordination Committee resumed its activities. Kamel accompanied them to the Museum and from there, to his house in Haret Hreik. He gathered a few necessities that 293

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were not available in Borj Hammoud, and went to the offices of the Democratic Front to whom he had given the ID card of his Maronite friend, Doctor Nayef Saade and a photo of himself. The Democratic Front security services, under the supervision of Abu Adham, had forged it by removing Doctor Saadeh’s picture and replacing it with his. He now had a new name and a new religion. The seal was so well forged that it was hard to distinguish it from the real one. Would his new “Maronite identity” be able to protect him from being killed at the road blocks, especially at that of the rams? He had heard from a friend that a Christian Maronite reporter from the Progressist party who worked in West Beirut had twelve different passes, with his name and picture, from twelve different movements, groups, or organizations. Whenever he was stopped at a control checkpoint, he tried to guess which organization it belonged to, and then took out the relevant pass, using it to go through. One night, he was stopped at a checkpoint in Abu Taleb sector at the end of Hamra Street. It was a mobile checkpoint with unknown affiliation. The journalist was at a loss as to which card to use. Seeing his hesitation, the armed elements searched him and discovered his impressive panoply of cards, including his identity card. They told him they belonged to the “Front of the Popular Struggle”. That “Front” had recently been formed, and he had not had the chance to update his collection with its pass. He was kidnapped. Kamel put his new identity card in his pocket, thinking 294

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Even if it does not protect me completely, it makes me at least gain some time, time for the checkpoint to verify my identity rather than murder me immediately.â&#x20AC;? The next morning he went back to the Borj Hammoud medical center with the Liaison Committee convoy.

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Two Miracles and the Imam’s Blessing Nine months after the outbreak of civil war, confrontations on different fronts turned into mutual invasions and incursions, in which each party sought the weaknesses of the other in order to declare victory. Opposing sides threw their forces into battle, trying to change the demarcation lines and turn them into “international borders”, defining the different neighbor “states” within the same country. Afterwards, they moved to the stage of “cleansing” to rid this “state” from enemy elements, whether religious, sectarian, nationalistic, or ideological. Coinciding with the doctor’s move to Nabaa and Borj Hammoud, the “Joint Forces” attempted to lift the siege of Tal el-Zaatar camp, after the incidents of confiscation of supply trucks headed for it had increased at the Kataeb checkpoints. In support of this slogan, they invaded Horch Tabet and cut the road between Dekwaneh and Sin el-Fil by taking over the Hayek roundabout. For a week, attacks and counter attacks, artillery and missile bombing, sniping, and kidnapping left hundreds of dead and wounded. And although Tal el-Zaatar received and sent the greatest portion of bombs, Nabaa, home to more than one hundred thousand people, mostly from the South and the Bekaa, got its share of bombs sent from Azouz 296

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showroom in Dekwaneh, Mar Elias Street in Sin el-Fil, or the Armenian cemetery. “Who knows if the civil war will not lead to a third world war? Lebanon is at the epicenter of the Middle East question that has been preoccupying the world for four centuries.” Kamel could not refrain from laughing when he heard this statement made on the radio by Sheikh Pierre Gemayel. This was “imperialistic” reasoning unworthy of these camps populated by the hungry and the poor of the earth. Was the world so occupied with this country where more than half the population lived below the poverty line, as stated in the famous report of the IRFED(1) mission? Taking advantage of a lull on the fronts, the Liaison Committee was able to remove the armed elements from Horch Tabet, which gave Kamel the opportunity to leave the area, go see his parents, and refill medications at the Naqaha clinic before returning to Borj Hammoud. Despite his brother Mohammad’s warning about the seriousness of the situation in the besieged areas, he insisted on going back. He could not fathom abandoning thousands of people, leaving them with no doctor after all other doctors had left the area, except for in the “Hospital of the Deprived”, established by Imam Moussa Sadr, where one surgeon remained. (1) The International Centre Development and Civilizations - Lebret-Irfed, formerly Institut international de Recherche et de Formation Education et Développement (IRFED) is a French association founded in 1958 by LouisJoseph Lebret, a Dominican priest and economist.

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Then events accelerated: the Phalangists declared their success in invading the refugee camp in Dbayyeh and cleansing it from the armed elements. Rumors in Nabaa mentioned dozens of casualties in the camp. The next day, the “Joint Forces” retaliated by attacking the Christian villages of Damour and Naameh, slaughtering hundreds of men, women, and children. Thousands of people managed to escape by sea to Jounieh. Bloody retaliations followed one after another. The Phalangists and Ahrar Tigers(1)invaded Maslakh, Karantina, and the Charchabouk area where Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah, the Secretary General of Hezbollah, was raised. At that time, he used to pray at the “Fraternity Family” mosque, under the supervision of Sayyed Mohammad Hussein Fadlallah. One day, dozens of people arrived to Nabaa fleeing the massacre. Pictures of the atrocities being committed filled all newspapers. Kamel did not need to see the newspapers to discover the degree of barbarism that human beings could reach; a pickup truck arrived laden with disfigured dead bodies. He counted seven bodies from the Zaaitir family, all shot pointblank in the eye. Black traces of burns were clear in the eyes, but the skulls were all broken and shattered. Then wounded and displaced started flowing in by the dozens. To accommodate them, he had to open a number of empty apartments that had been abandoned in the building of the medical center. He was able to secure about thirty additional beds for the wounded. (1) The Ahrar Tigers was the militia of the Free Patriots Party. Their commander was Danny Chamoun, son of ex-President Camille Chamoun.

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A few days earlier,the Phalangist party newspaper Al Aamal published an article that had augured these massacres. It announced “the beginning of the Lebanese war of liberation, the liberation of the will and of the homeland, and the total demilitarization of the coast of northern Metn.” What the newspaper had not announced was that the region would also be cleansed of its inhabitants. During that time, when security conditions allowed it, Kamel went back-and-forth between the center, the Tal elZaatar camp, and the Sin el-Fil center, pushing his work load up to a grueling pace. He examined about sixty wounded and sick patients a day. Following the fall of Damour and Naameh, the threats of invasion in Tal el-Zaatar and Nabaa camps increased by the day. This was until, on March 11th 1976, the coup of Brigadier General Aziz Ahdab, military commander of the city of Beirut,who unilaterally decreed martial law and a state of emergency, and demanded the resignations of the President and the Prime Minister. That was the coup de grace for the legal military institution, which “Muslim” soldiers and mid rank elements had deserted to join the “Arab Army of Lebanon”, while the Christian elements remained in their barracks in Jounieh, Fayadieh, the Military academy, and some barracks on the Israeli border. The coup resulted in paralyzing the Army as an official patriotic institution and liberating the militias on both sides from a weight that had been blocking their ambitions. The first immediate result came soon after: crossings were closed 299

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between Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar. The militias were now the only masters of the situation. Kamel was stuck in Nabaa, a neighborhood that was no more than a kilometer in length and whose dilapidated buildings had become entangled and closely intertwined, separated by passages of less than a meter wide. The people piled above each other in stifling conditions. Those lucky families occupied cramped apartments. These were families of at least eight people, in apartments which could not have exceeded fifty square meters. As for the less fortunate families, they did what they could in one room. People spent most of their day out in the dirty interlaced alleyways. When the bombs came, they confined themselves to the indoors. But children, ignoring the danger, continued to escape their confinement to play freely outside; hence, most of the bombings’ victims were children. Despite this, Nabaa remained relatively safe: the area was protected by an agreement between the Armenian leaders and the Joint Forces command to keep the regions with an Armenian majority away from confrontations. There were no dividing lines or fortifications that separated Nabaa and Sin elFil and Borj Hammoud. Armenians kept their neutrality in the conflict. But agreements and alliances started changing after February 12 of that year, the date in which President Suleiman Frangieh and Prime Minister Rashid Karami signedthe “Damascus Agreement”, during a visit to Syria. The Druze leader Kamal Jumblatt publicly rejected the agreement, as did 300

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the Palestinian Resistance ten days later, though they did not formally declare it. At this point, the “Tachnak” Armenian party departed from its neutrality and joined the Lebanese Christian Forces. Nabaa and its surroundings were exposed, and people started fleeing by the hundreds, seeking refuge wherever they could. During that time, doctors also deserted the “Hospital of the Deprived”. When the last surgeon left, Kamel took his place, although he was a Pediatrician. The hospital was better equipped than the Medical Center where Kamel was now working two days a week. One day, a rocket hit the Sekket Farhat sector, killing many and wounding more than forty persons. The dead were buried immediately because the cold room at the morgue was out of order. As for the wounded, they were transported to the hospital one after the other where they were crowded together in the rooms and hallways. Kamel was running from bed to bed treating wounds and caring for the patients. He worked nonstop for nine hours. His slipped disk started causing him excruciating pain, for which he could only take a painkiller, having no time for rest. He went to his office and stretched out on his back for a few minutes, when suddenly the roof over his head shook and the wooden framed portrait of Imam Moussa Sadr fell on his face followed by an avalanche of bricks. He jumped up and ran outside. His nose was bleeding profusely. He heard someone shouting “It’s a 155 mm shell, but it did not explode.” He saw 301

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the shell lying on the floor of the room next to his. A sleeping monster. It was a miracle, rather two miracles: the first was that the shell did not explode, and the second was that the portrait of the Imam had protected his face from the fallen bricks. The Imam had â&#x20AC;&#x153;blessedâ&#x20AC;? him.

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The Fire of Revenge… and Its Victims “The flame of vengeance turns one blind.” A saying he had often heard in his childhood, often uttered by the elders of Khiyam, accompanied by strange stories: someone killing his brother, believing he was taking revenge on his enemy; someone else killing his father, mistaking him for an opponent; another burning his neighbor’s house in revenge for a wrong he had done him, and the flames reaching his own house. The stories were most probably exaggerated to give more strength to the parable. Kamel had never imagined that the fable would become a reality that would almost kill him. He still has nightmares about it. One evening, around the end of 1975, while the areas of Nabaa, Borj Hammoud, Sin el-Fil, and the camps of Tal elZaatar and Jisr el-Bacha were under siege, and shelling was raging, Kamel was sharing dinner (boiled lentils and canned meat) with the responsible of the Democratic Front known by his war name Ramzi Rabah, the military commander Abu Khaled, and Abu Taysir, a member of the Syrian Nationalist Party. Abu Taysir was a seventy year old scholar with a long and rich experience as a political militant. They were sitting in the Democratic Front office when a comrade ran in, panting. He told them that he had been on guard duty at the barricade 303

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of Sekket Farhat, near Borj Hammoud, when two men wearing white nurses’ coats approached. They said they worked at the Orthodox Hospital and they wanted to inquire about a patient who had been admitted there the day before. The guards at the barricade asked them for their identification papers. Doubting their authenticity, they asked them to accompany them to the Democratic Front office for verification. One of the two men turned around and started running away. The guards shot him, and he fell dead in the exposed area between their roadblock and that of the Kataeb. The second one was still waiting outside. Abu Khaled ordered them to bring him in. Suddenly, they heard shots and bursts of machine gun. Abu Khaled jumped up pulling his pistol and opened the door. There were two bodies on the floor; one was the so called nurse and the other, Boumedien, the arms officer. The guards rushed at the sound of shots. One of them explained what happened: “On our way to the first floor, we passed Boumedien’s office; he was standing at the door. Thinking he was the commander, the nurse pulled a gun and shot him, so we shot the nurse.” Kamel kneeled down and took Boumedien’s pulse. He was dead, shot in the head. The nurse must have been a professional killer. Abu Khaled was furious: “You bring him to the command post without searching him? You’re going to pay for this,” he said, “search him and bring what you find to my office.” Ramzi, Abu Taysir, and Kamel went back to the office, talking about the guards’ stupidity which had led to the death of Boumedien. Ramzi said: “We cannot interrogate the nurse about the mission he came for

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anymore, but it definitely was not an ordinary one, or they were more stupid than our men, thinking they could go through the checkpoint with just their hospital IDs.” Hardly ten minutes had passed when all hell broke loose. Their building was attacked with violent bursts of machine gun fire relentlessly raining down on them, reaching as far as their room. “The Phalanges are attacking us!” yelled Ramzi. He pushed Kamel to the ground while Abu Taysir took cover in a corner near the window overlooking the street. “We must leave the room fast,” said Ramzi, “it is too exposed, and they could hit us with an RPG.” Abu Taysir said: “One moment.” He carefully looked out the window and then he shouted, relieved, “They’re our comrades in our vehicles, I can see them, and I recognize the uniforms of our fighters.” Abandoning all caution, he stood in the window exposed, and was immediately met with a shower of bullets. He threw himself on the ground and crawled towards Kamel. His face was wounded and bleeding. Kamel examined him reassuring him: “It’s a superficial wound; the bullet just grazed the skin.” Abu Taysir looked shocked: “They are our comrades, why are they shooting at us?” Ramzi hurried out of the room. Moments later they heard him shouting from the next room window: “Hey, friends, it’s me Ramzi.” A burst of machine gun fire covered his voice. Kamel tried to reason, looking for an explanation for this absurd situation. “Were the two nurses sent on a reconnaissance mission? Were the fighters outside Phalangists disguised as 305

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elements of the Democratic Front? Could they have seized the Front’s military vehicles?” He could not hear Ramzi’s voice anymore. He thought he was dead. “Ramzi! Ramzi!” he shouted. Abu Taysir stood up and ran to the next room, Kamel following him. Gunfire was still pouring down on them when they heard Ramzi shout: “They’re our comrades, I saw them. Don’t worry.” Kamel remembered that there was a phone in the weapons room. He ran to the room and picked up the handset; the line had not been disconnected. He dialed the number of the Medical Center. Imad Charara answered. Recognizing Kamel’s voice he asked: “Where are you?” “I am at the office of the Front and we are under attack by the comrades!” Imad interrupted him. “Impossible, the Phalangists occupied the whole building and killed everybody, and now our forces are surrounding it, they are going to storm it with RPGs.” “But we are inside! Ramzi, Abu Taysir, and I; there is no one else here, no one occupied the building,” shouted Kamel. He hung up the phone while the bullets were still raining on the building. He told Ramzi: “It’s the comrades; they think the Phalangists took over the building after Boumedien’s death. I called the Medical Center. It will all be over in a few minutes.” He was wrong. Twenty minutes after his phone call, they were still under attack. Every few moments, gunshots would stop and they could hear the insults: “You suns of b…, you won’t get out alive! We’ll feed your corpses to the dogs!” 306

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Ramzi said: “Let’s hide in the attic until they realize who we are.” Abu Taysir answered: “It is better if we go up on the roof and identify ourselves, they’ll see us and recognize us.” They climbed up to the roof, and Ramzi stuck his head above the parapet then ran back saying: “There are two guys; one of them is carrying an RPG. I’m afraid he might fire before hearing our voice. He’s very young.” They hurtled down the stairs. Ramzi was holding his Kalashnikov with the muzzle pointing down. Suddenly it let off a round of bullets and Ramzi screamed in pain, almost falling to the floor. Kamel rushed to hold him and Abu Taysir helped carry him to the landing. His right foot was bleeding. Kamel did not have his scalpel on him to cut his trousers from his leg. He used his hands and teeth. The bullets must have sectioned an artery because the wound was bleeding profusely. They carried him to the armory room which was sheltered from the firing outside. It took them a while before they could catch their breath. Abu Taysir stood up, shouting: “What is this circus? We are not going to stay here and die under the rubble before they find out who we are.” He fastened his belt and walked out. Kamel ran to the next room to see what was going to happen. He was watching the entrance and heard Abu Taysir shouting: “Comrades, I am…” his voice was covered by a burst of machine gun fire and then there was silence. Kamel did not see him. He had not exited the building. “Did they kill him?” asked Ramzi. He stood up, overcoming 307

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his pain and said: “If these idiots do not recognize me, I don’t deserve to live.” He held his bleeding thigh and hobbled down the stairs to the building’s door. Kamel did not hear his voice, but saw him walk out with his arms raised. When he reached the middle of the street, he shouted in his thundering voice, “Comrades…” Kamel closed his eyes. He could not bear to see him killed, like Abu Taysir, by the comrades’ bullets. He held his breath, but could not hear any gun fire. Seconds later, cheers rose. He opened his eyes and could not believe what he saw: the comrades ran towards Ramzi, carrying him on their shoulders. They had recognized him. He went downstairs and saw Abu Taysir, a committed partisan, his body riddled with bullets, lying in a pool of blood. He did not need to examine him. He took him in his arms and could barely hold back his tears. Someone later explained what had happened: “We were told that the Democratic Front building had fallen and that the Phalangist forces had occupied it, killing everyone inside. All the factions gathered their men and we surrounded the building swearing that no one would get out alive. We were determined to take our revenge. We did not know it was a rumor…” A rumor in war can be as potent as the truth, and the flames of vengeance turn one blind.

