Khalil of the Customs

Let us go back to the year 1953, to the town of Ajaltoun, ten miles from Jounieh and around two thousand feet above sea level.

At that time I was studying in different studios, without however gaining any money; I had to pay for all my material and also for my personal expenditure. I gave some private lessons and obtained some work in a local secondary school, where I was one of a group of three teachers. We organized our time in a way that favored my various activities. There was no reliable transport either way as there was no regular car service. Sometimes in winter I had to go down on foot using all available paths and short cuts, and occasionally all roads were blocked and I would be stuck.

Some friends who had a house where they spent their summer vacation offered it to me for the winter; it was completely empty like the hundreds of other apartments. It had a red-tiled roof and stood alone in an orchard of apple and cherry trees, two thirds of a mile from the school, in the middle of a collection of houses near the parish church of Saint Zakhia (Nicholas). It had two stories and I settled in on the upper one, so having a corner of my own up on the mountain. I put in order my little library and my studio and in this way made myself comfortable. At the same time I registered in two institutions in Beirut, the French and the Italian. I was able to go to Jounieh in the evening and then go up early to Ajaltoun. I soon made myself at home in the district, where the local people liked me and where new friends and the parents of pupils would often invite me.

Opposite the place where I lived there was a house still unfinished and one might even say abandoned, were it not for a window at the corner of the ground floor which revealed that there was some human habitation. I could see an elderly man aged at least seventy coming outside, watering the flowers, putting his linen out to dry, lighting some charcoal, changing the water in the arguileh (hooker, hubble-bubble) that he smoked, or emptying the dregs of his coffee pot on his plants.

The best charcoal is made from the wood of the oak tree; when struck the wood resounds almost like copper and its embers last a long time alight. Other kinds of wood are also used to make charcoal such as that of the carob, the olive tree and the pine. Pine charcoal throws out a strong heat but is soon extinguished; it is used mostly by tinsmiths as their work has to be done quickly. In Jounieh the housewives used to throw the remains of their coffee on the gardenias since the grounds make a good fertilizer.

I had conflicting impressions of this man opposite me. Was he married? Had he any children? Did he come to the house simply to carry out some work on it? I used to see some elderly men come and visit him and even pass evenings with him.

In due course I learnt his name, Khalil Awad. Was he a relative of mine, I asked myself, seeing that my grandmother was an Awad? The name Awad means one who plays the “oud”, the lute, an oriental string instrument something like the Spanish guitar. Had he noticed my presence, I wondered, and was he happy to have a neighbor during the winter months?

I often passed in front of his house, but finally I decided to greet him when doing so. I passed just when he was opening his front door to do his usual jobs. I greeted him and he invited me inside. “Aren’t you the teacher of such-and-such a family in the local high school? You are from Jounieh and your grandmother was an Awad, a distant relative of ours.” And so he continued to chat about topics of general interest.
I realized that he was already well informed about me and so went inside. A coffee pot was bubbling away on the charcoal in a typical little four-legged metal hearth. I was made to feel at home and was asked why I had waited so long before dropping in on him; in future I could consider his house as mine. So a warm friendship sprung up between us at our very first meeting.

The room where I had been received was in total disorder; in it he received people, took his meals and made his office. It was also his consulting room, for he was a doctor or healer in his own way, an “Arab doctor” as such people are called locally. They treat their patients with herbs and various prescriptions which they keep secret, pretending that they go back to Avicenna or Hippocrates – in other words they are herbalists. My new friend had a book stand in which were dozens of manuscripts that he had collected from all around and a collection of jars, bottles, and bags and boxes in which were kept dried plants, oils, ointments and suchlike. There was sulfur and alum and I don’t know what else.

Next to this there was a bedroom, small and clean, and a kitchen and conveniences. Despite signs of deprivation one could feel a certain refinement, simplicity, and expected poverty, as if all this marked the beginning of a bankruptcy that was inevitable but not yet proclaimed.

“My grandmother was an Awad,” I told him.

“So I am aware, there is a distant relationship between us. Perhaps you know, all the Lebanese Awads were originally from the North, in particular from Hasroun (a town with red-tiled roofs and charming houses, just before one gets to Bsharri and the forest of the Cedars). All the Awads, my young friend, are from Hasroun wherever they may be now, in the South, in Beirut or in the Mountain. My name is Khalil.”

