Madameek Courses: A Struggle for Peace in a Zone of War

Madameek

Courses

A Struggle for Peace in a Zone Of War

Written by:

Charbel R Barakat

Translated by:

Maroun Sakr

Edited by:

Marie Clair Diab Bears

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© 2010 Charbel R Barakat. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/04/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8312-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8313-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-8314-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010915219

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Preface

Chapter 1 The Sea Route

Chapter 2 The Road To Ain-Ebel

Chapter 3 The Crime

Chapter 4 The Fifth Of May

Chapter 5 The PLO Takeover

Chapter 6 The Good Fence

Chapter 7 Shal’boun

Chapter 8 The Kidnaping

Chapter 9 Reality And Dream

Chapter 10 Jezzin

About the Author

End Notes

Dedication

To all those who continue to believe in Lebanon as a viable country, despite all adverse signs pointing to the contrary.

To my entire dear companions who sacrificed their souls so that Lebanon’s flag may always be streaming in the skies of the Orient.

To the farmers holding out by clinging to the sacred land of our villages of the South, no matter what goes on around them.

To all those who are working diligently in silence, striving with firmness and sacrificing unconditionally at the sites of danger; where boasting is forbidden, daily contributions are rarely noticed, and heroic acts are taken for granted.

To all the children who grew up in fear and anxiety, unable to tell the difference between fake nationalism and the sour truth.

To all my Lebanese compatriots, at home and abroad, who strive for an honorable life, and carry Lebanon in their hearts, believing in it as an independent, free and sovereign country.

To my dear wife and children who were always understanding and patient with me all through the days of strife.

To all of you, I dedicate my book with love.

Charbel R. Barakat

Introduction

This is the English translation of my Arabic book published in Lebanon in July 1999. I would like to thank Maroun who did a good job in keeping this translation close to the Arabic text and Marie Clair who not only did the editing but also made the language more North American.

When I quit the Lebanese Army and immigrated to Canada in 1990, I did not forget about my people and their struggle to survive in this part of the world, searching for an opportunity to live in peace with their neighbours on both sides. They had their own experiences, their own sufferings, and their own hopes for over a quarter of a century during which they worked hard to fulfill their dream to stop being the fuel of all problems and the firewood for every revolution.

From thousands of miles away, I could not forget about the struggle of my people. With a group of American Lebanese friends, I tried to lobby for their cause. The Chairman of the United States Senate Foreign Affairs Committee Senator Brownback invited me on two separate occasions (1997 and 2000) to testify about what was happening in Lebanon.

Things were not going in the right direction back home. Extremism and terrorism were gaining ground, especially after two operations by the Israeli Army (Grapes of Wrath and Day of Account) that lead to nothing but more destruction and hatred from the other side. No one outside the area understood the reality of what was happening there. The Lebanese themselves, under the Syrian occupation, declared these people traitors and some Israelis wanted to pull out of what they described as the Lebanese mud.

I decided to write about this region; to keep a record of the opinion of the people in this part of the country knowing that eventually the region would be sacrificed in a deal between regional powers as has happened to the Christian region in East Beirut.

In 1998, I went back to my home town of Ain-Ebel to work as a teacher of ancient civilization and humanitarian studies at St Joseph School and I wrote this book.

There I tried to teach the students the importance of the land they live on, the need for good relations with every one and the meaning of a real peace.

I do not know if I managed to positively influence any of them but I remember that many of them influenced me. I was particularly impressed by a smart, enthusiastic and energetic young boy of 12 who filled the playground and the school with life. I was destined to meet the same boy again in Canada after the 2000 exodus and this time he touched my life closely. This was Trooper Marc Diab.

Marc affected the life of every person he met in his short tenure in this world, and just as he impressed me at the St. Joseph school in Ain-Ebel, he left his mark on many of his teachers and friends in Mississauga and those he met while in the Canadian Army, from Petawawa to Khandahar.

Since the publishing of my Arabic book, ten years ago, and after more than a quarter of a century since its content, things have changed many times in Lebanon. Enemies and friends switched sides. Values changed, and relations became more complex. However, those who paid their lives to protect the existence of their communities are not forgotten no matter which side they were fighting on.