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They Are Even Killing the Children The beginning of the summer of 1976 saw a relative lull on the fronts of Nabaa, Jisr el-Bacha, and Tal el-Zaatar that lasted several weeks. Volunteers took advantage of the truce to vaccinate children and organize health and hygiene awareness campaigns. A group of youth distributed leaflets to residents, advising them to boil the water before drinking it because of pollution and to boil babies’ bottles to protect them from infectious diseases. To encourage them to keep the streets clean, a team of volunteers swept the streets in front of homes and buildings, in the hope that people would join them in their efforts. But instead, some housewives waited for their arrival to throw their garbage bags on the street,effectively turning the volunteers into municipal workers. This drove the fighters to interfere, sending armed patrols to enforce public hygiene. Kamel was against this means of “persuasion”, but he had to accept it reluctantly: civil society cannot be built in a few weeks and sometimes, it is necessary to cut corners. The best thing that happened during that period of relative calm was the arrival of a team of French doctors from “Doctors without Borders”, headed by Bernard Kouchner. He was a friend of the former president of the Doctors Syndicate, Professor Fouad Boustani, a member of the Movement of the 309

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Disinherited, created by Imam Moussa Sadr. He was also a personal friend of the Imam, who Bernard had met during one of his visits to Paris. From the first week, a strong relationship was forged between Kamel and the team of doctors, especially Doctor Kouchner, an exemplary of the committed doctor. He belonged to no party, but roamed “the neglected lands of the poor”, travelling from continent to continent to offer help. He had not chosen to come to Lebanon spontaneously, but had read a lot about it and knew many Lebanese families who lived in France. He ached for the people of this country, the cultural capital of the Middle East. Kamel was not surprised when Bernard Kouchner was later named president of “Doctors of the World” and later Secretary of State for Humanitarian Action, Minister of Health, and Minister of Foreign Affairs. He did not know at the time that the man would help him save hundreds of lives by sending them for treatment in French hospitals. With the presence of the French team, Kamel returned to his studies at the Faculty of Medicine. He knew that they would leave sooner or later, and that their presence remained dependent on the security situation in the country, a situation that could change in the blink of an eye. For that reason, he carefully observed the surgeries they practiced on the wounded. Surgery had been his initial field of choice, which he had later abandoned in fear of it interfering with his public service, which he was passionate about. By closely following the French team, Kamel succeeded, in record time, to assimilate a number of surgical procedures, especially

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extracting bullets or shrapnel from the chest, and even lungs. If the injury was to the heart, all he could do was pray. Because surgery requires an anesthesiologist, which Kamel didn’t have, he asked Abdo, the head of security at the hospital, to assist the French anesthesiologist and learn the techniques from him. Abdo was delighted. He was particularly intelligent and had the ability to notice the minutest detail, probably the reason why he had been assigned head of security in the first place. Kamel was worried that the French doctor would mock him for transforming Abdo from a security officer carrying the Kalashnikov into an anesthesiologist using needles, but instead, he surprised him, saying “Don’t worry, I’ll teach him how not to kill them.” That doctor’s features were etched in Kamel’s memory. How could he ever forget his name? He was a dreamer like him who knew that a security officer, whose job often required killing, could actually become a savior. The dream came true after the end of the war: Abdo was put in charge of the ER department at the American University Hospital in Beirut. During the last week of June, all fronts flared up with extreme violence, and the northeastern suburb of Beirut turned into hell: shells fell on it like rain, both day and night, and by the end of the week, the camp of Jisr el-Bacha fell to the Phalangists and was declared a military zone. Victims fell by the dozen. Some of the fighters and civilians who managed to escape to Nabaa reported stories of the atrocities they had 311

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witnessed, as if they were messages sent to the people in Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar about the fate that awaited them. Kamel remembers that a two day cease fire was proclaimed. Doctor Kouchner informed him that the French medical team was to leave Nabaa. They had been there for three weeks and were supposed to stay longer, but the violent shelling of Tal elZaatar, the fall of Jisr el-Bacha, and the shelling of Nabaa, as well as the closing of Beirut Airport following the shelling of a Middle East Airlines plane and the death of its pilot left them with no choice. The shadow of death was hovering over the whole country, from North to South. Kamel asked Bernard Kouchner: “Can you leave us some equipment and medicine? We are at war as you see, and we are in need of everything.” The French doctor replied immediately: “Everything is yours: equipment and medicine, we are not taking anything with us. And if the war goes on, I’ll try to come back with more.” He added with a voice full of warmth and friendship: “I think you need a vacation to treat that slipped disk of yours. You cannot spend your life treating patients leaning against walls. I have been watching you. We have specialized hospitals in France. Come.” Kamel had been trying to hide the pain caused by the slipped disk, as it does not befit a doctor to fall sick. But that Frenchman flowing had noticed. He laughed: “The important thing is that the country’s back does not break. The disk can wait.” 312

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When the French convoy drove out of Nabaa, Kamel felt a deep loneliness. He was alone surrounded by thousands of civilians, with no one but Abdo and a few volunteers to face the ravages of war. “People die for a cause, but why do children die?” This question pounded in his head while he looked at Ali,dying in his arms. The child was nine years old, with black hair covering his face, and blood spurting from his mouth. A sniper’s bullet had hit him in the chest, pierced his ribs and lodged itself in his left lung. His father had carried him running to the hospital, holding him close, as if trying to give him his heart. The father and the boy were both covered in blood. Kamel carried the child to the operating room. He shouted, “Abdo… the anesthetic, hurry up!” He palpated Ali’s chest and could feel the bullet. He needed to extract it and stop the bleeding. It was a surgery like hundreds he had done before; but when he was opening Ali’s chest with the scalpel, he felt like he was opening his own. The operation took four hours, during which they put the French team’s supplies to good use. When he extracted the bullet from the lung he panicked. It was not like the regular bullets that snipers used; it was longer and thicker. Were snipers using a new kind of rifles? Kamel spent the whole night by Ali’s side. “He is my first born,” said the father, “he was playing with his friends…” His tears told the rest of the story. Kamel thought that he had stopped the bleeding and that Ali would live. But in the early hours of the morning, the child 313

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started coughing hard, and with each cough blood spurted from his mouth. The coughs must have reopened the wound. Kamel thought to himself “Can I fight Heaven’s will?”… He felt helpless. As Kamel watched the father carry his son away,he saw not one corpse, but two.

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A Life offered after Death Brother Ahmad You are the slave, the idol, and the temple When will you witness, When will you witness, When will you witness? Mahmoud Darwich, Extract from Ahmad al-Zaatar

They called it â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Resistance Triangleâ&#x20AC;?, Jisr el-Bacha, Nabaa, and Tal el-Zaatar, and Kamel watched its pillars fall one by one. Jisr el-Bacha fell by the end of June. The camp resisted for nine days under heavy bombardment where rockets, tanks, and 155 mm heavy artillery were used. People fled in waves to Nabaa. Electricity was cut off, water was scarce, and supply trucks were stopped at roadblocks and their cargo confiscated, in total violation of signed agreements. Everybody knew that Nabaa would be next. Steadfastness required a miracle, not because of the weakness of the Resistance, the Phalangists, the Ahrar Tigers, or the Guardians of the Cedars militias but because the enemy was already present inside Nabaa. Prior agreements were rendered invalid, and old alliances were torn apart and it 315

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was no longer possible to hide the graves that were growing day by day. The region was subject to an open campaign to rid it of its inhabitants, which started with the advice: run for your lives, save your children. With the intensifying of shelling and sniping and the increase of casualties, lice and scabies spread. Antibiotics were scarce. The situation improved with the arrival of Jean Hoefliger, delegate of the Red Cross International Committee, with a team of doctors. He toured the Medical Center and the Hospital of the Deprived with Kamel. At the end of the visit, he supplied him with crates of medicine. Four days later, Hoefliger came back with a new load of medicine that Kamel had requested. Hoefliger was politically neutral, but he could not hide his sympathy for the people of Nabaa after he saw their situation. He tried to hide his anger while discussing with Kamel what had happened in Jisr el-Bacha after its fall. He and his team had assisted in the evacuation of the population. He told Kamel: “I see that you are the only doctor in an area crammed with thousands of people. Your work is not in vain, these people need you. Be assured that I will do everything in my power to help you.” Kamel later found out that Hoefliger had held a press conference where he shed light on the suffering of the people in Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar, on how they died due to lack of food, electricity, and water. He stressed that the majority of the victims were Lebanese and Palestinian women and children. Needless to say, Hoefliger lifted Kamel’s spirits. Besieged 316

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in atrocious living conditions, these people desperately needed to hear a voice from outside supporting them, a voice that would let the world know of their suffering. The constant rumors about the fall of Nabaa pushed some people to flee and some charity organizations to close their doors. The real campaign to empty the area in preparation for its invasion started in mid-July. Kamel remembers it in detail.At around five in the evening, he was standing with Abu Khaled Ghandour at the entrance of the Democratic Front headquarters talking with Imad Charara, a volunteer with the Front, who was standing on the opposite sidewalk facing Camp Sis. A sniperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bullet fired from the camp, hitting Imad in the head. He fell, wallowing in his blood. The area was uncovered: there were no demarcation lines or piles of sandbags separating it from the Armenian area. In the wake of the fall of Jisr elBacha, the Phalangists had attacked the Armenian regions to prevent supplies from reaching the population in Nabaa, and had encountered resistance from elements of the Armenian Hanchak left party. Nabaa was exposed from all sides, and the fighting was now inside the area itself. A message sent by the Central Command of the Democratic Front said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Tachnak extremists have opened the Armenian areas to the Phalangists and the Ahrar Tigers and are now fighting in their ranks.â&#x20AC;? During the night, the civilians were evacuated from the neighborhoods facing the Armenian areas and were relocated to safer zones. If they were safe from snipers and kidnapping, 317

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they remained exposed to bombing. Embankments of sandbags to protect the movements of fighters were hastily erected. The houses on the frontline were transformed into barricades reachable only through large holes carved into the walls. The boundaries of Nabaa tightened. In order to accommodate the wounded, the medical mission had to start working in apartments abandoned by their owners. His neighbor, a tailor, came to bid Kamel farewell. Handing him the key to his shop, he said: “Doctor, the patches needed have become bigger than the cloth available. I have left a sewing machine in my shop, use it if you need to.” Kamel wondered if the sewing machine could stitch up the victims’ wounds. During that time, the people of Nabaa began following the negotiations undertaken by the Arab League envoy, Doctor Hassan Sabri al-Khaouli, whereas the people of Beirut closely followed Sharif al-Akhawi’s bulletins. The negotiations had become like the roads, changing from one moment to another, viable one moment, blocked another, and the people’s fate depended on them. In wartime, people cling to anything that, in their eyes, precipitates their situation. They have no time to analyze and no patience to draw conclusions. Words become road signs, instructing them to stop or go, and all within seconds. The signs were many, and they all instructed the people of Nabaa to leave: intertwined demarcation lines, raids and counter raids, and continuous bombings. Kamel recalls one night when he was leaving the hospital to go to sleep at a friend’s, Hajj 318

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Said Bazzi, who lived near camp Trad, in a building adjacent to the clinic where Kamel worked in the morning. He had not yet fallen asleep when gunfire sounded all over the camp, that was now populated by families from the Bekaa and the South. The shooting intensified, accompanied by the terrified screams of women and children. His instinct told him it was a raid. He peered out the window and saw fighters fire at a young man who fell near the building where he was. He did not think long, the combatants would invade the neighborhood within minutes, and in good raid tradition, would leave no prisoners. He ran to the rear balcony adjacent to the clinic and jumped from the first floor without taking the stairs, then crept between the buildings away from the area. During the days that followed, he totally lost track of time. The wounded arrived individually and in groups, day and night. With the help of Abdo and Sakina Salameh, the head of the Democratic Front women’s committee, Kamel divided them according to their injuries. For shots to the head, if the bullet or shrapnel had pierced the skull and the wounded could still move or had not lost consciousness, he could only administer sedatives. As for the rest of the injuries, especially those who were hit in the chest, lungs, or limbs, thanks to the supplies left by the Doctors without Borders team, and with the assistance of his “anesthetist” Abdo, they managed to successfully treat a number of them and maintain a “stable state” of others, pending the arrival of the promised delegation of the Red Cross to transport them to hospitals in West Beirut. But that

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promised dream was not easy to fulfill. The Combined Forces were sometimes able to capture a fighter during a raid, and after difficult negotiations, release him in exchange for the safe passage of five severely wounded from Nabaa to West Beirut. What does saving a human life mean? Not much. In the flames of war, humans become numbers, figures without faces on a simple balance sheet. We say: ten casualties, then it goes up: fifteen casualties, the number has changed. We read it in the newspapers, we hear on the radio, a simple figure, cold, banal. We do not realize that five more families have lost a father or a loved one. The worst thing in war is numbers. They summarize the life of a person. Some radio and television reporters used to call daily to ask: “What’s the number of casualties today?” They only wanted the number, never a question about that victim; was he a young man, a woman, an old man, a child? Did he come from the South, the Bekaa, Syria, and Palestine? Did he come looking for bread for his family, a dream of a better life? Everybody had become a number. A whole life with its past, its present, its future, its dreams turned into a number. Kamel hated answering those calls. He relayed them to Abdo. Few people know that blood has a smell, but doctors know. It’s a smell that attracts sharks from miles around. One day, after having spent long hours in the operating room, the smell of blood was so settled in his lungs and saturatedin his skin thathe started vomiting. He needed to breathe fresh air. But where was he to find fresh air with all this desolation and destruction around him? It was a waste land. He asked Abdo 320

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to get him the bottle of oxygen; a few puffs would do him good. “We are out of oxygen Doctor” answered Abdo. He said it without complaining, in a tone devoid of any expression. Kamel almost suffocated. He ran out to the street. He took a few steps in the narrow alleys where a few days earlier the laughter of children and the chatter of womenhad echoed. They were almost deserted now. A group of combatants from the Democratic Front suddenly appeared. They were young but looked exhausted. One of them told him: “It is best if you do not walk around but stay in the clinic, Doctor. We have just received a message from the command saying that armed groups and armored vehicles have been spotted; the command says that they are preparing for the invasion. Our positions in Monteverdi have been reinforced. Their mission will not be easy. We will resist until the last bullet, we have no other choice”. The young fighter uttered the last words as if to himself. Kamel turned around. The words echoed in his ears. “We will resist until the last bullet.” “And me,” he thought, “What am I to do? Resist to the last wounded?” The Democratic Front command had informed him that his brothers Amir and Aziz went daily to the office in Shatila and met with the comrade Taysir Khaled and his assistant Fahd to inquire about him. There were rumors that he had been assassinated and lynched. Kamel spoke to them on the wireless radio and reassured them. From time to time, he also spoke to his friend Talal Salman from the Assafirnewspaper. Salman was pessimistic: “The stakes are 321

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beyond us all. Fighting has spread over the entire area country, from north to south, and the capital is in flames.” Despite this, he always inquired about the situation on the ground and the daily life of the people in Nabaa. Talal had gone into politics through the door of the poor; they were his constant cause. He always ended the communication with: “Take care Doctor. Other fronts need you”. It was as if he foresaw the inevitable fate of the triangle of resistance. By the end of August, a ceasefire agreement was reached to evacuate the wounded from Tal el-Zaatar and Nabaa. They had some sixty wounded, most of them in a critical state. Some were fighters, among them the Syrian Bashar, a fierce fighter. A bullet had smashed the left side of his jaw. Kamel was able to treat him, but he required several surgical interventions which were only possible in better equipped hospitals. It was agreed that the Red Cross take out the wounded and civilians gradually, in order to ensure the proper implementation of the agreement. The first vehicle moved. It was an ambulance with six wounded on board, among them Bashar. It was driven by a Swiss citizen and followed by a van with a number of women, children, and three men over fifty. A hundred meters away, it stopped at a roadblock. Kamel and his companions had gathered to observe the convoy, some of them equipped with military binoculars. Five minutes later, armed elements came out from behind the sand bags embankment and opened the door of the ambulance. One of them climbed up inside and threw one of the injured out on the ground, and then another. Kamel was watching the scene

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with binoculars, his heart pounding. The fighters discharged their machine guns on the two wounded, under the eyes of the Red Cross crew. Suddenly, Bashar jumped through the open door of the ambulance and attempted to make a run for it. He jumped and zigzagged, trying to escape the bullets that landed behind him. Having made it about 30 meters, he fell and stared crawling. His comrades cheered him on, and some of them even opened fire on the roadblock to cover his escape. Bullets continued to rain down on him. Then he stopped. Someone shouted: “Sons of b… they are killing the wounded!” The convoy remained immobilized at the roadblock for about an hour before resuming its route. Kamel and his team later found out than the two remaining wounded were killed at another roadblock, and none of them made it alive. In the evening, the radio transmitted Hoefliger’s statement, in which he denounced the murdering of the wounded, considering it “the most heinous of crimes”. For its part, the Phalangist radio announced that this act was the doing of “insubordinate elements”. The corpse of Bashar the Syrian remained under the sun for days, until it bloated and started cracking. It was no longer a secret that a large-scale offensive of Nabaa was being prepared. The shelling and the military concentration of fighters and vehicles were all a sign that the countdown had begun. Kamel had but one concern: to save the wounded at any cost. He contacted the representative of the Baath Party in the region to ask for help in transporting the 323

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injured to hospitals in West Beirut. By a reversal of alliances, the Syrian Baath was now coordinating with the Phalangists and the Ahrar. He also contacted the responsible for the Hospital of the Deprived, the lawyer Ali el-Maoula, who had strong ties within the Ahrar Party, asking for his help. He ultimately succeeded in sending more than forty injured to the Orthodox Hospital and other hospitals in West Beirut. Most of them were supplied with Baath party and Ahrar membership cards. It was the doctor in him that drove him to such arrangements, and not the politician. At least, not politics in the narrow, fossilized, senseimpervious to change. But politics, in its originally vast and noble sense, works for the happiness of man and the good of humanity, providing common grounds for all to meet, because the ends, even if the means differed, are the same. If Kamel were to talk with the opposing camp, he could be accused of “opportunism”, according to the vocabulary of these narrow politics, he did not mind bearing the accusation, despite its seriousness, if it meant saving one life, let alone dozens. “The human being first.” Such was, and always will be, his motto. This principle guided his steps in all his undertakings. As a doctor, he believes that the Hippocratic Oath precedes any ideological manifesto. Such a conviction could have adverse consequences in conflict situations. One day, Kamel was sitting with comrades, some of whom were security officials, in an apartment above the medical center when a man burst in aiming his pistol at them and asking crudely: “Which one of you is the doctor?” The men went for 324

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their pistols, but Kamel asked them not to intervene. He asked: “What do you want from the doctor?” “Come with me to the clinic.” His ordered. The comrades tried to intervene again, but Kamel asked them not to. Once in the clinic, he found a man wounded by a bullet in his left elbow. Parts of the articulation bones were broken, and he was bleeding profusely. Kamel immediately took him to the operating room. The surgery lasted around two hours. When Kamel had finished, he went out and told the man: “Your friend will recover, although the bullet was fired at close range. What happened?” “I was cleaning my pistol when a bullet went off by mistake. I am from the Syrian Nationalist Party, but my friend is responsible in Fatah. Thank you for taking care of him.” Fayez Kyniar from the medical delegation interfered: “How dare you come in and threaten the doctor? We could have shot you.” “Don’t worry,” he answered, “my pistol is not loaded. I only used it to threaten you.” He pointed his pistol upward to prove the veracity of his statement and pulled the trigger. A shot went off and cement fragments fell from the ceiling. Kamel felt that Heaven, too, worked for the good of Man. During the last few days before the offensive, Kamel slept in a room on the ground floor of the clinic building. The room was small and its walls dripped with sewage water. When he woke up in the mornings, he saw slugs near his bed. The floor was covered with traces of slime they had left behind. He had to be careful not to slip. “Nabaa has fallen!” shouted his neighbor, Abou Hussein. 325