I soon noticed that Khalil was a walking encyclopedia, with a range of knowledge both deep and wide. He answered questions with the serenity of a sage who has seen life, read, gained experience, and tried much. One could never be bored in his company. He spoke very simply like a professor in class. He had flashes of wit and was sometimes ironic, but without drawing conclusions. One felt that he had known hard times and difficult circumstances, but he did not pity himself, simply accepting what Providence had done for him. But despite the outward appearances and the calm of his existence, I felt that he was troubled, restless and undecided.

He never called on me. He received in his house but never paid visits. He preferred to shut himself up in his own little world.

For myself, I was curious to know more about his life, how he had ended up where he was, living a hermit’s life all alone. However, his appearance showed that when young he must have been a handsome fellow, athletic, slender, good-looking and attractive to girls.

Quite by chance and without any intention on my part, one evening I came across a man from Aleppo, once in a security force, proud, dignified, an imposing speaker, holding his listeners and at the same time reserved. For some unknown reason I pronounced the word Awad, whereupon he interrupted me, saying that he had a friend called Awad, well-informed and knowing the family tree with all its relationships. He had been his companion in the Customs during the French mandate and they had been together in the equestrian branch, patrolling the northern frontier of Syria, a region stretching as far as Deir ez-Zour and Kameshleh, the area known as the Jazira. I broke in, “Wouldn’t he be a certain Khalil Awad?”

“Yes, but how did you know, was it a hunch?”

Seeing my interest, the Aleppine told me all he knew about his “brother” Khalil, who had been his companion for many years.

“We were in the same cavalry troop of the Customs. We covered the Syrian-Turkish frontier when we were young. The region was a troubled one, with a number of smugglers passing over the frontier weapons, ammunition and a number of products taxable by the customs.

“In the region of Kameshleh-Ras el-Ain, we patrolled along the river as far as Deir ez-Zour. We were under the headquarters in Aleppo and searched for fugitives from justice, suspects, people for whom there was a warrant of arrest, and so on, hiding in the desert region of Mesopotamia.

“Khalil was inflexible. He applied the law fearlessly, insisting on order, imposing respect, always forward and courageous and tireless even if his duty took him out at night. He was an excellent shot and charged ahead among the bullets when we were surrounded by outlaws. He never let himself be bribed for he was an idealist with a passion for culture, learning and knowledge. Girls went mad over him. He married quite suddenly, being in love with a graceful girl from Aleppo, where they settled. He was allowed three or four days’ leave every fortnight to go home and was sometimes posted to headquarters in Aleppo for one to three months during our service in the region.

“Khalil made a lot of friends. He had a passion for collecting remedies and became intimate with all the Arab doctors and Bedouins that he met. He collected a whole pile of old books and manuscripts dealing with medicine, his obsession. For my part,” said my informant, “My interest was in carpets, and I have quite a collection. Khalil was turned towards business and could not settle down to simply drawing a salary at the end of each month. He was so ambitious that he resigned from the Customs to go into business, trading in cereals, raw materials, and other goods. He bought an attractive residence in Aleppo, of typical eighteenth-century Arab-Ottoman style. Here his wife Eva lived like a princess (notice that the people of Aleppo are drawn to such foreign names).

“He would travel to Mardeen, Urga, Dyabakir and other paces in Turkey where he had associates. He bought flocks of sheep and herds of cattle to be taken by train to Tripoli in North Lebanon, where his partners and the herders took charge of them.. He also traded in cereals, sometimes buying entire crops of grain, hay and beans which he sent by train to Beirut. He did business in Rumania and his commerce expanded. He employed a certain Badr (meaning Full Moon), a fine-looking man, intelligent, cunning, clever talker, loving music and the good life, who became unduly intimate with both Khalil and Eva. It was Badr who took on all the duties, at the same time getting intimate with Eva, who became his mistress. As in similar cases, Khalil, being too much taken up in his business, was the last person to become aware of the fact. Together with other old colleagues, members of the Force and officials, I was still on friendly terms with Khalil, with whom we exchanged visits. I myself could feel that Eva was dishonest, a woman with problems, forward and beautiful and ready for adventures.”