The reason that makes me publish this book now, after all these years, is not to open wounds or to blame one side or another. It is just to keep a record in human memory of the sufferings and the ambitions of a community living in this forgotten part of the world. It is also to give historians and, perhaps, political science and international relations researchers a different perspective on the events in the Southern Lebanon region during a quarter of a century.

From Jezzin to Nakoura more than six hundred people paid with their lives, hoping they were promoting peace between Israel and Lebanon and defending their choice not to live forever in a war zone. Today, this same area is again threatening to become the fuel of a new kind of trouble, the new Persian ambitions against the Arabs turf, and who knows if the Turks or others will join the party?

Is it our fate?

Does history repeat itself?

Is peace in the Middle East something that will never happen?

Is today’s global village thinking going to lead the region to a dead end, a wider confrontation, or a certain type of dialogue? Perhaps it will lead to some kind of cooperation providing more opportunities for everyone and fostering a better understanding of the roots of the problem.

Are the problems, fears and confrontations part of our nature and prove our existence?

I wish to transport you to the day-to-day life of this part of the world through this book, and I invite you to discover the experiences of a society that endured one of the longest and harshest misfortunes in the region. I also urge you to help my people, many of whom are still suffering from mistreatment and a lack of recognition for all their sacrifices.

Remember, history has taught us that these same circumstances can happen to anybody, anywhere, at anytime.

Preface

Madameek is the Arabic world for Courses: Why this name? I am using the word in the architectural sense, meaning a continuous horizontal layer of brick, stone, or other material in a building. I have envisaged Lebanon to be a large building made up of walls each one of several courses.

This book is mostly about one single outer wall, Lebanon’s southern wall. For over a century, this wall has carried the bulk of the country’s burden. Had its stones not been hard and fit tightly within the wall, the building would have disintegrated and fallen under the pressure of many events over time.

The stones are the people and tribes; they are culture, traditions, beliefs, and religious sects, all of which at one time or another shared in consolidating Lebanon to make it, in essence, unique among all surrounding countries.

If the stones are the people, the courses are the towns and villages, which, in spite of their many differences, remained firmly together. The more these courses learned the limits of cooperating and compromising with each other, the better such knowledge was applied and practiced and the stronger the wall. On the contrary, if these courses were somehow painted with one single colour to ensure homogeneity, we would be creating a basis for future conflict and eliminating a valuable indicator of the weak and the strong points in our structure namely the spots of similarity and of discord.

It is not the purpose of this book to win the reader over to the author’s way of thinking or to his beliefs, but rather to describe some of the horrors and hardships, which our people in the South have been subjected to without ever being involved or consulted or deciding what is in their own best interest.

The emphasis in the book is on Ain-Ebel, Rmeich and Debel, three remote Christian villages in the South of Lebanon that together have endured the bulk of the sufferings and hardships of an armed conflict that was essentially dictated to them. I do not mean or suggest a marginalization of other villages in the region, but I am only in a better position to describe the life and pains of the people of these particular villages in south Lebanon. I leave it for more qualified people, if they care to talk about other villages.

Although it is written as a novel, all incidents in this book are essentially true; some names have been altered or omitted for security and other reasons. The unfortunate incident in Ain-Ebel in 1920 is covered for the record. I have faithfully recorded events as they came to me through various channels; particularly from persons who lived through the ordeal, played some part in it, or were eyewitnesses to it. This is history a history of a region at the furthest end of Lebanon which forms part of the history of the country as a whole and of which we form an integral part.

Chapter One

The Sea Route

Stung by a cold breeze, Saeed pulled at the shred of a ragged tarp he was sharing with Shareef. The tarp was normally used to cover the ship’s cargo; a ship hardly good enough for transporting cattle, yet, for the inhabitants of the frontier zone in South Lebanon, it was the only available means of transportation to and from the capital Beirut. Their world is a narrow strip of land they have been defending for over ten years. They suffered a horrible siege, especially during the first years of conflict. Confined to their villages, they valiantly fought and died to protect the hills that hardly provided them with their daily bread. This fervent loyalty to the land was inherited from their ancestors who irrigated it with their sweat and blood and passed on their pride of belonging to the area.

This narrow land holds an abundance of aspirations; it helped grow generations of adventurers whose ambitions were not contained within the country’s borders. Natural scarcity did not deter them; neither did the poor environment nor their adversaries. This land taught them determination and perseverance which enabled them to stay in their villages when so many deserted due to the onerous war and also enables them to ride the sea aboard such a poor ship.