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The rumbling of tanks and the bursts of machine gun fire were uninterrupted. So the assault had begun! Kamel jumped out of bed and climbed the stairs to the clinic. A number of military vehicles moved forward. They stopped and the RPGs began. He ran to the Democratic Front headquarters. It was bustling like a beehive. The radio operator shouted: “The faction of Ahmad Safouan has allied with the Phalangists, look for other ways out.” He was talking to the fighters. Kamel went to the command post and did not find any of the comrades he knew. He asked: “Where are the commanders?” “They went out to fight on the front lines; we are burning all the files.” answered someone in a heartbreaking voice. The map of the secret alliances began to be drawn on the ground with blood. The main weak point, the military Achilles’s Heel, was the Armenian region; the Phalangists, the Ahrar, and the Tanzim entered from there with the help of the Tachnak party fighters who were a military minority but who played a crucial role on the day of the Nabaa invasion. The invasion proceeded in various stages over the next three days, during which the exodus of the inhabitants continued in an uninterrupted stream. The roadblocks turned into gates that opened to heaven... or hell. A shuffling of the chessboard forces took place on the ground, and alliances changed. The Arab Army of Lebanon, under the command of Officer Ahmad Cheaito, withdrew from the “Combined Forces” and the “Fetyan Ali” militia, under the command of Ahmad Safouan, followed suit. The Movement of the Disinherited proclaimed 326

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the neutrality of the Shiites, while the Koneizeh faction, after splitting from the Nationalist Syrian Social Party, fought at the sides of the Phalangists and the Ahrar, and so did some factions of Al-Saiqa and the Syrian Baath Party. Kamel realized that family bonds ensured more protection than political ties. The sons of the South, having prevailed political convictions over natural family lineages by joining the Progressive parties, paid the price with their lives at the road blocks. From the first day of the invasion, Kamel took refuge in the hospital. At first, he thought that the hospital would provide him with some immunity as a doctor. But after dead bodies started pouring in, most of them mutilated, he replaced that conviction with the thought that it was less cruel to die in the hospital than at a roadblock or by a sniper’s bullet, after which one’s corpse would remain abandoned in the street until it rotted. Was he living the “life after death”? The thought came to his mind while he was coming out of a house where some leaders of the Democratic Front had retreated, their headquarters no longer safe. He needed to contact his parents, and the only means available was the wireless radio. The leaders of the Front had several radio devices, and he was able to call the Shatila camp office of the Front. His brother Amir was at the other end. He reassured him of his safety, but Amir refused to listen. He screamed: “Every fifteen minutes we hear of your murder and mutilation. Every day, we die a thousand deaths. For the love of God, get out of there, do it for all of our sakes. Hoefliger of the Red Cross, Professor Ernest Majdalani, and Doctor Samira 327

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Sahyoun have all called to say that they were willing to get you out. All the inhabitants of Nabaa have already fled. What are you waiting for?” Amir did not stop pleading with Kamel until he promised that he would leave the next day and said he would update him on the arrangements. In fact, he could have left Nabaa any time he chose. It was he who, since the beginning of the siege, had made a deliberate choice to stay. What would become of the injured if he left? There were dozens of wounded combatants and civilians who had preferred to resist rather than flee. Was their reward to be left to bleed to death? He left the house after talking with his brother and took the road to the hospital, a few minutes’ walk away. He had barely taken a few steps when a shell exploded near him, propelling him several meters back. He landed on the ground.He could feel that he was still alive but he was unable to move. The sound of the explosion was still resonating in his ears and he could not hear anything else. He was lying on the ground motionless. “It’s my spine. The pressure from the blast must have broken it,” he thought. He tried to move his limbs to no avail; he was totally paralyzed. He must have been there for around fifteen minutes when he saw his friends’ figures hovering over him. They hurriedly carried him inside the house, “Doctor… Doctor…” he heard someone shout while shining a light in his face, he closed his eyes and tried to say something but couldn’t. The comrades told him later that he had lost consciousness and was not moving. 328

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Abou Hassan later told Kamel “We thought you were dead, and there was no doctor to examine you.” He added, laughing, “We had seen you put your thumb on a specific spot on the neck of the wounded to see if they were still alive. We took turns trying to do the same, but did not know where exactly. Some of us said they felt a pulse in your neck, and this spurred us into giving you a heart massage on the left side of your chest, but Wafic insisted on doing it on the right side, claiming that the heart jumps from its place when exposed to a strong shock. But he also did it on the left, just in case.” According to the comrades, he remained unconscious for about half an hour until one of them had the idea to pour a glass of water on his head, which made him come to his senses again. He could not find a scientific explanation for what had happened to him. All he knows is that the nervous system is sometimes struck by a temporary malfunction, for reasons which remain unknown. Kamel thinks that is what happened to him. He remembers a similar case which he witnessed: a divorced mother who had not seen her daughter for years, and when the father finally accepted to let them meet, she bought her daughter a tricycle. Upon seeing her mother and the tricycle, the girl’s legs gave in and she fell. Her mother, terrified, took her to the clinic. She said to Kamel, “Doctor, my daughter is paralyzed and they were hiding it from me.” The father answered angrily: “When she saw you she became paralyzed. It’s your fault.” In less than an hour, the girl was back out riding her tricycle. He 329

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did not believe that the girl could have faked her paralysis. She was barely five years old. As he started regaining his senses, he thought: “I am experiencing life after death.” He felt the grace of existence flow through him. He laughed as he hugged his friends one by one, which worried them all that he might have suffered a head trauma. But there was no trauma, only a sense of profound joy flowing through him like a river. The next day, he felt invested with a mission: to inquire about the fate of the kidnapped and missing persons from their homes or at roadblocks. No one had ever counted them, but they were many and their numbers increased by the hour. A “Missing Persons Committee” was formed including members of the warring factions. He said: “I am leaving Nabaa, and I want to carry with me a list of the names and where and when they went missing.” Someone suggested that the subject be raised between the Combined Forces and the Armenian Delegates during the meeting that was to take place at the Armenian Club that same evening. The National Movement and the Combined Forces intended, by all means possible, to put pressure on the Armenians in order to push them to return to their neutrality in the hope of avoiding the fall of Nabaa. The delegation arrived to the negotiations, carrying the list of missing persons. In the middle of the meeting, armed Phalangists and Ahrar elements stormed the Club and kidnapped the members of the Combined Forces delegation. Of course, there had been collusion by the Armenian 330

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intermediaries who constantly changed sides according to their interests. Rumors circulated that the entire delegation had been annihilated, but a responsible of the Syrian Nationalist Party assured them that following the intervention of the Patriarch and Armenians leaders, the members of the delegation had been kept alive, and that negotiations were underway to release them in exchange for hostages held by the Combined Forces. On an August afternoon, after all arrangements were made with the assistance of Mr. Hoefliger and Doctor Samira Sahyoun, the intervention of Ali Maoula with the Ahrar, and the coordination of General Abdallah Husseini, military commander of the Northern Metn district and friend of his brother Issam, it was agreed that forty people, including Kamel, would leave Nabaa in a bus that was to take them through Dora to Ouyoun el-Siman. The museum road was ruled out; nobody could guarantee their security along all roadblocks as they were each manned by different factions. Passing through the â&#x20AC;&#x153;roadblock of the ramsâ&#x20AC;? in Adliyeh was particularly dangerous, given its notoriety for its physical treatment of its victims. When they arrived to Ouyoun el-Siman, he felt he had entered another world. Military presence was still evident after the Syrian forces had restored their control in the region, but the situation was calm and the air was fresh and pure. When he hugged his brother Aziz, his nephew Izzat Awada, and General Husseini, he felt that an episode of his life was over, and that the world after Nabaa was not the same as it had been before it. 331

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He bade farewell to the rest of the convoy, his companions of difficult times, and headed to Khiyam. The second pillar of the “Triangle of Resistance” had fallen. The third, the camp of Tal el-Zaatar, was pushing the sixty-ninth assault and still standing. Khiyam welcomed its son who was “back from the dead”, according to the majority of the visitors who came to congratulate him. Rumors of his “murder and mutilation” had reached their ears since “we stopped receiving any news of you and the news coming in from Nabaa spoke of nothing but massacres,” said their neighbor, Abu Hussein Atoui, in his 70s, as he embraced him. The strangest story had been reported by ‘eye witnesses’ who had fled Nabaa was that “The last time we saw him he was tied by his legs to two cars that drove in opposite directions, splitting him in half!” The imagination of the people of Khiyam was very fertile, and when it collides with the wall of reality, it finds refuge in the imagination. This interlude of “convalescence” in Khiyam lasted no more than one night, during which he again felt overwhelmed with a deep sense of grace, an immense gratitude for a new life given to him. He was back from the dead. The next day, he headed back to Beirut. The great assault on Tal el-Zaatar had begun. A gloomy and heavy atmosphere hovered over the headquarters of the Democratic Front in Shatila. Tal el-Zaatar had fallen. For days, the convoys of displaced women, children, and elderly from Tal el-Zaatar crossed the museum passage in an 332

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endless procession… But where were the young men? “They took them at the roadblocks. They kidnapped them.” Instructions to the armed elements at the roadblocks were to stop all men. Any male older than ten and younger than sixty was to be taken for interrogation. The number of missing exceeded five thousand. Assuming his responsibilities at the head of the “Missing Persons Committee”, Kamel remained in daily contact with the Army Command as well as the Red Cross, and he undertook bitter and difficult talks with the leaders of the Phalangists and the Ahrar. Every day, he went to the office of the Red Cross at Coral Beach and met the international envoy of Hoefliger. Together, they reviewed the lists, adding names and removing others of those persons found, mostly dead. Hoefliger was in charge of the contact with the Phalangists and the Ahrar. A strong friendship developed between the two men. Hoefliger adopted the cause of the missing. They managed to exchange the members of the Combined Forces delegation who had been abducted at the Armenian Club with a number of civilians and combatants of the Phalangists and the Ahrar. They agreed on proceeding with the exchange at the museum passage, near the Adliyeh roadblock. Among those to be released was Taan Taher, the responsible of the Communist Party for the region of Nabaa and Borj Hammoud, also known under the pseudonym Abu Adel. He was a native of Hula, a village in the South bordering Israel. The operation took place as agreed and the hostages were 333

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released one by one. But, as Abu Adel took his first steps towards freedom, a sniper bullet hit him in the head killing him instantly at the “ram”. Taan Taher was an exceptional leader. He had participated in the operations of medicine distribution and vaccination campaigns, and had insisted on personally delivering food aid to families in need. He had left Hula after it was bombarded, had found a job at the port of Beirut, and had settled in Nabaa. The irony of fate was that he considered kidnapping,as well as kidnapping for revenge, a crime. He always said: “If they kidnap a civilian, and we kidnap one in retaliation, what distinguishes us from them? We say they are Fascists, what does it make us? We set the rules of the game: we will not kidnap. They are Fascists, but we are Communists. This is what distinguishes us.” The issue of the missing persons was not making any progress. Kamel decided to move to Damour where the displaced from the eastern suburbs of Beirut had settled.

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Damour and the Unknown Heroes When Kamel arrived in Damour, he found a devastated ghost town: charred buildings and piles of rubble. The few houses left standing were without doors or windows. Pipes, faucets, sinks, bath tubs, toilet seats, and even floor tiles had been removed. Walls were covered with names of those who were there, among them, names from Palestinian factions and Lebanese organizations. The Lebanese and Palestinian inhabitants of Tal el-Zaatar and Nabaa who had survived the massacres had resettled back there, while the survivors of Damour and Naameh, after their displacement, had settled in what remained of Nabaa, the suburbs of Dekwaneh, and Borj Hammoud. The camps of the eastern suburbs of Beirut had been leveled to the ground by bulldozers. From the original conflicts of interest and class, the war had turned into a conflict of religions and sects. The antithesis of destruction and desolation in Damour were the banana groves stretching to the sea shore, reminiscent of the prewar period: the serenity of generations of farmers, sweating while planting the soil and reaping the crops. The rustling of banana leaves in the wind alongside the sounds of

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the sea and the breaking of the waves on the shore revealed the ugly face of war. At dusk, Kamel would dream of a world filled with peace and justice. He settled in the middle of town, in a burned out house that needed almost everything. The “Nabaa squad” was ready for work. The squad had been created during preparatory meetings in Shatila camp at the office of the Lebanon Section, headed by Taysir Khaled and his assistant Fahd Suleiman. The squad consisted of groups formed by residents of Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar. Saleh Zeydan, head of the Democratic Front in Tal al-Zaatar and hero of the battle at the camp before its fall, in coordination with the Fatah command and the rest of the Palestinian organizations, was responsible for overseeing the redevelopment of Damour, so that it could accommodate the increasing number of displaced arriving daily. They formed teams to which they assigned the lead on various priorities: water, electricity, housing, food, medicines, and medical care... Water pipes were laid and faucets were installed in many parts of the town. As for electricity, a number of engineers and technicians, along with workers from the Electricity of Lebanon, volunteered to repair the grid in some neighborhoods. One of the organizations offered three used generators that were in good condition. Kamel had one installed at the “Medical Center”. Another one was installed at the “women’s workshop”, supervised by Mrs. “Sheikha” under the guidance of “Sister Adele Monzi”. With the help of his friend, Ahmad Abu Wadood’s wife, a specialist in education, 336

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Kamel established a kindergarten for children. Each war has its unknown heroes. Heroes on both sides, united by the same cause, beyond the fracture lines. No one talks about them, they remain unknown, working silently to make hell bearable around them. That is their greatest reward. Kamel had known Saleh Zeydan in the camp of Tal elZaatar. He was a leader by instinct, combining the military man, capable of leading fierce battles with the politician, engaging in political discussions and cool debates. One could not but admire him, even if one did not agree with him. In Tal el-Zaatar, before its fall, he became the symbol of resistance. He escaped by a miracle and arrived to Damour. He set his bed in the room next to Kamel’s and refused any preferential treatment, unlike many “Abawats”(1). He was modest and magnanimous, living with the displaced, communicating with them, and sharing their food. He became the symbol of the “popular leader”. He never made fiery speeches or gave orders to be executed immediately. He refused, for any reason whatsoever, to discriminate between one displaced and the other. One day he told Kamel: “Some behave as if the armed struggle were a government service. If a mother needs milk for her child, she must be well connected to obtain it. As if the misery of the exodus was not enough, the humiliation of pleading has to be added to it.” On another occasion he said: “What is the identity of the displaced? They are displaced, period. Some try to classify the displaced like hotels: a five stars displaced, a four stars (1) Plural of Abu, meaning father of….

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displacedâ&#x20AC;Ś and a displaced who has but one identity: displaced. Classifying them should be forbidden; otherwise we will become a distorted copy of the Lebanese authority as it was before the war. We would have all faiths under different ideological and political names. We might even exceed that and not accept to have less than twenty denominations, sheltered behind various organizations, each fighting a merciless battle with the other to assert its privileges and impose its own vision of Palestine.â&#x20AC;? Sister Adele worked with the Middle East Council of Churches for more than thirteen years. She was specialized in humanitarian action and had wide experience in social work. Kamel considered her his mentor. He learned a lot from her in the ways of building relations with foreign organizations from different countries. That nun, or saint as he called her, barely slept, remaining in contact with the displaced to ensure their needs were catered to, and reaching out to all possible contacts in order to let the world know of their daily ordeal. She knew how to be insistent and spared no means: telephone, mail, or even individual travelers. She did not hesitate to contact foreign embassies and churches in Beirut. She did not only ask for help, but asked her correspondents to personally come or send delegations to see the situation on the ground for themselves. She was a negation of sectarian fractures. In her presence, sectarian partitions fell and seemed childish. Her roots were deeply anchored in the ground and her branches rose high in the sky.

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Mrs. “Sheikha(1)“, whose name will not be revealed, was a Palestinian who lived in Tal el-Zaatar. She had lost her husband and her only son had been hit by a bullet in the spine, which threatened to leave him paralyzed for life. She had left the camp on foot, carrying her son in her arms and crossing one roadblock after the other. A militia man at one of the roadblocks ordered her to put her son down and fired his machine gun to scare him and make sure he was paralyzed. “My son could not move,” she recounted, “he was shaking but did not move. I threw myself on him to protect him, imploring the militia man to kill us once and for all and free us from this life of misery.” The man said: “I will not free you. Go. Carry him on your back for the rest of your life and get out of our sight.” The Sheikha carried her son all the way to Damour. When Sister Adele saw her, she held back a sob. She left for Beirut and came back to tell Sheikha: “I was at the Italian Embassy, I spoke with Rome. A medical mission will receive your son and treat him. You will accompany him, but you can only stay with him for one month althoughhis treatment might take longer.” Sheikha accompanied her son to Italy and came back a month later. “I believe this nun is an angel from heaven,” she said. “My son is going to recover.” Sheikha expressed her gratitude by working day and night in the women’s workshop, facing Kamel’s clinic. Kamel had to chase her away from the workshop at night so that so she could go home and get some sleep. (1) Feminine of Sheik.

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This happy ending for Sheikha was not complete. The boy became a man. He is now thirty six year old, still lives in Italy, and does not speak Arabic. “I do not speak Italian and cannot understand him. He blames me for not having stayed with him in Italy, or for not having brought him back with me to Lebanon,” she says. “As if I had a choice! Anyway, I have bought a small tape recorder and some Italian tapes to learn the language. Maybe one day I’ll be able to speak with my grandchildren. My son got married recently and his wife is pregnant.” Pierra was an Italian lady who spoke Arabic fluently. She was the wife of Doctor Issam Haddad, member of the Democratic Front political bureau and responsible for its external relations. Pierra was in her thirties. Issam met her in Tal el-Zaatar where she was in charge of the women’s organization and had an incredible ability to organize and pursue everything she undertook. She had embraced the Palestinian cause above all else. She always wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt without any make-up, and always found new ways to encourage women to work. “Mussolini’s fascists killed my father,” she said. “He was a communist and worked at the port. They killed him and threw his body in the sea. Hence, I am a leftist by birth.” Kamel once asked her: “What about babies, Pierra? Don’t you want to give our friend a baby?” She answered, laughing, “Do you really believe that the revolution will prevail by giving birth, that each newborn Palestinian brings you closer to victory? Okay, I’ll have my first baby on the first Palestinian 340

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piece of land that you manage to free… so hurry up. Until then, I will content myself with love.” Her laughter echoed through the camp as she sang in their native language “L’amore”, a word that all camp residents came to know by heart. The Arabic world is impervious to gender equality, and when it does adopt this equality in “the revolutionary pits”, it remains nothing but an expression. Edmond was an official of the Democratic Front in Damour. He came from a prominent Palestinian family that had fled with the first wave of exodus in 1948. He was in the same committee as Pierra, and was assigned certain tasks that he would undertake himself or delegate. Whenever there was a failure or mistake, he blamed Pierra, who always took it with a sense of humor, never complaining. Kamel was revolted by this double discriminatory attitude, first because she was a woman and second because she was not an Arab. He turned these strengths into vices. Kamel could not conceal his anger about this. “Practice must be aligned with principles and position.” His p-trilogy never left him.

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Under the Wings of the Church The Medical Center, the women’s workshop and the kindergarten were the first steps towards the creation of the “Najdeh Social Association” that Kamel, at the head of the executive committee, undertook to establish. The members of the committee were Sister Adele, the late Oum Nabil (Rose Ghannam Beyhum), Doctor Nabila Hibab el-Banna, Mrs. Anita (a German volunteer), Doctor May Abboud (professor of mathematics at the Lebanese American University), and the legal adviser of the association, attorney Nabil Machmouchi (currently a member of the Amel executive committee). At the dispensary, Kamel examined between forty and sixty patients per day, mostly children. He followed up on the treatment of persons who had been wounded during the siege and fall of Tal el-Zaatar, who had mainly suffered fractures, some needing prosthetics, others physiotherapy. He also treated adults with chronic diseases such as heart disease, diabetes, hypertension, kidney disease, and rheumatism.Such diseases required very expensive medication. Kamel managed to ensure them, either through contributions and grants or through the Palestinian Red Crescent in Damour or Beirut. He was assisted by the registered nurse, Amina Seif, who had worked with him in Tal el-Zaatar and Bourj el-Barajneh camps, and had insisted 342

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on joining him in Damour, as well as a nursing assistant, Sabah Chahrour, and a group of young girls who enthusiastically volunteered to help. Kamel remained in contact with the International Red Cross through Jean Hoefliger, with whom he had established strong relationships and who had visited him twice in Nabaa during the siege. As member of the Missing Persons Committee of the eastern suburbs of Beirut, Kamel had asked Hoefliger for assistance in this humanitarian cause. They were in a race against time, as some of the 5000 missing might still be alive and could be saved. He also asked him to provide all possible assistance for the displaced of Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar. They had lived terrible events during which they had lost loved ones, and they deserved to be at the top of the priorities. The Red Cross cooperated fully. Not only did it send food aid including frozen chicken, rice, sugar, and all sorts of canned goods, but it also contributed to the restoration of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;campâ&#x20AC;?. It supplied them with a large quantity of nylon sheets to cover the windows, gave them tanks for drinking water, as well as medication, disinfectants, and cleaning products. As a sign of gratitude, Kamel invited some thirty five delegates, some of whom had previously visited them, to a dinner party organized at a friendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house in Damour. There were no tables or chairs, and some guests, especially women, found it difficult to sit on the floor to eat. Kamel remembers Bernard, the head of the organization in charge of the Damour region, who was among the guests but acted like a host. Bernard often headed 343

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the convoys that brought the aids to the displaced. On his last trip, he hugged Kamel goodbye and told him thatthe Red Cross had reassigned him to an African country where a raging war had led to famine among the civilian population. He could be of help there. Later, Kamel’s friend John informed him of Bernard’s death. He had been shot at a roadblock by insurgents who had accused him of being a spy and an agent of one of the factions involved in the civil war there. Kamel was devastated. One day, a delegation of two women and a man from La Cimade, a protestant French charity involved in social and humanitarian work, visited Najdeh association. Sister Adele had collaborated with this organization when she was still with the Middle East Council of Churches, and had suggested that they send a delegation to see the work being carried out. Kamel accompanied the delegation on their tour of the medical center and the women’s workshop. The ladies of the delegation expressed their admiration for the women’s needlework, which was mostly of traditional Lebanese and Palestinian handmade caftans. They continued their tour and visited the kindergarten where there were fifty children between the ages of three and six. The children, neatly dressed, sat on wooden benches in three rooms decorated with their colorful drawings. The delegation was very impressed by the drawings and commented on them one by one. They attended one of the activity classes, then walked out to the courtyard and sat on handmade stone benches under a walnut tree. The children 344

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soon followed and started playing, closely observed by the delegation members. Claire, a member of the delegation asked Kamel: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Could you explain to us how these children who have lived a state of siege, probably lost some of their family members, or saw them shot in front of their eyes, can still make drawings like the ones we saw on the walls of the kindergarten, with the blue sea and the green banana trees, then come out and play the way they are doing now. They resemble our children, even though the ordeals they have been through cannot be compared with the experience of our children in the poorest regions of Paris? Do you have psychologists treating them?â&#x20AC;? Claire was serious. Kamel did not laugh at her last question concerning the psychologist,he who could barely find a doctor to help him treat parasites! He replied: â&#x20AC;&#x153;The question is important from a medical and scientific point of view, and I have discussed it many times with friends and doctors who came from Europe. The models they give and comparisons they make can lead to only one conclusion: the psychological impact, specifically on children, of traumatic events such as the bombing, kidnapping, brutal uprooting from the environment, combined with acute malnutrition, inevitably cause emotional disorders characterized by anxiety, fear of the future, withdrawal, and the inability to communicate. Paradoxically, we do not observe these conditions here. Perhaps the explanation for this phenomenon does not fall under the field of medical psychology but of sociology. Western societies are built around 345

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the respect of the individual and of individual values, whereas in our societies, the individual melts into his family, his clan, his tribe, his community, or his political party. I know that these values are often backwards and transform our society into a herd, but this society is in a state of war, a state it has been living in since 1948, since the proclamation of the State of Israel. We are trying to develop our individual values so as to place the individual at the center of society, but in a state of war, everybody becomes one of the herd. Fear is the antithesis of freedom. The first creates hermetically closed communities, in which people huddle together for protection, while the second breaks all barriers between communities and repositions the individual within his or her vast human, universal space. What we are currently experiencing is the worst thing that has ever happened in our history: we are conducting internal wars with Arab, regional, and international ramifications, and at the same time, we are pursuing our self-defense against our main enemy, Israel. In both cases, the herd is defending its youth, which is giving children a sense of security. This feeling may be false, as we saw in Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar, or as we are now seeing here in Damour, but they live one day at a time, in the hope that one day they will return to the warmth and security of their homes, and live in peace with others and with themselves.â&#x20AC;? He paused for a moment then added: â&#x20AC;&#x153;These children have a model: the fedayins, fighters who are not afraid to face death. They are the symbol and the ideal, and children dream of them, the same way that western children dream of Santa Claus.â&#x20AC;?

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Realizing that his speech was almost turning into a lecture, Kamel stopped talking. “Excuse me,’ said Claire, “but are you saying that a herd mentality is better in times of war?” He remembered what his father had said when Ahmad elAssaad had deprived his brother of his scholarship: “The bey will decide neither his future nor ours. We are not a herd in his farm.” But how to explain this to Claire? He said: “The worst thing that war does to people is return them to the folds of the herd they had struggled so hard to break free from. Freedom gives you the ability to leave, and war forces you back. From this perspective, I believe that you are playing an important role. You are a Christian organization that has volunteered to help people who were torn from their land and their homes by fighters brandishing the Cross, turning it into a ram that shatters other because they are not Christians. Do you see the difference? The religion is the same, but the mission differs. You save lives while others take them.” “But it is not only the Christians who are doing that,” said the man. “We are here in Damour, but where are its people?” Kamel instantly replied: “Exactly. This is what I am trying to say. Not only Christians, but all religions change. They have become parts of a war machine. Sometimes, they take on both missions, killing and saving. Let’s take faith for example. People here have a deep faith in the inevitability of fate. This faith helps them accept their reality without breaking down. But this faith that saves them, at the same time plays a negative role. 347

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It prevents any change and almost eliminates any possibility of evolution that no society can survive without. The crimes perpetrated by leaders become a divine will and an inescapable destiny. And instead of being judged in this life, those leaders are left to be judged in the next.” “Are you a believer?” asked Claire. This personal question surprised Kamel, and before letting the conversation turn into a theological debate, he said, laughing, “Do you think Ernesto Che Guevara went to church every Sunday? He had unshakable faith that he gave his life for. But this faith was in the happiness of Man on this earth. In that sense, yes, I think I am a believer, and any help that might come from Heaven is certainly welcome”. The delegation offered them generous aid. Heaven opened its gates once more with the arrival of Samuel Andersen, a Swiss citizen at the head of a large Protestant association that collects donations for Third World countries and publishes booklets in which it explains the projects undertaken with these donations, with pictures of the beneficiaries. Andersen visited Najdeh’s main office in Tarik el-Jdideh, where they agreed that he would take a field tour in Damour to meet the displaced and take some pictures. He started the tour by visiting the clinic, then the women’s workshop, and finally the kindergarten. Kamel then proposed to visit some families in their homes in order to see the conditions they were living in. The first house they visited was that of Oum Nabil Abul Hayjaa. She told him her story while Kamel 348

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translated: “We were living in Tal el-Zaatar. I had four sons and three daughters. My husband was an officer in Fatah, while I chose the Democratic Front. As for our children, they were divided between the two factions. When the bombardment of Tal el-Zaatar started, a shell fell near our house. It killed my son Hisham who was seventeen years old, and wounded his sister who is now sixteen and limps. When the camp fell, I got out with my two sons, Walid eleven and Khaled twelve, as they were children and could safely cross the checkpoints, along with my limping daughter. As for the others, I feared that the militiamen would kill or rape them, so I sent them out with a group of fighters through paths taken by the armed resistance. At the Phalangist roadblock, a masked man asked me: “Are these your children?” I answered, “Yes.” He said: “I want the boys to take off their shirts.” They did. He examined their shoulders and suddenly shouted: “They are fighters! There are marks of Kalashnikov recoil on their shoulders. Leave them here, we need to investigate. If we find that they are innocent, we will return them to you at the museum roadblock.” I pleaded: “But they are only kids, schoolchildren.” The masked man pushed me away saying: “Go through with the girl, the boys will stay here for interrogation.” I cried and begged him to keep me and let my children go. At the commotion, another masked man who seemed to be the officer in charge of the roadblock came, talked to his subordinate, and walked away. The militiaman said: “We will keep only one. Choose which one you want to take with you.” How can a mother be asked to choose?” I sat on the ground, insisting that I will not move except with both. 349

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The militiaman hit me with the butt of his rifle saying, “Move. I will help you; I’ll leave you the youngest.” He pulled Khaled by his shirt, pushed him towards the other militiamen, and they disappeared. He said: “Move before I take the other.” I moved and we reached the museum which is in reality where we still are”. Oum Nabil could not hold back her tears: “I wish they had shot him in my presence. It would have been easier for me than trying to imagine how they tortured him and maybe killed him a thousand deaths before shooting him. I heard that he was among eighty corpses found later. I did not see the body, and still don’t know what became of him.” Samuel Andersen listened to her story carefully, then asked her if he could take her picture. He had several cameras, and took many pictures of her before they moved to another house where similar tragedies were told. Months after his departure, Kamel received a booklet with the organization’s logo, illustrated with a profusion of pictures of Oum Nabil, the dispensary, the workshop, and the kindergarten. The Protestant aid arrived, and the gates of heaven remained open. An American playwright, Liston Pope Junior, sent by the American Council of Churches, came to Lebanon. The aim of his visit was to write a report on the situation in Lebanon and in the Palestinian camps. Upon his arrival, he contacted Monsignor Gregoire Haddad,founder of the “Social Movement”, and Doctor Tarek Mitri (currently Minister of Information) in charge of international relations in the Middle East Council of Churches (one of Amel’s founders and member 350

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of its executive board for twelve years). The two friends asked Kamel if he could accommodate the American host in the camp for a couple of weeks to witness the situation on the ground. Kamel welcomed the idea, and when Pope Junior arrived to Damour, he gave him the room adjacent to his and to that of Saleh Zeydan. Ahmad Abu Wadood, a staunch fighter and a difficult man to deal with, but who spoke English fluently, was asked to take care of him. Kamel made him understand in advance that the host was American, “but is close to our cause.” “Junior” worked relentlessly day and night, constantly moving between the clinic, the workshop, and the kindergarten, interviewing all kinds of people, including children, asking dozens of questions, noticing the smallest details that he would later discuss with them in the evenings. It was as if he was writing the chronicles of the camp and the biography of Kamel. He bombarded him with questions about his youth and his village Khiyam, his studies in France, the hospitals and dispensaries that he established or worked in, and the secret of his celibacy and… He once asked him: “Have you never fallen in love?” “Junior” who had come to talk about the camp became the talk of the camp. His liveliness, his kindness, and his constant willingness to help extended to all. Kamel remembers one afternoon when they were in the middle of town near the Democratic Front office, talking about the ugliness of the war and the terror children and adults were living in. Junior said to him: “Do you know that even after facing so much brutality 351

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and ugliness, there are people who are still willing to sacrifice everything, including their lives, to save others? They might not be many, but they are close to Jesus Christ who sacrificed his life to save others.” He had barely uttered these last words when a violent explosion blew them both several meters away. They landed on the ground, far from each other. Kamel stood up tottering and searching the dust waves with his eyes looking for his American friend. “Junior! Are you hurt?” he called feverishly. No answer. He took a few steps and almost stumbled on something: it was Liston, lying motionless on the ground, face down in the dirt. Kamel quickly turned him on his back and started cleaning his face. He still did not move. Kamel thought, “He is wounded.” Everyone around him was screaming. Someone shouted: “It’s an Israeli raid!” The first thing that came to his mind was the kindergarten, but it was past two in the afternoon, and the children would have left. He felt relieved. He felt Junior’s neck and found a pulse. Junior moved his head slightly. Forgetting the shooting pain in his back, Kamel started giving him CPR. The American opened his eyes, lifted his head, then suddenly stood up. “Doctor! Are you OK?” Relieved, Kamel stood up and hugged him, and then they both ran to the clinic. Kamel said: “There must be lots of wounded.” Saleh stopped them at the door. “We are going to divide the wounded among the houses. We do not want gatherings, even in the clinic. It will become a target.” “Where should we go?” asked Kamel. Saleh replied, “Follow me. Stay close.” 352

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Kamel suggested that his American friend lie down on a bed in the clinic to rest for a while, but he refused. “I am staying with you, maybe I can help.” Ramzi walked to the crater caused by the missile.It was meters deep. The sound of the Israeli jets flying low drowned outtheir voices. Ramzi shouted: “Divide the wounded among the houses. The clinic is closed.” Liston helped carry the wounded. Later on, he walked around the crater and said: “This is unbelievable! I cannot believe that anyone on earth, since Hitler’s suicide, can bombard civilians with a missile this size. They could have hit the kindergarten, killing the children who have escaped from Nabaa and Tal elZaatar. I will write about this.” He added with resolve. Kamel felt comforted by the presence of this American, witness to the savagery of the enemy. Three years after that incident, Kamel received from his friend, Leila Zakharia, the executive director of Najdeh at the time, a novel entitled: Redemption: A Novel of War in Lebanon. It was a three hundred pages book in English, prefaced by the Jewish progressive thinker Noam Chomsky, the late Doctor Hisham Charabi, the literary critic Cleanth Brooks, as well as Malcolm Cowie, a leading political commentator; the author was Liston Pope Junior. Leila told him: “Junior sent it to the address of Najdeh for you. Kamel skimmed through it to find a personalized dedication on the first page: “Dr. Kamel: resistant leader”. Junior recounted in his book Kamel’s experience in Nabaa, Tal el-Zaatar, and Damour. The book was written as a fiction novel, but it abounded with details about the war in 353

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Lebanon, its different events, the atrocities committed by the Phalangist militias after the fall of Tal el-Zaatar, even the names of streets, regions, and hotels. Chomsky commented: “I read it in two evenings. This book is a striking testimony.” Later on, Liston sent Kamel a copy of his second novel, Living Like the Saints: a Novel in Nicaragua about the Sandinista revolution, and the crimes of the dictator Somoza. The doctor felt comfort in the bosom of American churches, alongwiththe French Catholic and Swiss Protestant churches, away from the sectarian monster roaming his country. The church of Lebanon was no less generous than the churches of Europe and America.The head of the Maronite church, Patriarch Paul Meouchi, was the only sane person in the middle of a Maronite community gripped by insanity, as Kamal Jumblatt described. From time to time, Kamel visited the “abuna”(1) abbot of the Naameh monastery with some friends. The monastery hung between the sea and the mountain, between heaven and hell, the heaven of peace and the hell of war. The abbot would greet them with a few glasses of aged wine. Kamel once asked him “How old is this wine Abuna?” “The age of commercial wine is measured in years. As for church wine, its age is measured in generations. This bottle must have seen three generations pass before landing in our cups. I fear that future generations will not find any left to thank us for, because the war consumes what we have patiently amassed, leaving in its wake only ruin and desolation for generations to come”. (1) Title meaning Father given to priests in Arabic.

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On the way back Kamel told his friends: â&#x20AC;&#x153;When this war is over, I will suggest to our militia men Abu Hajem, Abul Leil, and Abul Jamajem to make church wine in order to make up for their sins. Maybe they will become like the Abbot, promoters of peace and not war.â&#x20AC;?