Saeed’s movement awakened Shareef from a deep dream: a nightmare from which the pulling of the cover delivered him and brought him back to the reality of the ship, with its abounding smell of diesel. All the passengers were on deck. Over three hundred people old and young, women and children, all sharing a tarpaulin on a cargo ship carrying them on a return trip from Beirut to Nakoura in South Lebanon. The Beirut bound trip usually included a cargo of vegetables, bananas, and eggs bought from Israel for merchants in East Beirut to which passengers are an added afterthought.

Shareef opened his eyes and noticed a faint light in the east tinting the darkness with violet and red. The stars were dim at the stern of the ship where the outline of mountains could be traced. The sea was rarely quiet but tonight the calm could be felt by the smooth gliding of the aged ship, a matter that was a great relief to passengers prone to seasickness.

Silence was the order of the night, except for the sound of the ship’s engine and the rush of the water as the boat cut the surface of the sea. Shareef sat up to ease his stiffened back. Saeed was next to him, almost without a covering. Hating the idea of being the cause of this, Shareef covered his friend and then walked away to stretch his limbs.

It was four-thirty of an early May morning. Those who lacked a place on deck contended themselves with a seat anywhere on the stairway, or next to the kitchen door. Shareef had taken only a few steps before he found his way blocked by bodies. He wanted to get to the ship’s bow where he could watch the sea. The ship slashed the sea in two yet it embraced her, caressing her body with constant lapping. Shareef often sought this place for solitude and meditation. Standing there in a high spot above the sea, even a rough one, was beautiful. Whenever possible Shareef enjoyed standing there, watching the ship rise and fall, in the alternating hills and valleys of the water. Unfortunately, the ship’s crew always advised him against standing there too long.

Shareef walked back toward Saeed only to find that an opportunist seeking warmth had stolen his place. Shareef acknowledged the move and continued on his way. All those on board were weary; they undoubtedly would not have ventured on this trip if they had had an alternative, and they would not be returning if they did not have strong attachment to their land. This was the common incentive for all on board, to defend their land and the right to earn an honorable living from it. Sharing the bitter and the sweet was therefore essential, as was the sharing of cold and warmth among the passengers on deck.

Shareef continued towards the bridge. Climbing the ladder leading to it, he heard a sweet voice coming from the rear. Searching for the source of the voice, reminiscent of the soft murmur of a Lebanese valley stream, or perhaps the magical singing of its birds, he found an old man. The voice had a sweet yet sad hoarseness. The man, one hand clasping the rail of the ship, was looking out to the east singing his heart’s desire as if confiding something to the horizon. Recognizing him as one of the newly displaced Christians of the East Sidon region, Shareef tried to hear the lyrics but the engine noise was too loud. As he tried to get closer, the man noticed his presence and stopped singing.

The sky was beginning to turn blue and the night shadows were withdrawing. The mountains were more distinct now and the passengers became more recognizable.

Looking down the deck from where he was standing, the scene was still hazy. Silhouettes intermingled with the luggage, here someone was resting on a suitcase, there another used a bundle for a pillow, a girl was leaning on a box, and a boy was sleeping on his mother’s shoulder. Feet were interposed with heads, and shoulders with legs. Here and there, some slept in a sitting posture while many used their companion’s shoulder to rest their heads. No one could possibly move a leg or a foot or change a position; the place was packed.

Shareef entered the bridge, which was naturally restricted to passengers as it could get crowded and distract the Captain or his assistant. In addition, it was possible that an intruder could sneak into the Captain’s cabin and creep into the single bed used by him and his assistant or by the merchant chartering the ship. The merchant had to be present to supervise the loading of his cargo and the safe arrival and unloading process at the fifth dock in Beirut. These steps were not danger-free, were often humiliating, and usually subject to sabotage. However, the operation was financially rewarding which softened all hardships for adventurers with limited options.