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Anger “Anger is a monster lurking inside each one of us. We never know when it may wake up.” Kamel lived this quote by Dostoevsky and almost paid for it with his life. One day, he was sitting with some friends on the Democratic Front office balcony, discussing the speech of President Anwar Sadat in which he predicted blood and tears to the Lebanese, when bullets started flying in all directions, accompanied by shouting and insults. They looked down and saw Abu Nasser, an officer of the Front standing in the middle of the square, holding his Kalashnikov in one hand and raising his fist, yelling, shooting, and shouting at the sky. They all ran down the stairs, Kamel jumped the last steps in one leap, which revived the pain in his back, almost paralyzing him. He paused for a moment then walked out to see Saleh Zeydan facing Abu Nasser, shouting: “Throw down your weapon at once!” “One more step and I’ll cripple you like me; we’ll have two cripples in the camp,” replied Abu Nasser, laughing stupidly; it was clear he was drunk and his anger was unleashed. Saleh reached for his pistol but Kamel stopped him: “Let me handle this.” He stepped forward towards Abu Nasser who pointed his Kalashnikov at him saying: “Watch out, not one more step! You are the doctor and I don’t want to kill you.” Kamel said softly: “I will not come closer, but tell me, is your 356

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leg wound hurting you?” “It’s not my leg that hurts, Doctor, but my heart, here.” Abu Nasser hit his chest repeating, “The pain is here in my heart Doctor, in my heart…” Then he put his head on Kamel’s shoulder and burst into tears, like a child. Abu Nasser was a brave warrior. He had lost his younger brother in Tal el-Zaatar. Abu Nasser was hit in the leg during the battle, but had managed to flee the camp through the Monteverdi road. When he arrived to the Naqaha dispensary in Fakhani, his wound was still bleeding and he had lost a lot of blood. He left the clinic with a permanent limp, but this did not prevent him from taking arms again and fighting as an officer. While Kamel patted Abu Nasser on the back, the image of the Phalangist militia man in Karantina brandishing a bottle of champagne, laughing like an idiot amid piles of dead bodies came back to him. Was it not the same anger whose monster awakens at odd moments? He hoped to live long enough to see the end of this dirty war,dirty because it had shattered his dreams. The revolutionary pit he had been fighting for had turned into a swamp, swarming with the crocodiles of religions and the snakes of sects. And despite the attempts at distinction, especially by the Palestinian Resistance and the secular parties, the war machine had swept everyone in its path, imposing a logic refuted yet practiced by all. The pain in Kamel’s back tormented him all night. It was as if a vice was gripping his spine. In the morning the toes of his left foot were almost paralyzed. He could barely dress 357

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himself. He could not ignore his pain any longer. He had to admit that he was ill. He asked his body guard and driver, Salman Abu Abbass(1), to take him to his house in Haret Hreik. From there, he called Doctor Ibrahim Beydoun, his lifetime friend, and asked him to accompany him to the clinic of Doctor Mehdi Chatila. While he waited for his friend to arrive, he decided to make up for the lack of water in Damour and take a shower. He was under the shower when the telephone rang. He had not set foot out of the shower that he slipped and fell. An excruciating pain shot through his body. He fought the oncoming fainting feeling and crawled to the living room. When the doorbell rang, he gathered his last strength and opened it. His friend Ibrahim carried him to Doctor Chatila’s clinic. He was a bundle of pain. When Doctor Mehdi saw him, he asked jokingly: “Did you bring your disk with you?” He asked him to stay in bed for four weeks, lying on his back. Kamel suggested to the late Doctor Alfred Chahine to operate on him in order to relieve him from his pain, but Doctor Chahine asked him to stay in bed for another two weeks. “What’s the hurry?” he said, “It’s true that you are responsible for Najdeh(2), but it is you who needs help now.” It was the longest bed rest period of his life. He was

(1) Salman Abu Abbass and his wife were later killed during a shelling on the ssouthern suburbs of Beirut. His brother Ghassan took his place and has been with Kamel for more than twenty five years. (2) Najdeh in Arabic means help.

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paying the price for his negligence, and as a doctor, he knew that his state could only worsen without treatment. The best part of his stay in bed was the surprise visit of his friend the French Doctor, Marcel-Francis Kahn. Together they evoked memories of their experiences in Dhofar. “Did the war make you forget your fear of snakes?” asked Kahn. Kamel answered: “Of course. We even import them from around the world to protect us against the rats of religions and sects.” His nephew Ghassan Abdallah kept him company throughout his stay in bed. Most of the days, he would buy a roasted chicken that they would share for lunch. Tired of this monotonous meal, Kamel told his nephew, jokingly: “Watch out, if you keep this up, you will start laying eggs.” Ghassan answered: “You’re the one lying in bed. You’ll lay eggs first, and you may even hatch them.” After many long weeks, his condition improved and he could finally go back to Damour. His friends insisted he remained on duty at the head office of Najdeh in Beirut, so he could supervise its activities. He started going to Damour every morning and coming back to Najdeh in the evening. To make up for the daily roast chicken, every morning he would buy a roasted head of lamb from Ouzai that he would eat with Salman at noon, on the balcony of the headquarters of the association in Damour. “And instead of laying eggs like chicken, we stared bleating like lambs. The choices of a bachelor are limited; either lay eggs, bleat, or… get married,” he once told Salman jokingly. 359

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The Doctor, the Commissioner, andâ&#x20AC;Ś Halbawi

Where does political work finish and the professional begin? Where do the limits of the party end and of the social institution begin? When does the political decision maker abandon his authority and leave it to the field leaders? These were questions that seem theoretical at first, but in our Arab world, they become like Greek labyrinths, where man gets lost in its meanders to end up being eaten by the Minotaur. Authority was, and still is a mythical monster. Kamel has moved from the theoretical to reality, and practices what he preaches. The projects of Najdeh found such success in Damour that they were adopted in other areas of the country, from north to south. A kindergarten was opened in Tarik el-Jdideh, another in Beddawi camp in Tripoli, a third in Rachidieh camp, a fourth in Ain el-Helwe, and a fifth in Borj al-Chemali. With each kindergarten, a workshop for women was opened, where widows could work to support their families. With their children taken care of in the kindergartens, they could spare some time for productivity. Despite the difficult living conditions in the refugee camps, the associationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s projects tried 360

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to insure a minimum stability for displaced populations who were struggling for every day survival. The executive board of the association met weekly at its head office to define plansfor the organization and monitor their implementation. Kamel, with the help of his lawyer friend, Nabil Machmouchi, set up the bylaws and statutes of the association, chose its name, and designed its logo. He preferred not to have his name mentioned among the founders, in order not to hinder the granting of the necessary permits, as he was not on particularly good terms with the Ministry of Interior because of his political activities. In any case, whether his name appeared on the list of the founders or not was not important to him. The only thing that mattered was the work he could accomplish and the results on the ground, away from pomp and circumstance. One day, as they were closing the executive board meeting during which they had been discussing a work plan for the next six months, Kamel received a message from Taysir Khaled, the regional commander of the Democratic Front in Lebanon, asking him to “immediately notify” the executive board members of a number of administrative decisions including assigning new tasks to some, modifying the tasks of others, increasing the responsibilities of others... and the list went on without any prior consultation with the association’s executive office. Needless to say, Kamel refused to execute these “superior” orders. He felt he was at a crossroads: on the one hand there 361

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was the dominant culture of the party: “our activity is political and it is the party that decides”, on the other hand, the members of the executive board, mainly European women and female Lebanese graduates of European universities, who were not in the habit of blindly carrying out orders, especially since they were volunteers in an association well-established in the civil society, with no connection to a party, militia, or intelligence service. Dialogue and participation in decision making and the subsequent follow-up and implementation were necessary conditions for these associations to succeed and push every one of their members to give his or her best. Kamel went to Taysir’s office in Shatila camp. He had come up with a win-win strategy to reach an arrangement with him. He told him honestly that the “immediate notification” had not occurred, because it would certainly be objected by the colleagues. “This is the decision of the command,” snapped Taysir, “whoever refuses to execute orders can leave.We will find someone to replace him. We are in a state of war and we cannot afford a ‘Hyde Park’.” “So here we are, back at the logic of nothing sounds higher than the drums of war,” thought Kamel. “Sister Adele, Rose Ghannam Beyhum, Doctor Nabila Hibab el-Banna, Doctor May Abboud, and Anita have to abide by the executive orders imposed by the regional command… or leave.” The idea scared him. Man was no longer the “most precious capital”. He could be replaced as easy as dirty socks. He suppressed his anger, promising himself yet again not to 362

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be provoked. He said: “Comrade Taysir, do you want to kill the shepherd or save the flock? You cannot do both. Without the shepherd, the flock will be eaten by wolves. We are the shepherds, and we are guarding your flock.” Taysir immediately got Kamel’s point. He burst out laughing and said: “Comrade Kamel, by virtue of the powers vested in me by the regional command, I hereby officially appoint you shepherd of the flock. Safeguard it.” Then he asked in a more serious tone: “Do you really think I made a mistake by making these administrative decisions? I am surrounded by people who constantly have suggestions, and reasons supporting those suggestions, and extensive causes for them. I have done all I can choose the best one. Tell me where I went wrong?” Kamel felt that Taysir was sincere. Kamel said to him: “You remember Marx’s quote that “Every step of real movement is more important than a dozen programs.” This is a step forward, and it can only be carried out by those who know its details. As to whether you have committed a mistake, it is a question to some controversy. Administrative decisions are debatable. What is certain is that the medical center, for example, needs a doctor not a political chief. When someone decides that everything is political, the problem begins. The party summarizes the civil institutions, and the general secretary summarizes the party, and the party members become nothing but stupid robots executing orders, unable to take initiatives or to assume responsibilities.” 363

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Kamel was silent for a moment, then continued. “My personal view is that the decisions of the party bodies must be respected. As to execution, there are bodies with qualifications and experience to do the job,without the interference of politicians. These bodies were not recruited into social action by force, but volunteered for it by conviction. And out of respect for these convictions, they must be allowed to participate in making the decisions, before being required to implement them.” His little speech had lasted long enough, but he knew he could count on the patience of comrades in the Front. They were used to listening to their interlocutors patiently and had never complained about the discussions of the Secretary General Nayef Hawatmeh, which often became a monologue that could stretch up to over six hours. In all fairness to the armed wing of the Front, Kamel had to admit that it had issued him with a military ID, with the rank of major. The name on the card was Albert, in tribute to his friend Albert Jokhdar. “Major Albert” could move around day and night, even in the worst security conditions. His ID protected him and raised his morale. In a conventional war, doctors are issued military ID cards allowing them to circulate freely. In the turmoil of the civil war, the ID of the Lebanese Order of Physicians issued in his real name offered him no guarantee at the roadblocks, and was sometimes even seen as a reason to take him aside: “It is providence that has sent you, Doctor. We have 364

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an emergency, please come with us.” The emergency for which he was forced, under the threat of weapons, to accompany the militia man was no more than his wife suffering menstrual pain and needing pain killers. With the proliferation of roadblocks and the increase of these unexpected “hijackings”, Kamel gave up his doctor’s ID and used that of the Major. Towards the end of 1977, after a long day’s work, Kamel went for dinner at a friend’s house in Sabra. The conversation was lively. At one point, they recounted the story of Halbawi, a man who, the previous week, had fired a B7 anti-tank shell at a vehicle of the Syrian Dissuasion Force, killing seven soldiers before completely disappearing. All Lebanese and Palestinian factions proclaimed their innocence and denied responsibility for the attack. Was Halbawi a lone fighter? Rumors said that he was member of a Palestinian organization that did not want to disclose its identity. Other rumors said that he was a “dissident” from a local organization. Around two in the morning, Kamel left his friend’s house and headed to his house in Haret Hreik. When he reached the Shatila roundabout on the airport road, an armed man jumped in front of his car. He stepped on the breaks and the car screeched to a halt. The man stood still for a moment then sat on the hood of the car. Kamel did not move. He reached into his pocket to make sure his “Major” ID card was with him. The man, surprised by Kamel’s calm, walked to the driver’s side of the car. The doctor opened his window 365

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and said in the tone of a “Major”: “I admire you courage, but I almost ran you over, this is a car not a Kalashnikov.” He looked around him for other men at the roadblock but could see none. He added authoritatively, “Give me your ID.” The man retorted, “Why don’t you give me yours.” He raised his Kalashnikov in Kamel’s face and stuck its barrel in his mouth. Kamel slowly got his ID out of his pocket, turned on the light inside the car, and handed it to the man who examined it for a moment then got his own ID out and showed it to Kamel. It read “Halbawi” with the name of fighting faction. The man said: “I don’t care about your ID, I like your boldness; you have no fear.” “I only fear the fearful,” said Kamel. “You have no fear either.” He got out of his car and shook the man’s hand. Halbawi said: “Why don’t you carry an ID from our organization? I can get one for you.” Kamel drove away asking himself where he had heard the saying: “I only fear the fearful.” He remembered that it was one of Gandhi’s quotes. What would Gandhi do in this damned war?

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Amel… The Birth of an Association

“They gathered them near the municipality and opened fire on them. No one survived.” This is how the displaced who escaped Khiyam reported the massacre which took place in the village. Fifty five persons had been executed in one go. Fifty five men and women aged fifty and above. Kamel knew them one by one, by name, by face, by house. He remembered them from his childhood when he enjoyed their stories in the evenings, running through their memories. I was difficult to imagine Khiyam without them. Hajj Mohamed Ghazawi was among them. He was an eighty year old man who had survived two world wars and the famine in between. He had refused, like all the rest of the martyrs, to leave Khiyam: “I live here and I will die here.” He had died in Khiyam, a death brought on by decision not destiny. In 1978 Israel launched “Operation Litani” with the purpose of eradicating the “terrorists’ bases in South Lebanon”, as announced by a military communiqué. The Khiyam massacre had a different purpose: the eradication of the Southerners’ memory. The martyrs that fell near the municipality were not fighters carrying Kalashnikovs but “history” carrying their

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memories, with their roots deep in their land. The assassins wanted to erase their memory, their souvenirs, and their history. They were not content erasing the past, but wanted to destroy the future. In Kounin, for example, a village near Bent Jbeil, they killed twenty nine children. In Abbasiyeh, they massacred, without distinction of age, eighty one people between the ages of two and eighty. The Litani became a river of blood. Operation Litani was a turning point in Kamel’s life. Before it, the Palestinians were the target of the Israelis, along with whichever Lebanesemay have helped them. But Israel changed the rules of engagement, and the target became the Lebanese in general. They completely destroyed Khiyam and six other villages in the area with violent missile and artillery shelling, then occupied over one hundred and fifty villages and towns in the South, killing more than one thousand Lebanese, and forcing over a quarter of a million to leave the area, including thirty thousand from Khiyam. This could not have happened by chance. Just like the Phalangists blamed “insubordinate” elements for the dirty work of the civil war, the Israeli army dissociated itself from the massacres, blaming the “South Lebanon Army” of Saad Haddad for them. Wasn’t that what happened four years later in Sabra and Shatila? The Litani operation was the biggest Israeli aggression since the 1973 October war. Twenty thousand soldiers took part. Their mission was to establish a buffer zone that would be the first chunk of Israel’s share from awar-torn and divided 368

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Lebanon, which is what eventually happened on the ground in mid-June Israel announced the withdrawal of its forces from South Lebanon, entrusting the administration of the conquered portions in the districts of Bent Jbeil, Marjeyoun, and parts of Tyr and Hasbaya to “Major Saad Haddad”. In order to secure the area, it drew a “red line” from the coast to the Litani River in the south that the Syrian forces were not allowed to cross. It also prevented the implementation of UN resolutions 425 and 426 which called for the withdrawal of its forces from South Lebanon and the creation of United Nations Interim Forces in Lebanon (UNIFIL) to be deployed at the border to back the Lebanese Army. At the slightest troop movement, the forces of Saad Haddad bombarded the Lebanese Army units, pinning them in Kawkaba. Israel did not want a partner in this buffer zone. It considered the area an “annex”, to which it could export its products and import cheap labor through “The Good Fence”, while continuing to pump the waters of Wazzani and Hasbani rivers. In September, Saad Haddad proclaimed the “Free Lebanon State” and started giving the inhabitants ID cards issued by his state. The proclaimed “State” covered fifty five villages and towns, and while its area was only seven hundred square kilometers, its inhabitants were more than one hundred thousand. Amidst all the misfortune that had befallen the South and pushed its people on the roads of exodus, Kamel began to reconsider his choices, seeking to reposition himself on that map 369

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of misery that stretched over the whole country. Najdeh Social Association was Lebanese and its founders were Lebanese. It encompassed many activities, from medical centers, to women workshops and kindergartens, but it was mainly oriented towards Palestinian refugee camps. During that period, the Palestinian organizations in Lebanon had attracted thousands of Palestinians, Arabs, and even Westerners. They had a surplus of doctors and nurses backed by an army of experts and technicians. Hence, after the invasion of the South, Kamel felt the need to work within the Lebanese framework, especially with the Lebanese refugees flowing into the shanty areas of the capital and the Bekaa. They were in need of everything, especially medical care, medicine, and vaccines. By the beginning of 1979, the idea had matured and he decided to create “Amel Association” to work within the setting of the “Lebanese National Movement”. His long and extensive experience had taught him that an individual alone cannot make a change. The Progressive Parties could provide him human and material bases strong enough to allow him to create an institution devoted to the poor and displaced persons all over Lebanon.The country had become a large camp for the damned of this earth. He spoke with friends from the Radical Left Movement, as the traditional authorities were out of the question for him, and those friends demonstrated great enthusiasm to insure the means to achieve this impossible dream in a land haunted by nightmares. They granted him their confidence despite the fact 370

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that he was the only one not belonging to a specific party, or maybe because of it, as each party secretly hoped to eventually annex the association. In any case, he was convinced that field work, not abstract demagogic speculations, was what builds everybody’s trust. Medicine, like bread and vaccines, cannot be given a specific political identity. They were a group with the necessary experience and qualifications, but they lacked financing, and had to start from scratch. He turned his clinic in Barbir into an operating room for Amel. Without waiting to receive aid or even permits, they organized the first vaccination campaigns, getting the vaccines from the Ministry of Health or UNICEF. The National Movement “political committees” supplied them their daily meals, mostly lahmajoun(1) and yoghurt. They paid for their fuel themselves. They were a hundred individuals who managed to vaccinate seven thousand children. When the stock of vaccines at the Ministry of Health ran out, they begged “influential organizations” capable of supplying them. As usual, Sister Adele was of great help. She used her connections from when she had worked with the Council of Middle Eastern Churches to send personal letters to the most eminent organizations in Switzerland and Holland telling them about Amel’s activities and asking them for help. The response of Dutch and Swiss friends was fast. Amel was able to resume its vaccination campaigns and managed (1) Traditional Lebanese pizza made with minced meat usually eaten with yoghurt.

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to inoculate twenty thousand children. Because they had not gotten the official permit, they operated under the name of the “National Committee for the displaced of Khiyam”. Kamel headed the “health commission” and his brother Mohamad was the Secretary General. They opened the first medical center in Sfeir, in the southern suburb of Beirut where many displaced from Khiyam and the South had moved. The second center was opened in Souayri, a town of West Bekaa, which had also become home to thousands of displaced. Doctor Halim Kassis volunteered to manage it. After that, they finally got the official permit, and aid started pouring in from all over the world. Amel has been operating for over thirty years in the most underprivileged regions of Lebanon, in Beirut and its southern suburbs, Mount Lebanon, the Bekaa valley, and the South. With its twenty four centers, six mobile medical units, eight hundred employees, and Lebanese and foreign volunteers, it offers free quality services in the fields of medical care, psycho-social assistance, professional formation, rural development, child protection, and promotes human rights. Amel International has representative offices in France, Switzerland, the United States, Holland, Greece, and the Ghaza strip. In times of crisis, during the civil war and during the 2006 Israeli aggression, and in response to the influx of more than one and a half million Syrian refugees, the whole Lebanese civil society mobilized itself to help, and the association put into action an emergency plan for humanitarian aid. Dr. Mohanna turned Amel into a catalyst so that all associations would be committed to those 372

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who have nothing and who live in the hope of finding a peaceful and normal life. The association assists, without discrimination, anyone living in Lebanon, whether Lebanese, Syrian, Sudanese, Iraqi, or Palestinian refugees, no matter what their religion, political affiliation, or social conditions are. Amelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s objectives are: 1.

To advocate for the social, economic, civil, and cultural rights of underprivileged social classes;

To contribute to the emergence of a strong civil state committed to strengthening national unity and promoting democratic values;

To establish advocacy and lobbying to promote human rights and ensure social justice;

To assist and provide quality services to individuals (medical services, rural development, vocational trainingâ&#x20AC;Ś);

To promote equal rights and opportunities between urban and rural areas, men and women, and between different socio-professional categories. Amel Association recently became international which

allows for better promoting for equal partnerships between the civil society of North and South, based on its slogan of positive thinking and permanentoptimism. Amel works against the current in a country plagued by pessimism and inaction of its leaders.

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No Immunity to Fear

Civilization is the fruit of the triumph of Man against disease. Man has tamed the forest, invented agriculture, and domesticated animals. After living in caves where he found protection from the elements of nature, Man discovered that he could carry his tent and pitch it with him wherever he wanted. Then he settled, built cities and fortresses, and protected them with high walls. Then he discovered that there was an enemy against which he had no protection: “disease”. It was an invisible, sly enemy, revealing itself through its victims, plague, cholera, smallpox… and other diseases carried by the winds and lodging themselves in its prey. No city rampart or castle moat could stop it, and its victims died by the millions. But the human mind admits no defeat; it tracked the disease, discovered its identity, and set traps. It was a duel mankind had never known before: though finally vaccine triumphed. What is a vaccine? It is the disease itself which, after being stripped of its teeth and claws, is inoculated into the body that then uses all its defensive weapons to fight it off and build immunity. “Know your enemy”, is that not the basis of defensive strategy? Why this long introduction about immunity? Can Man acquire immunity against death? Kamel always asks himself this question. Even though philosophers and eminent doctors 374

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have tried withall their might to find the “Elixir of Life” and the “Fountain of Youth”, Kamel knows that death is the natural conclusion to life and therefore should not be feared. It is the fear of death that is the frightening part. What if someone could discover a vaccine against the fear of death? “He who looks for death, finds life,” as Khaled Ibn alWalid(1) said. We must ponder this outside of a framework of thoughts and concepts, finding theanswers in the everyday life of people working, going about their business, raising families they love and who love them in return, waiting for the evening to go back home and gather around the dinner table. Can we ask them not to fear death? Is it possible to provide them with immunity against this fear? Kamel’s experiences in Nabaa, Tal al-Zaatar and Damour were confrontations with death. He neither desired death nor provoked fate. He was full of vitality. His schedule needed twenty five hours per day to complete. With every experience, he took a dose of death, just as the African mother gives her child a daily dose of snake venom to build their immunity against a possible bite. For Kamel, those doses built a wall against his fear of death. Should he start a popular campaign exposing people to death so they can build their immunity against the fear of it? When he asks this question, the answer (1) Khalid Ibn al-Walid,also known as Sword of God, is noted for his military prowess, commanding the forces of Prophet Muhammadand those of his immediate successors of the Rashidin Caliphate; Caliph Abu Bakr and Caliph Omar during the Islamic conquest in 7th century.

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comes to him from that wonderful proverb: “He who does not die by the sword dies by another means.” For a while, Kamel thought he was immune. He had been vaccinated and the fear of death no longer terrorized him, until his trip to Romania in 1977 for treatment of his split disk. With the pain in his back becoming unbearable, the PLO got him an official invitation from the Romanian government. It was his first “medical leave” ever. He was greeted in Bucharest airport by an official of the Romanian Communist party who drove him to the hotel and assured him that he would receive the best treatment. As the man was leaving, Kamel offered him a pack of More cigarettes. At the sight of the green pack, his face lit up. The comrades had told Kamel that the Romanians were fond of these cigarettes, as they were impossible to find there. . He underwent medical tests for several days. He met the Palestinian poet Samih Kassem with whom he spent memorable evenings talking about poetry, love, war, and Palestine. After that, he moved to Eforie Nord,a thermal station in Constanta, for treatment with saprogenic mud, thermal water and physical exercise. He stayed at the “Party Hotel” on the “Party Beach” in the “Party Room” overlooking the sandy beach. He could not resist the temptation. He quickly took off his clothes, ran over the sand, and threw himself in the waves. He let the waves carry him, floating on his back, surrendering himself to feelings of serenity, in tandem with

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the waves crashing on the sand. He was the only swimmer on that deserted beach. A few minutes had passed when he opened his eyes and looked around. He suddenly realized that he had drifted extremely far from the beach. The strong current had carried him away into the open sea. He was suddenly terrified. “I am going to drown and no one will find me before tomorrow.” He thought to himself: “Control yourself and don’t panic. Panic will kill you.” He began making his way back with regular strokes. He felt that he could fight those waves for a thousand years… but the fear did not abandon him until his feet met the sand and he reached the beach, exhausted. He sat alone on the sand and started laughing like a fool. He had escaped snipers bullets, bomb shrapnel, death under the rubble in Nabaa and Tal el-Zaatar, and had nearly drowned alone on an unknown shore… the irony! He realized that his vaccine against the fear of death had expired. Perhaps it was only valid on hot war fronts, when the soul, the mind, the body and all the senses were constantly on alert, even whilst trying to sleep. But in times of peace, on a shore that inspired nothing but tranquility, gentleness, and serenity, death surprises you naked, unleashing monsters of terror from the dark depths of your inner caves, crumbling the walls of your immunity. You are scared because you face death alone, without knowing your enemy, as there is no enemy.

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A Love as Big as the Country

“She missed the marriage train.” An expression commonly used in Lebanon for women, not for men. We rarely say: “He missed the marriage train,” as if that train could remain in the station forever, waiting for the man, however old. Kamel was a man afraid to miss the marriage train. He was thirty five and still single. He was like an ambulance moving between his private clinic, the government dispensary, the university where he taught, and his voluntary work at Amel, which rose from the ashes of the civil war and the Israeli aggressions. He was a man who had no time for love. Love needs a woman, and a woman needs time to get to know. This made it impossible to meet the right girl and he refused the idea of the traditional marriage after his life experiences, especially during his stay in France. He was ashamed to go knocking on doors, “shopping” for a wife as his mother had suggested and his brothers had encouraged. A wife is not exposed merchandise waiting to be picked. Moreover, he had specific characteristics for the right wife, based on his previous experiences. To share his life, a woman could not be a seeker of fortune, asking him to quit his voluntary social commitment that was his passion and obsession. She had to be serious, valuing his work and helping him, and not dream of a honeymoon in Paris, a big 378

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apartment, or a luxury car. In short, he wanted a woman who was convinced that “only a life lived for others is worth living,” as Einstein said. His brother, judge Ahmad scoffed at him: “You want her to marry a doctor but live on the salary of a doctor’s aide? Rest assured, you will never find her. It is easier for you to find Cinderella than to find the girls of your dreams.” But did he have dreams? Certainly! And the simplest of those dreams was to change the world. All he needed was a small house, a loving wife, and children to fill their lives with laughter. Was he asking too much? He was worried to miss the train, but at the same time, he didn’t wish to compromise his convictions and his life choices in order to do so. Then came a stroke of luck. A Chinese proverb says: “In lush lands, the roads are often muddy,” and Khiyam was always lush. On one of his weekly trips to replenish his Khiyam genes, visiting parents and friends, he accidently stepped in a puddle of water on his way to visit a friend. He did not give it much attention. He rang the doorbell and was greeted by an unfamiliar face. A young woman in her prime, with golden hair shining like a field of wheat in the sun, said “Please come in.” He did not go in, but stood there silent, staring at her. She blushed. When words finally found their way to his tongue, he stammered: “Excuse me, but I must take my shoes off here, I don’t want to muddy the carpet.” She replied spontaneously, “Your visit is dearer to us than the carpet, Doctor.” She said it with an Arabian Gulf accent. He was 379

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under her spell. “How did you know that I’m a doctor? We’ve never met before,” he said, wishing their exchange could go on forever. She said: “I saw you last night dancing the dabke during the party. My sister spoke a lot about you.” He took his shoes off and followed her into the living room. His friend got up and hugged him. His wife told Kamel: “You lit up the party last night!” “You did not introduce me to your sister,” he reproached her; “I did not even know she was here.” “Fayda arrived from Kuwait yesterday noon. It is her first visit to Khiyam in years, and she was shy. Maybe she still is” she said. Then turning to her sister, she said: “This is our Doctor; no one is shy with him.” “Who said I was shy? Didn’t you see he walked in barefoot?” laughed Fayda. He laughed admiringly; she had turned his moment of embarrassment at the door to her advantage. In a moment, her lightning had shone, her thunder had sounded, and her eternity had delivered its treasures. He knew then that his homeland was not complete without Fayda, and that only love can heal the wounds of war. He decided to marry her. Kamel cancelled his plans to return to Beirut. The next morning he went straight to the heart of the subject: “You will marry a doctor, but will live on the salary of a doctor’s aide. And lucky for you, you will not be seeing much of me; I am busy twenty four hours a day, and can only devote you the twenty fifth.”

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Fayda burst out laughing. Kamel feared she thought he was joking, but she answered him: “Don’t worry about that, I’ll be busy myself finishing my university education.” They agreed that he would pay her parents a visit in Kuwait. The stethoscope and the scalpel were the only capital Kamel owned at that time. His private clinic treated patients practically free of charge and could barely cover its own expenses. His salaries at the government dispensary and the university were consumed by monthly loan paymentsfor his car, fuel expenses, broiled chicken and lamb’s heads. His bank account was similar to a dying patient, that doctors reassured by saying that his condition was “stable”. Kuwait was the melting pot from which the Dhofar liberation movement, and later the PLO under the leadership of Fatah, had emerged. It now had the potential of liberating him from his celibacy. He went to his friend, Ibrahim Beydoun, for advice. Ibrahim said: “The Kuwaiti dinar is worth three dollars and the dollar is worth three Lebanese pounds, which means that the daily expenses in Kuwait are equivalent to twelve days’ expenses in Beirut. If we spend four days in a modest hotel in Kuwait, you will have to give up the broiled chicken and lamb’s head for two months. But don’t worry, we will manage.” “We will manage.” This meant that Ibrahim was volunteering to accompany him, which reassured him. Ever since they had met in France, Ibrahim had become his closest friend, and when they moved to Beirut, their friendship had grown even stronger to the point where they could almost 381

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communicate by telepathy. One evening while they were talking about marriage and celibacy, Kamel had suggested the name of a girl from Khiyam who Ibrahim might like. Ibrahim met her and eventually married her. Ibrahim’s wife had met Fayda and had sung her praises to Kamel. They arrived to Kuwait and checked into a cheap hotel. Naim Deeb Awada, Fayda’s father, was one of the first Palestinians who had settled in Kuwait after the exodus. He opened a small restaurant, serving hummus and broad beans. His business grew and he was now the owner of “Al Arabi”, the most famous Lebanese restaurant in Kuwait. He had sent his children to study in Spain, and Fayda was supposed to follow them, had it not been for the blessed “mud puddle” in the lush streets of Khiyam. Fayda’s father gave them his benediction and they celebrated the happy event with a reception in a hotel paid for by Kamel’s friend, Abu Nabil Hashem, who had also covered their hotel bill. Another friend, Abu Hussein Zalzali, gave a dinner party in their honor. Kuwait deserved its reputation of being the “country of abundance”. Kamel preceded his fiancée to Beirut, where he completely immersed himself in his work at Amel. The organization was growing at a record pace. It included in its ranks dozens of qualified individuals carrying out medical, social, and educational activities. He did his best to get things done before Fayda’s arrival and the wedding. The apartment he used in Haret Hreik as a clinic was big enough to house their love nest, but it 382

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needed some refurbishing work for which he did not have time. On April 19, Fayda arrived with her mother and a friend from Kuwait. Kamel went to greet them at the airport with a bunch of friends and drove them back to the apartment, followed by anentourage of cars. His brother, Mohammed, opened his house for the marriage ceremony, which was limited to a small circle of close friends. Kamel promised his bride to make it up to her with a big party in Khiyam after its liberation… a promise that he was never able tofulfill. The next morning, hundreds of friends and family members came to congratulate them, and presents filled the rooms. His brothers and some friends had shared the expenses to furnish the living room, the bedroom, and the kitchen. He felt touched by grace. Every present received was another proof of solidarity, friendship, and love: the ingredients to a happy life. For their honeymoon, they spent a week at Malkoun Hotel in Souk El Gharb. Kamel must have spoken incessantly about Amel, to the point that Fayda jokingly commented: “I had no idea that I would have a concubine from our first week of marriage.” Later on, she joined her “concubine” in volunteer work while continuing her graduate studies. On 27 February 1981, Fayda gave birth to their first son who they named Bachar, after the son of his friend Yasser Abd Rabbo. Doctor Karam, the gynecologist, told them that the baby suffered from a malformation in his feet, which would need special care during the first year, after which he could be operated on. 383

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The bad news did not overshadow their happiness: they were now a family of three, or rather, of four, as Fayda would say. “Don’t forget Amel that is always around, even in bed.” With immense happiness, Kamel was discovering two worlds at once: the world of Fayda, rich with ambition, dreams, and accomplishments, and overflowing with a love she drew from a bottomless ocean with no reserve, and the world of Bachar who illuminated his father’s mornings, babbling away in his lap. And between these two worlds, he grew closer to the destitute and the displaced who were all fathers, mothers, and children, and in some way, his contact with them got him closer to Fayda and Bachar. Wasn’t this what Marx had meant by “dialectics”? Fayda did not have great material aspirations. Like Kamel, she believed that “money makes a good servant but a bad master.” They had always used it before the end of the month. But their world was suddenly turned upside down by a new Israeli aggression, code named “Peace for Galilee”, which did not stop until its invasion of Beirut. “Peace for Galilee” was the first step towards their becoming refugees themselves. They moved between five houses in Beirut, chased by snipers, rockets, raids, and fratricide wars. When they were tired, they went to the South, Bhamdoun, Ainab, or Byblos, staying with sisters, brothers or friends. They had four cars stolen and were victims of two hold ups. The first

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time, they were celebrating the return of Sheikh Ismail from Africa, the brother of Kamel’s friend Ibrahim Beydoun, who invited them to dinner at the Arisheh restaurant in Rawcheh on the Beirut coast. Before the end of meal, a group of armed elements belonging to the “al Fursan” militia raided the place. They emptied the cash register then, at gun point, ordered the customers to empty their pockets on the tables: wallets, handbags, money, jewelry, watches, and necklaces. Fayda furtively took off her ring, threw it under the table, and stepped on it. They were all stricken with panic, especially Doctor Samih, Dagher’s brother, who never left his house, but had done so exceptionally that evening out of consideration for Sheikh Ismail. The armed men left, taking everything except Fayda’s ring. Afterwards, Fayda’s parents compensated her by replacing her stolen jewelry, which did not last long. During one of the rounds of violence, they decided to leave their temporary apartment in Borj Abu Haidar and go to an apartment they had bought on a mortgage in Ainab near Chamlan. They were waiting in Borj Abu Haidar for Izzat Awada, Kamel’s nephew, but the shooting was intensifying around them and they feared they would not be able to leave if they stayed any longer. Kamel wrote a note: “We are in Ainab, follow us” and pinned it to the door. When they came back the next day, the apartment had been ransacked, and all valuables, including Fayda’s new jewelry and an antique pistol of Kamel’s, that the Phalangists 385

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had seized from his car in Nabaa and which he had managed to get back with the help of his friend, Doctor Samira Sahyoun. Could anything compensate for the displacement, looting, robbery, and constant feeling of being hunted down? Of course: having more kids, the miracle of life. After Bachar, they had the beloved Zeina, Assaad, Mariam, and Nour.