Shareef saw three people on the bridge. The first was standing behind a large ratchet wheel turning it right and left the size and speed of the move differing each time. He guessed from the brownish dark skin, full lips and black curly hair, that the silent man operating it must be an Egyptian sailor. On the single chair sat a man of thirty. His possessions, a leather brief case and a soft drink bottle and leftovers of a sandwich wrapper all suggested that he was the merchant. He sat stretched on the chair, one hand clutching his valuable briefcase. His sunglasses dangled from a chain around his neck to rest on his chest next to a variety of golden formations. Shareef singled out a cross, an icon, a little dagger, a miniature cedar, and an undecipherable letter. The third was a young man, barely twenty and well built with trimmed hair, and the sharp look on his stern face indicated membership in the Security section of the Lebanese Forces. He sat on the table next to the radio, leaning against the wall with one leg stretched down and his right hand holding the other knee. His gun-handle showed behind his back, and his left hand just touched the butt of an M-16 rifle leaning against the wall.

No one contested the arrival of the new comer, but each surveyed Shareef in his own way. The Egyptian sailor with caution mixed with a smile lest the newcomer be of some importance. The young man gave a sharp look as if to say make it snappy. The merchant moved and adjusted his posture as if he was just awakened by this intruder. Giving Shareef a haughty look, he broke the silence, addressing the seaman:

What part of the trip we have covered Si (Mr.) Ahmad?

With the ease of the people of the Nile, the sailor, having looked at his watch, answered

I guess we are as far up as Sidon, Mr. Jamil. It is now five hours since we set sail and three since we rounded Ras (the cape of) Beirut. The sea today is perfect and so are the ship’s engines, praise Allah. We are progressing at a speed of eight knots, although despite the load we could go at ten, unlike last time when we were progressing with a load at three, and with a horrible sea. We had some two hundred and fifty passengers, none of whom escaped seasickness. You could see them strewn here and there in a heart-breaking scene. Watch how well our passengers are sleeping now, one could say they are on a love boat. Mind you, when the sun rises, you will see them roasting, especially if Captain Raffi takes his time to show up. God knows how long we will have to wait.

Apparently, Si Ahmad had been eagerly awaiting a signal to start his long speech as if the silence, which preceded the merchant’s waking, was unnatural. He thus proceeded to joining one subject with another heeding no answer or comment. Jamil, who most likely was not listening, showed no signs of being bored as if accustomed to such unrelenting discourses.

Si Ahmad continued

As soon as the Captain wakes up, I shall go down to bring you coffee, and if you need food, I shall wake up Torfa to prepare something for you.

Si Ahmad was interrupted by a voice on the wireless calling

Haifa radio… Haifa radio…

Everyone hushed up, and Si Ahmad uttered not a word. The calling party must have been a ship heading to Tyre and was calling for permission to enter that port. From the ensuing talk, one could reckon that she was still sixteen miles away, coming from a European harbour, carrying a load of used cars. When that ship was ordered to wait, Jamil asked

Is that one ahead of us?

Thankful for the opportunity to speak again, Si Ahmad replied:

Yes, you see, she is coming from the West and we are coming from the North, but now they will stop her. In a little while, you will see the Israeli Navy will go up to her and start the inspection to be sure of the nature of her load. This is usually a long procedure requiring not less than two to three hours before allowing her to resume course. As for us, we must be very lucky and these passengers must be blessed. If the Navy is somewhere around, most likely we would not be made to wait long.

The door of the adjacent room opened. The Captain had heard the wireless. He woke up to find that the day had begun and the first rays of sunlight start warming the bridge. Noticing the ship’s excessive speed the Captain came onto the bridge, bidding everybody good morning. He then went to the window. With the sun at its first full rise and its rays glaring from behind the mountain peaks, the shore remained invisible. The Captain turned to Si Ahmad and cast a look at the compass, then walked towards the radar pressing some buttons. He then went back to Ahmad, who now kept completely quiet, saying

Slow down the engines, we must be proceeding at ten. Bring her down to seven or eight; we must be close on Sarafand and we don’t want the Israelis to make us wait for a long time.

Ahmad pulled back on a gear-like handle as the sound of the engines dropped and the ship began to slow down. The Captain took over from Ahmad and bade him go down and bring up coffee.

Before going down the narrow and almost vertical stairs, Ahmad gathered and carried with him empty teacups and bottles along with a few leftovers.

Shareef was still standing next to the door, looking through the front glass of the bridge. In the west, the horizon was clear but in the east the rising sun revealed some hills, which he failed to recognize despite his knowledge of the geography.

On deck, the sun began to sting some of the sleeping people, producing movement and grumblings that superseded the previous silence. Saeed was still asleep in the welcome warmth that followed the night cold. To his side slept a young woman in her