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Bachar… I Am Still Waiting I heard the pigeons in your hands I heard the wailing I saw a lamentation on the pristine stone of the mountain I saw the murmur of the wind Through the slots between the reeds Draped in the night, when the wounds come together I came forth to see what I had heard I only found a small house That fits in the palm of the hands I saw you inside Around you nothing but the sky I pushed the sky aside To sit alone at your earthly feet I was stunned I was sleeping on the marble And you Leaning over my head Lamenting like a pigeon By the poet Mohamed Ali Chamseddine Funeral oration of Bachar Mohanna

“Who is Bechara Mohanna?” Kamel was at the clinic when Abu Fouad Awada from Khiyam, living in Ablah since 387

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the 1978 exodus, came to visit him. “Four kids died in a hotel in Faraya, I heard it on the radio. Do you have a Bechara in the family? The radio said their bodies were charred when the hotel they were staying in caught fire.” Faraya, the hotel, Bechara… he felt his spine collapse. He sat on a chair and asked, panting: “Did the radio say Bechara?” Abu Fouad replied, “I heard it, it said Bechara Mohanna.” Kamel clung to a faint hope… Bachar, who loved skiing, had gone with his school, the College Protestant, to spend the weekend in Faraya. Kamel ran to the phone and called the school. The line was busy. He tried several times to no avail. He called Fayda: “Try to inquire about what happened in Faraya.” He spoke as calmly as he could, but Fayda screamed with panic: “What happened in Faraya?” “I don’t know,” he said, “an accident maybe. No one knows where… Try to find out.” He hung up, his voice choking with tears. Kamel’s glimmer of home faded as soon as he saw Mrs. Danielle Diab, the schoolmaster’s assistant and wife of his friend, Doctor Adnan Diab. She looked into his face and said nothing. She stood before him for a moment, then whispered: “Doctor…” and tears poured down her face. He collapsed like a mountain of dust. “He was trying to save three of his friends, but they all suffocated.” He had but one idea in mind: “I want to see him; I want 388

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to see my son Bachar.” As if he could hold him and bring him back to life. “Where is he?” “At Hajj hospital in Achkout” she replied. He cannot remember where he got the strength to drive to Achkout. His friends suggested taking him in the association’s ambulance. They feared for him. Shock breaks the heart, blinds the sight and burns the nerves. But he insisted on driving his car. Danielle Diab sat next to him. They were silent the whole way. As they drew closer to Achkout, he opened the window despite the freezing cold. A huge ball of fire was burning his lungs and paralyzing his senses. All he could think was: “I want to see my child.” They arrived at the hospital with the Amel ambulance transporting volunteer civil defense workers behind him. They immediately took him down to the morgue. They stood before a large fridge with several drawers. The nurse opened a drawer, and Kamel saw Bachar lying there… He went to him, carried him, hugged him and cried. He cried with bitter grief and held him against his chest. He wanted to draw him into his chest and keep him there. In a flash, he saw in Bachar’s face the face of that little boy in Nabaa, shot in the head by a sniper, and the faces of the children in Nabaa, Tal elZaatar and Damour, killed by shrapnel or a sniper or under the rubble of their homes… What about the three friends of Bachar who had died with him? Grief turned into a great river, flowing 389

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quietly without a sound, a river he knew he would carry inside him for the rest of his days… A feeling of serenity fell upon him. Death has a right over Man. Could he fight destiny? He asked to see all four bodies. He told Danielle: “Call the parents. We are going to take them all with us.” “One hundred dollars per body,” said the morgue attendant coldly. Kamel did not have the amount, so Danielle paid the withdrawal fees, which later provoked a general outcry in the media. How had Bachar died? The friends, students, and teachers related the events of that tragic night. They were a group of thirty three students accompanied by six teachers to supervise them. They checked into the hotel that had been reserved by the school. The students occupied the first and second floors and the teachers the third. On the night of Tuesday, January 14th, 1992, after a long day of skiing, the students were exhausted. They rushed to their rooms and went to bed, falling asleepimmediately. Omar and Mazen were sharing a room on the second floor, while Bachar, Ziad, Ali and Anas shared the adjacent room. Omar woke up in the middle of the night needing to use the bathroom. It was dark and there was no electricity. The hotel manager had put candles in the room to be used for emergencies after he turned the generator off. Omar lit the candle and put it next to his bed. When he came back, smoke filled the room; the plastic mattress had caught fire and the flames were spreading fast. He woke Mazen and they tried to break the window but could not. They banged at the door of 390

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the next room, calling to Bachar for help. He was a born leader and an athlete, preparing for his black belt in karate. Bachar asked them to open the door from the outside because the inside handle was broken. They opened the door and he rushed into their room and broke the window with a kick to let the air in. The mattress had turned into a flaming pile that was blocking their exit. Omar and Mazen went out the window and asked Bachar to go with them to get help. He said: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Help will take time to get here. You go. I will go wake my roommates.â&#x20AC;? After that, there was a mad rush. Everybody woke up, ran to the first floor, into the hall, then outside. Black smoke and stifling smells of burnt plastic filled the night air and terrified them. Was anyone missing? No one thought to check. The students were scattered outside, and someone had decided to close the main door in order to keep the smoke from reaching them, turning the first floor into a furnace. An army unit came and put out the fire. When the soldiers reached Bacharâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room, they opened the door and found the four bodies piled up, charred. Later testimonies revealed that Bachar had gone back to wake up his friends, but the door slammed behind him and they could not open it because the handle was missing. The compassion that everyone showed Kamel during his grief was of great comfort to him. Dozens of visitors flowed to offer their condolences. Messages and telegrams came in from 391

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within the country and from abroad. Such displays of affection and warmth tore Kamel away from the abyss of death, cold, and loneliness and restored the image of Bachar, radiating joy, life, vitality, and intelligence, and perishing a martyr in order to save his friends. Wasn’t this what Kamel and Fayda had taught him? To help others whatever the cost. How could he regret that Bachar had risked his life, when he himself had done the same in Dhofar, Nabaa, Tal el-Zaatar, and Damour. The only painful difference was, was that Bachar had fallen before him. With his soul broken, Kamel found solace, peace and consolation in peace. More than fifty lawyers offered to institute legal proceedings against the school, asserting that there was a responsible for the death of Bachar and his friends, and that those responsible should pay the price. He wondered: “Is there a price for the lives of four children who have died in the prime of life?” It was a school, not a militia, a school he had chosen of his own free will, a school that had formed generations and had educated them well before Bachar. He said: “The school is not a militia, and I will not institute legal proceedings against it. I am not looking for revenge and my mission is to open more schools, not close them.” A year went by, and the river of grief flowed inside him silently but deeply. On the first anniversary of Bachar’s death,

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he published an article in the Assafirnewspaper, expressing his feelings and his frustration at the outcome of the investigation. He wrote: “Forgive me my child for not having kept the promise I made to you on your eleventh birthday, to buy you an organ and a hunting rifle… I am still waiting for you, to keep the promise I made to you. I did not know that the cave would be so dark and that the freezing cold would steal away you and your friendsduring that night when light turned into flames and smoke; that the damned door handle would cut off your supply of fresh air, and that no one would hear the commotion in the “cave”… I had convinced myself that justice would come to my aid. I thought that school, of which I am keen to preserve the role and mission, could unravel the mystery of you four young flowers who were in their care. How differently it turned out!… And a fifth flower was crushed by the indictment, blaming your friend who had lit the candle in the dark, turning him into a victim of that equation that emerged. He became a victim, not directly of the war, but of this catastrophe of judgment, which demonstrates the ‘new values’ that have formed since the war, replicating the frustrations encircling us all... Justice holds no power anymore, but power imposes its justice. The victim is haunted, whilst the murderer goes draped in his fine clothes... What a strange paradox in these strange times. “A year after your departure with your three friends, together, digging through the waves of eternity… four buds that 393

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have not yet seen their blooming in spring, I wonder whether I did wrong. Did I go too far? Or was it you who had led me on in your age of dreams? I do not know, but I feel laden with something deeper than grief, more painful than bereavement, and bitterer than guilt. A year now, and all I have left is the lesson I learned from you, your selflessness that I have not been able to match, or obstinacy through you to continue on the path I have chosen, to work tirelessly to build a better society, a better life for people... The affection and solicitude that friends and relatives surrounded us with after you left us have only reinforced our determination to stay the course and give ever more.â&#x20AC;? Today, eighteen years later, Bachar still visits Kamel in his dreams, carrying in his little hands a cradle and a shroud. Only the heart of a man is big enough to care for the cradle and the shroud.

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The Temptations of Politics

Kamel’s relationship with politics was like a one way road(1). He refused to join any party, not because he was against them, but because he was an oppositionist by instinct. He cooperated with the different parties, but this didn’t go beyond the field level, and he never entered into their organizational framework.Kamel was convinced that the discipline imposed by a party deprived its members of their capacity to criticize, whereas critical thinking was the rudder of his ship; without it he would lose direction and stray from his course. The associations he founded or co-founded practiced a weekly debriefing session, during which all activities were reviewed. The best element these sessions presented was the ability to recognize mistakes, discuss their causes, and continue working on more solid bases. There was no inquisition tribunal that judged and punished. Team spirit prevailed. They succeeded together and failed together. In 1992, Kamel lost his immunity and succumbed to the lures of direct political work by presenting himself to the (1) Zuleika the wife of Potiphar captain of the Pharao’s guard tried to seduce Joseph, but he refused her. Angered by his rejection, she made a false claim that he had tried to rape her, thus assuring his imprisonment.

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legislative elections. He admits that he had never, throughout his long years of activity, wanted to go into politics, or become a member of parliament, or even a minister. Getting a seat in parliament required paraphernalia he did not possess: the financing of electoral campaigns, the mobilization of family and sectarian alliances, the search for the right “keys” in the narrow alleys of the electoral wheeler-dealing, the suitable “external” support. In short, the electoral game required talents and resources that he lacked. His friends made it easy for him. The newspapers and the media mentioned his name as a candidate on the “common list” in the South, or on the list of Prime Minister Salim el-Hoss in Beirut. His friends and colleagues flocked to his house, his clinic, and the offices of Amel, telling him: “Doctor, you are the best person to represent us, we have known you for over twenty five years, you will not be occupying a seat in Parliament for yourself, but for us.” And when he answered that he did not have the material means to finance his campaign, they all offered to contribute, saying: “You have served us for years free of charge; it is time we paid you back.” Kamel was still mourning his son Bachar who had died two months earlier. Perhaps, he was looking for a mission in which he could immerse himself fully to break out of the sadness that was encircling him. He was still reluctant to go forward though, until his friend, Prime Minister Salim el-Hoss, called him one day. “If you are seriously thinking of running for elections, I want you on my list.” 396

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After resisting all this time, he gave in and decided to go into politics. Between the South and the capital, he chose Beirut. He said to himself: “I know almost everybody here, on all social levels.” He soon discovered that he was a “novice” in politics. The people he knew in the city were not all from Beirut, and therefore did not vote there. Moreover, and contrary to what he believed, the voters of Beirut remained faithful to their traditional leaders of the neighborhood and the region. Electoral programs were in their eyes nothing but material to feed the media. Moreover, election campaigns in Beirut were not cheaper than those in New York, and Salim el-Hoss was not a millionaire. One temptation leads to another as they say. Kamel was from the South. He knew southern towns and villages like the back of his hand. From the very beginning, the South and its sons, with their problems and deprivation, their massacres and exodus, had been a driving cause for Kamel. He had made a mistake choosing to run in Beirut. The South was his natural milieu, and if there was any profit to draw from a seat in Parliament, the Southerners needed it most; officially, they were almost forgotten. The popular forces in countries are organized usually around at least four centers of power: the political power, the media, trade unions, and civil society. In Lebanon, the government in power is the only center of authority, and this authority had neglected the South throughout its history. Entering the circle of this power was not an end in itself, but a means. The end remained the fieldwork, and obtaining a seat in

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Parliament could give more weight and breadth to this cause. That was his firm conviction. Therefore, when the leaders of the “common list” in the South contacted him in 1996, he did not hesitate to join the list as an independent candidate. But as the election campaign progressed, party candidates increased, to the detriment of independent candidates, and Kamel decided to run on his own, outside any list. He did not make that decision alone, but discussed it with his wife first. When men conduct battles, their wives pay the price twice over: once to the husband and family, and many times to friends participating in the campaign. Electoral campaigns impose unlikely schedules and timetables, often starting in the middle of the night and continuing until the early hours of dawn. But Fayda was not one to complain. He had numerous friends and comrades around him who did not make it easy for him. They said that there were three heads of lists running in the same area, and competing with them would be more of an experience than an attempt to win. One of them, an expert in electoral campaigns, told him: “Sincerely, I don’t think you will win. I have lived through many elections. In the beginning, candidates paid the bey Ahmad el-Assaad, and after him his son Kamel el-Assaad, to be on their list. Then came the political parties and organizations, and the party candidate did not have to pay anyone. We broke the closed circle of feudal families. The sons of farmers could now run for elections if they belonged to a political party. You are not from a known

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family, you don’t belong to any political party, and you are not a millionaire. You are against Israel, and you endeavor for social justice, human rights, equality between men and women, and you care for the poor. I hope that you run not to win, but to see if we are a people capable of evolving. Personally, I consider your candidacy an indicator of this, a ‘barometer’.” Following his friend’s advice, Kamel led his campaign as an experience or a sports competition, during which he faced competitors, not rivals. And since he had no rivals, his campaign did not receive any of the low blows that were customary to elections. He calmly explained his ideas and convictions, without provocation, about the right to resist and free the land, the right for social development and justice, and the rights of the great social community over its government, in the absence of which it had withstood the long and painful years of war. He presented a program of political, administrative, and economic reform that would unleash the potential of young people and women in particular, and that would restore Lebanon to its pioneering role in the Arab world. His friends managed to collect thirty thousand dollars, a modest amount compared to the huge sums spent by some other candidates, but enough to hold over four hundred public meetings. His campaign was crowned by obtaining fifteen thousand votes. Kamel was not elected, but he considered that the fifteen thousand votes in his favor, in a highly polarized election battle, were a sign of approval and appreciation on the 399

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part of ordinary citizens, proving that he was going in the right direction. They celebrated the “victory”. Nevertheless, even after, political temptations kept following him. The following year, Prime Minister Salim el-Hoss was asked to form a new government. He contacted Kamel and told him: “I am going to nominate you Minister of Social Affairs if I form a government of twenty ministers. Do you mind?” Kamel thanked him for his trust. The next day, the news was published in the papers and people started congratulating him. But the negotiations were difficult, and Salim el-Hoss ended up forming a government of only sixteen ministers excluding Kamel. The same thing happened twice afterwards. And anyway, Amel’s temptation remained the most attractive, durable, and capable of conveying his message and mission.

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Kouchner and Kamel at the “Palace of Pleasures”

The evening at Bernard Kouchner’s residence was intimate and friendly. There were intellectuals and artists such as Yves Montand and Michel Piccoli. Bernard Kouchner winked at Kamel, as if inviting him to flirt with the woman sitting next to him. Kamel did not need an invitation; the lady was naturally beautiful without having to use layers of Parisian make-up, but he was not in a festive mood. He contented himself by telling an anecdote about Lebanon: “President Reagan prayed to God asking Him: ‘God, when will capitalism prevail?’ ‘In twenty five years,’ answered God. Reagan said, weeping, ‘Not in my lifetime then.’ Then it was Brezhnev’s turn to ask, without praying: ‘When will communism prevail?’ The answer came: ‘In forty years.’ ‘Not in my lifetime then,’ wept Brezhnev. Finally came the turn of Lebanese President Elias Sarkis. He kneeled humbly and asked God: ‘When will peace prevail in Lebanon?’ And God wept: ‘Not in my lifetime’.” When Bernard Kouchner came to Lebanon on 26th May 2007, he reminded Kamel of the anecdote and said: “I will do my best to reassure President Sarkis’s soul.”

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The Saint-Cloud conference, organized by Kouchner on 14th July 2007, was a short step in a journey that made both the living and the dead weep. Bernard Kouchner was addicted to visiting Lebanon, mostly in times of war. His first visit was in 1976 as the head of a delegation from Doctors without Borders. They worked together in Nabaa for two months before its fall. At the time, he tried to convince Kamel to leave with him, but the doctor smiled, closed his eyes, shrugged, and refused. Kouchner came back to Lebanon in 1982 during the Israeli invasion. He had left Doctors without Borders and founded Doctors of the World. He set up three field hospitals in Msaytbeh, Haret Hreik, and Wadi Abu Jamil. During this visit, he scoffed at one of his colleagues in the delegation because he refused to work temporarily in Haret Hreik hospital, arguing that he had to go back to France to present his graduation thesis. Bernard volunteered to fulfill the mission himself. In 1983 and 1984, the War of the Mountains and Dahieh were raging when Bernard appeared again. He helped distribute aid and care for the wounded from Dahieh, Hayy el-Sellom, to the Mountain, and Sour. He never got tired and never looked for praise or attention. He worked restlessly for hours. He challenged Kamel, laughing, “I will compete with you, the first to sleep loses.” In 1986, Bernard came back to Lebanon on a ship called “One boat for Lebanon”, carrying a large amount of humanitarian aid. The ship anchored in the port of Jounieh and 402

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Bernard called Kamel: “My dear friend, you tell me what you need and I’ll send it.” Kamel apologized for not being able to accept the offer. “Bernard, you put me in an awkward position with the leaders of various denominations. You are distributing aid to these leaders among whom there is no room for the civil confession under which I fall. On the other hand, if you ask me to help you in the distribution, I will do so without hesitation.” And so it was. Kamel invited Bernard to lunch at the restaurant Al-Agha, opposite Bristol Hotel. Friends joined them, including Talal Salman, Bassem el-Sabeh, Joseph Samaha, Yasser Nehme, and Dr. Ibrahim Beydoun. The restaurant was generous, and when the mezze(1) was set on the table, Kouchner exclaimed: “There is more food on the table than there is medicine and drugs on the boat!” It is true that Kamel disagreed with Bernard in terms of aid distribution, but it was not the kind of disagreement that affected friendship. They had another disagreement in 1988. Bernard had been appointed Minister for Humanitarian Aid. He called Kamel and told him that the French government was ready to receive wounded Lebanese for treatment in France. He asked him, as president of Amel Association, to prepare the wounded for their transfer to France. Kamel asked him: “Are the wounded to be from only West Beirut or from all over Lebanon?” “I am coordinating the operation in East Beirut with Prime Minister (1) The Lebanese mezze is often composed of more than forty different appetizers served before the main course.

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General Michel Aoun(1),” answered Kouchner. Kamel gave him the telephone number of Prime Minister Hoss in West Beirut and asked him to call him and coordinate with him as well. He was aware of the political repercussions of such an initiative. President François Mitterrand had publicly confessed that he “instinctively leaned” toward a certain group of Lebanese, making the French position biased and in need of being rectified, which he told Kouchner honestly when he came to Lebanon. They agreed to meet the next day at Prime Minister Hoss’ residence. The meeting was friendly. The Prime Minister requested that Kouchner work to rectify the French position in order to make it more balanced towards all Lebanese. He nevertheless thanked the French government for its humanitarian initiative and promised to cooperate if France kept an equal distance with all Lebanese. A meeting was organized later in which Kouchner, Salim el-Hoss, Nabih Berri(2), and Walid Jumblatt(3) took part. Kamel attended the meeting.

(1) On 22 September 1988, the outgoing President Amine Gemayel dismissed the civilian administration of Prime Minister Salim el-Hoss and appointed a sixmember interim government headed by Michel Aoun, the Army commander. Backed by Syria, Hoss declared his dismissal invalid. Two governments emerged (one civilian and mainly Muslim in West Beirut headed by Hoss, and the other military and mainly Christian in East Beirut Headed by Michel Aoun). (2) Nabih Berri has been the Speaker of the House since 1992 and still occupies this position. (3) Walid Jumblatt is the main Druze leader in Lebanon. He was at the time minister in the Hoss government.

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The meeting took place on 11thApril 1989. It was a Wednesday, the day of the weekly meeting of the French government. Kouchner had transmitted Hoss’ request to his government, asking for a quick answer, which he got. At the end of its meeting, a spokesman for the French government announced that France backed Lebanon without any discrimination among its people. This position was transmitted to Hoss who gave his approval for the French initiative and asked Kamel to organize and supervise the transport of the wounded. The medical supplies from East Beirut had been cut, and the hospitals of West Beirut were packed with casualties from the “Liberation War”, the “Abolition War, and the fierce battles that took place in the interim. During that period, West Beirut was subject to violent shelling that almost got Kamel and his family in Sakiet el-Janzir, and from which they miraculously escaped. While the Western media, particularly the French media,focused on the barbaric bombing of East Beirut by the Syrian artillery, Kouchner told him: “Make a list of the names of the wounded that you wish to send to France, and I will ask general Aoun to make a similar list with the names of the wounded from East Beirut.” He informed him that there were fourteen wounded from East Beirut who would be transported by sea from Aquamarina(1) to the “Tolerance”, a French hospital ship of one hundred beds that was anchored in Saida. Kamel (1) Tourist resort and marina north of Beirut.

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made a list of seventy eight wounded from different hospitals in West Beirut, among who eight were on life-support machines. They drove the wounded to Saida, but the militiamen at the port refused to let them through because of negligence on Kamel’s behalf: busy selecting the wounded, he forgot to notify Mustafa Saad, head of the Nasserite Popular Organization, who controlled the port. They went to Mustafa Saad’s house to get the permit. Kamel discovered yet again how much Bernard Kouchner, although a Minister, cared little about protocol. They walked out of Mustafa Saad’s house with the permit to enter the port. This incident was not the end of Kamel’s surprises: Kouchner asked him to make a “selection” among the wounded, explaining: “The French government cannot bear the cost of treating them all. The French Minister of Health would never accept.We can take only half of them.”

Kamel felt the blood boil in his veins. They had taken the wounded out of the hospitals and transported them to Saida; how could they send them back, and what would they tell the parents who had gathered at the port? He said: “Bernard, you told me that the ship had a capacity of one hundred beds.” Bernard did not answer. They got on board the little craft that would take them to the ship. They stood facing each other, like two opponents on a boxing ring. 406

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Bernard gave Kamel an angry look, and Kamel returned it. Suddenly, Bernard said: “Kamel, we’ll take them all.” They hugged each other lovingly and silently. The transfer of the wounded began. When Kamel boarded the ship, the correspondent of a French TV station asked him about the number of wounded Muslims. He answered “We are here to help all wounded, from all religions, I don’t know them personally, but we have many Christians from West Beirut.” Apparently, the biased French media asked the same question to Claude Evin, French Minister of Health, while he was receiving the wounded at the Airport. Some reporters voiced their surprise at the number of wounded from West Beirut. Evin answered that what he saw were wounded people in great danger, and where they came from was not important. The French media had discovered the enormity of the shelling and destruction that West Beirut was subjected to, which led to a more objective and unbiased coverage of events. That was only the beginning. France received five hundred and seventy wounded whose medical treatment cost exceeded twenty million dollars. Some of them stayed in France and were given French nationality. In 2003, Bernard Kouchner came back to Lebanon with his wife Christine and their son Alexandre. He held a conference at Saint Joseph University, and then left with Kamel to the South where they visited the prison of Khiyam. The guide, an exinmate, explained to them the different means of torture used on 407

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them by the Israelis. Alexandre was deeply moved by what he saw and heard, to the point that he said: “What the Israelis did makes me almost want to convert to Islam.” His father replied: “Prisons are not hotels, they all look the same.” And, as he was always there whenever there was a crisis, Kouchner came at the end of the June 2006 Israeli aggression on Lebanon. He arrived on 15thAugust with his son and stayed for fifteen days. Kamel took them to visit the southern suburbs of Beirut,which had been reduced to rubble, and South Lebanon. Kouchner wrote an article for the French magazine, Paris Match, which had sent a photographer with him. He had reserved a room at the Bristol Hotel for which Talal Salman offered to pay, but the owner of the hotel refused and offered him the Presidential suite. Bernard left Lebanon, but his son, Alexander, stayed to volunteerand work at Amel’s center in Khiyam for a month. Before leaving, Bernard told Kamel: “Alexander is my most precious possession; I am leaving him in good hands.” From time to time, Kamel travelled to Paris, and Bernard always insisted he stay at his house. He felt so much at home that he even received his friends there. Once, while in Paris for a congress, he stayed at a hotel near the center where the conferences were held. Bernard called him, threatening: “Listen Kamel, I’ll have you thrown out of the hotel even if I have to say you’re a terrorist… so you’d better come and stay with me.”

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Another time, he was on a mission in Paris with a delegation from Amel. Kouchner insisted they all stay at his house. Kamel stayed for a week then went back to Lebanon. The members of the delegation stayed a whole month until their mission was completed. The friendship between Kamel Mohanna and Bernard Kouchner was unusual. It had started in the midst of dangers. Both initially practiced a policy of “living on the edge”, which later evolved into a common journey towards building a better world for the damned and the marginalized of this world, notwithstanding the sacrifices and dangers required in this great adventure. The humanitarian impulse that had brought them togetherbowed to the suffering of others. Their action did not turn into an institution employing individuals to whom it paid exorbitant salaries that engulfed much of the aid and the budget; it was based on sacrifice and material austerity. Sometimes, they confided in each other, complaining of their poor financial condition compared to their wealthier colleagues. One time, Kamel took Bernard to visit his family home in Khiyam. The building was composed of five apartments for his brothers, and of a sixth one for him. The five apartments were finished and furnished, his was still under construction, and did not even have doors or windows. On the way out, Bernard said, “Kamel, you forgot to close the door.” Kamel answered, “Here, we sleep with our doors open!” Kamel saw their shared experiences as a melting-pot, 409

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forging them and ridding them of their impurities.This conviction was based on an expression he heard Kouchner say one evening. They were invited to dinner in Paris with his wife Christine, but Kouchner had to cancel at the last minute due to something that had come up at work. Christine complained: “But everybody’s waiting for you.” He replied: “I work for the republic, not for myself.” It was a reciprocal conviction between the two friends who knew that when a dispute arose, each was working for his people and his country, which protected their personal relationship time and again. This is exactly what happened during the inter-Lebanese meeting at La Celle-Saint-Cloud. During the conference, they almost had an argument, not because of Bernard’s personal attitude, but because of the “interests of the Republic”. Before Bernard Kouchner’s appointment as Minister of Foreign Affairs, there was an exchange of correspondence between him and Kamel with, as third party, Regis Debray,a French philosopher, journalist, former government official, and academic. Debray had visited Lebanon and had visited the South with Kamel to see theAmel centers in Khiyam, then Marjeyoun, Ibl el-Saki, and in the region of Tyr. He confided in Kamel that he and Kouchner had been very close friends, but had parted ways due to a disagreement, and asked him whether he could intercede to try and dissipate the misunderstanding. Kamel wrote to Kouchner to try to solve things and was very surprised when he got the answer back: the letter started with 410

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“My dear brother…” He had always addressed him by his first name. Kamel found out later that Bernard Kouchner was about to leave the Socialist left wing party and join the right wing Unionfor a Popular Movement of President Nicolas Sarkozy. This sign of friendship was perhaps an attempt to compensate for this repositioning, knowing in advance that Kamel would not approve of it. Every time he visited Lebanon, Bernard would ask Kamel: “Why don’t you try to get an executive position, a portfolio, or a legislature seat in Parliament?” “Not in this confessional system,” Kamel replied invariably, “because it does not recognize civil society. And when it is cornered to recognize it, it deals with it as a simple decor imposed by modern times, an unnecessary thing. You know I’m perfectly happy where I am.” Kouchner retorted half-jokingly: “I hope you’re not trying to denigrate me for accepting a portfolio in government!” A month later the news was out: Bernard Kouchner had been appointed Minister of Foreign and European Affairs. Kamel waited three days before sending an email to congratulate him. He was not happy with this nomination; he felt that the humanitarian would be serving the politician and not the other way around, but Bernard called him personally, asking him to help an Italian military official, who had worked with him in Kosovo two years earlier and was going to join the Italian contingent of the UNIFIL(1) in South Lebanon. Kamel felt that (1) United Nations Interim Force In Lebanon.

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this personal request had revived their friendship. Bernard asked him: “What can I do for Lebanon?” Kamel replied: “Well, I think it is important that you have a dialogue with all parties, starting with the President of the Republic, then the Speaker of the House, the Prime Minister, and the various leaderships. Also you should not forget Syria.” Kouchner interrupted him, saying in an angry tone: “You want us to agree with the Syrian policy in Lebanon?” Kamel answered: “Do you remember our previous conversation when you came with a delegation from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and we talked about the Syrian role? Well the position of Syria hasn’t changed; we have a common border exceeding three hundred kilometers, and we have family ties, historical relations, and economic interests with the Syrian people. Whether we like it or not, Syria has a strong political influence in our country, and excluding it from the dialogue will not help instating stability in Lebanon.” “We shall see,” said Kouchner. On May 25, Bernard Kouchner came to Beirut on his first visit as Minister. He met with Nabih Berri, Speaker of the House, and Fouad Siniora, Prime Minister. The next day, Kamel was invited, along with a number of other personalities, to the “Residence des Pins(1)” for a business breakfast. They were more than twenty persons among them Bahia Hariri who sat between him and Kouchner, the ex-Minister Michel Edde, the MPs Samir Frangieh and Ghassan Moukheiber, and the lawyer (1) Residence of the French Ambassador to Lebanon.

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Ziad Baroud. The Members of Parliament and the ex-Minister spoke first. When Kouchner probed Kamel for his opinion, he stressed two points: “First, the Lebanese are not divided into two categories, angels and demons; they are all alike. Second, as Hamid Frangieh, Samir Frangieh’s father said so many years earlier: when the Lebanese disagree on something good, it is bad for them, and when they agree on something bad, it is good for them.” During the meeting, Bernard received a phone call from President Nicolas Sarkozy. He returned after a while, looking like he got the green light for an initiative. He asked them: “What do you think if I invite the representatives of the civil society to France for a meeting?” They all gladly agreed. And although the words “civil society” sounded like music to Kamel’s ears, he kept silent. Later, he had a private talk with Kouchner: “Is the civil society alone responsible for the crisis to invite them alone? Where are the political leaders who have weight on the ground?” After a long discussion, it was agreed to invite twenty two representatives of the political parties that had taken part in the “National Dialogue” and five representatives of the civil society: Ghassan Salameh, Joseph Maila, Ziad Baroud, Ghaleb Mahmassani and Kamel Mohanna. It was a historic event: for the first time in the history of political Lebanese crises, the role of the civil society was recognized and it was represented on an equal footing with political leaders. 413

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The Saint-Cloud meeting was scheduled for 14th July 2007,, but unexpected events disrupted the program. Three days before the date of the meeting, President Sarkozy received the wives and relatives of the Israeli soldiers captured by Hamas in Gaza and by Hezbollah in Lebanon and made a statement saying that Hezbollah was a terrorist organization. This statement infuriated the party. Nawaf Moussawi, in charge of external relations, contacted Kamel denouncing the contradiction in the French position and demanding a clarification. Kouchner had previously stated that Hezbollah was a great Lebanese political party. Kamel called the Quai d’Orsay but Kouchner was not there. He spoke with his aid, Christophe Bigot, who promised to rectify the matter. A communiqué clarifying the French position was published but did not please Hezbollah leaders who consequently decided not to attend the Saint-Cloud meeting. Kamel showed solidarity with them. The matter was brought to Nabih Berri who asked to keep it under the lid and not publish it in the media. He called Kamel for a meeting. Kamel understood that Berri wanted him to personally call Kouchner and speak to him, which he immediately did. He told Kouchner: “My friend, the American Administration, President Sarkozy, the French Ambassador Bernard Emié, and the Secretary General of the Arab League, Amr Moussa do not want your initiative. They are all trying to sabotage it... You must do something.” A few minutes passed, then Kouchner came back and said: “The Elysée is going to 414

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issue a communiqué stating that Hezbollah is not a terrorist organization..” Berri was informed about the developments, and the Elysée issued the said statement. Later, Kamel asked Kouchner: “How did you manage to convince the President so fast?” “I was with him in the plane on our way to Morocco when I received your phone call. I must have been pretty upset, which instigated the President to immediately call the Elysée, asking them to issue the statement at once.” Hezbollah retracted their decision not to participate. The “Palace of Pleasures” was the nickname given to the “Château de Beauregard” in Saint-Cloud. Rumors have it that it housed the lover’s trysts of Roland Dumas, ex French Minister of Foreign Affairs. This big palace with its numerous rooms and beautiful gardens, overlooking vast forests was fit for romantic encounters. Another smaller castle was annexed to it to house the delegations of various conferences held there. In his opening speech, Bernard Kouchner stressed the dangers threatening Lebanon. Knowing the religious reality of the country, he noted that Shiites constitute forty percent of the Lebanese population; they must therefore be part of a National Union government. It was clear that France had decided to remain at equal distance from all parties. The heads of delegations took to the rostrum one after the other. The general atmosphere was rather positive, with all 415

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emphasizing on constructive elements. The representatives of the civil society were not invited to speak, which had Kamel raise his hand. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long, just an anecdote and a small comment,” he told Kouchner. He recounted the anecdote he had heard from Regis Debray: “God created the day and Satan created the night; God created marriage and Satan created sex; God created Lebanon and Satan created the Lebanese.” Everybody laughed. Then he explained how the social and economic crisis had pushed forty per cent of the Lebanese elite to immigrate. The “Palace of Pleasure” in Saint-Cloud will remain a symbol for relationships that had previously been banned and became legitimate under the patronage of his friend “Father Bernard”, believer in the principle of “humane intervention”, with whom he often disagrees politically, but is brought together by a friendship greater and more enduring than politics. May 14th was a remarkable day in Kamel’s life. The phone would not stop ringing. Political and economic authorities, high government officials, Lebanese, Arab, and foreign diplomats called him: “Congratulations Doctor… your friend and companion Kouchner is now Minister of Foreign Affairs.” Reporters flocked for interviews… For three days, the calls didn’t stop. Fayda said: “You’ve been active in social work for thirty five years now. You fought with the Union of Lebanese students in France, joined the revolutionaries in Dhofar, lived on the front lines of Tal el416

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Zaatar and Nabaa, and shared the everyday life of the displaced in Damour. South Lebanon has always been your first line of defense, fighting for it and for Palestine; you raised the banner of civil society in the face of the feudal sectarian system and the corrupt powers. With each of your battles, you came within a hair’s breadth of death and we lived in dread of that… And it’s only now that they “discover” you, just because your friend became a minister in France. Don’t you see the irony of this paradox?” He almost said: “What do I have to gain if I win the world and lose myself?” But he said nothing.

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A Homeland Children Dream of

Today, when Kamel looks back, he realizes that a life is not measured in years but in deeds accomplished. By this measure, he has lived for many generations, and can but feel touched by the grace rising from the thousands of loving faces surrounding him. He concludes: “As for family, that oasis overflowing with love, tenderness, and never-ending giving, it is the land of communication, stretching beyond the horizon.” Zeina studied at the American University of Beirut (AUB) before graduating with a Human Rights Master’s degree from Brussels. She worked with the UN in Beirut for two years and is collaborating today with AUB for a better tomorrow. Assaad got a Mechanical Engineering degree from AUB. He is a manager in a Canadian oil company in the United Arab Emirates. He believes that the “Mechanique” in Lebanon needs restructuring, and intends to try. Mariam graduated from AUB with a Computer Science degree. She complains about Arab “wisdom” being used to create mediocrity. 418

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Nour, the baby of the family dreams of nothing less than changing the world, while keeping McDonalds. Fayda, the lover, the wife, and the mother, endured and withstood, graduated from college to teach at the College Protestant, on the path traced by their Bachar, sparing no selfsacrifice for the good of others. And finally Amel, his big family and school of life where he remains an eternal student, learning that when a man is determined to do something good nothing can stand in his way. Amel is the homeland that children dream of.

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Content A Man of Honor and Compassion........................................7 Introduction...........................................................................13 Preamble...............................................................................23 The Fall of the “English Bread Kingdom”...........................25 Treasures and Wars...............................................................31 Leaving the “Flock”..............................................................35 Between the Province and the Capital..................................40 The World is Also a Novel....................................................48 When Angels Appear............................................................57 Intelligence Services and Knights from the Middle Ages....70 Sports ... and the Balance of Terror.......................................79 Brigitte and the Likes of Her................................................86 Persona Non Grata................................................................94 The Motherland.....................................................................105 The End of a Dream..............................................................112 To Be a Revolutionary or to Be Wealthy..............................118 The South is Not Near Geography........................................124 “The Doctor with a Spoon” in Al Hawf................................137 The Sap of Old Age...............................................................145 Kamel the Dhofari.................................................................149 Of Scorpions and Vipers.......................................................154 421

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The Death of the Fisherman’s Son........................................158 The Improvised Revolutionary Poetry..................................160 The Revolutionary Does Not Count the Dead......................164 The Immaturity of the Left... and the General......................173 Of Love and War...................................................................178 The Autumn of the Patriarch.................................................183 The Tamer of Leprosy...........................................................189 The Mine Blows up Twice....................................................198 Three Cages..........................................................................203 … And Three Territories.......................................................208 Abu Georges.........................................................................220 The Three Ps.........................................................................225 If Kfar Chouba Could Talk...................................................230 Africa, Capital of the South..................................................240 Wars of Shadows...................................................................279 Dreams and Nightmares........................................................284 False Identity.........................................................................290 Two Miracles and the Imam’s Blessing................................296 The Fire of Revenge… and Its Victims................................303 They Are Even Killing the Children.....................................309 A Life offered after Death.....................................................315 Damour and the Unknown Heroes........................................335 Under the Wings of the Church............................................342 Anger.....................................................................................356 The Doctor, the Commissioner, and… Halbawi...................360 Amel… The Birth of an Association....................................367

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No Immunity to Fear.............................................................374 A Love as Big as the Country...............................................378 Bachar… I Am Still Waiting.................................................387 The Temptations of Politics..................................................395 Kouchner and Kamel at the “Palace of Pleasures”...............401 A Homeland Children Dream of...........................................418

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