One evening, my informant told me, returning from Izmir Khalil was received by his servants who told him that Eva had disappeared several days previously and that at the office Badr also was nowhere to be found.

Was it a case of kidnapping? Badr had had taken the papers, documents, passports and everything needed to go to Beirut and from there on the very same night he took boat for Marseille. Khalil’s safe had been emptied of all his liquidities. For her part, Eva had taken with her all she had in the way of jewelry and precious items. Pour Khalil was downcast by this treachery.

It was only after twelve years that it became possible to trace the fugitives to Buenos Aires in Argentina. Here the first chapter of Khalil’s life came to a close. He suffered moral collapse, but he remained noble, proud and self-controlled; his wound was deep but he wanted in no way to show it.

He decided to liquidate all the results of his lifetime’s work and to settle in Lebanon for good. He had a sister who was a nun in an orphanage, orphans and children of impoverished families being numerous, and went to find her at the Lazarist Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul at Ajaltoun.

Ajaltoun was in fact his place of birth. The nun, Sister Melanie, had learnt about his misfortune, gave him some help and restored in him some courage. “Thank God,” she told him, “You haven’t any children who would have been distressed on losing their mother. From now on you should consider yourself free again, for your own good. Buck up! dear Khalil, come to Ajaltoun and finish the house you started building.”

But Khalil knew otherwise, considering himself bound by the bonds of marriage, a contract in a community. In those days, the nineteen-thirties and -forties, there was no divorce and an annulment could drag on for fifty years without any result thanks to all the steps that had to be taken in the tribunals in Lebanon and in Rome. Nor was there any civil marriage. Things were different to these days when one may marry in Beirut, get a divorce in Ankara or Nicosia, and remarry in Paris. Nowadays marriage, whether in registry office or church, has no meaning.. While there is no actual divorce, there are annulments of marriage both legal and illegal, with all that happens behind the scenes involving intrigues and the ruse of agents.

Khalil had no longing for Eva, rather resenting her, for he had treated so well, like a princess; she had no good feeling so Khalil simply forgot her.

The orphanage of Ajaltoun is still in full swing. It is a large building in the middle of the town, facing the church of Saint Zakhia. It harbors an academic and technical school where the girls follow both scholastic and practical courses that include handcrafts, sewing, embroidery, cooking, bakery, weaving and so on.

Khalil lived close to his sister when a certain teacher by the name of Wardeh, Rose, happened to attract his attention and arouse feelings of affection, something which Sister Malanie noticed and was happy about. She suggested that Wardeh was a good-looking girl and would make an excellent wife. Her family had put her in the orphanage following the death of her mother. Coming from the district of Batroun, and the youngest of a large family, she had already been twenty years in the orphanage. Khalil could not help wondering if it would not be possible for him to go abroad and make himself a new life somewhere else. Sister Melanie spoke to Wardeh about the feelings of her upright brother and about his problems. She suggested to them both that they could travel to France, get married there in a town hall, and then return to Lebanon as husband and wife. Why not?

The couple traveled together and from the very first considered themselves before God and before Sister Melanie as husband and wife. They were absent for a month, two weeks of which were spent on the sea, one week each way. They were in love and formed a happy couple.

Once back in Lebanon, Khalil bought a car and went to Batroun to visit Wardeh’s brothers and sisters, the father having already passed away. He presented himself as Wardeh’s husband and said that they were known in France, where they had married in such-and-such a church. Wardeh on her side owned a large piece of land inherited from her father.

Khalil built a house for the weekends. He helped Wardeh’s brothers to build it, lending them a willing hand. He felt that they were his brothers and they reciprocated. He worked on the land belonging to Wardeh and her brothers, bought more land for Wardeh, and planted olive trees, vines and other stocks. He built extensive sheds for raising cows, inspired by his love of domestic animals.

He planted medicinal herbs for his patients, for he treated sick people regularly without taking money. He spent fifteen years with Wardeh in what was for him a paradise of happiness, tranquility and fine weather. The atmosphere of their home was one of love and understanding. For Wardeh’s family Khalil was their benefactor and Lord on earth, until the day when Wardeh fell gravely ill and was carried away by galloping leukemia.

Neither Khalil with all his secrets, formulas and manuscripts nor the doctors had been able to do anything for Wardeh and she passed away on a Saturday, day dedicated to the Holy Virgin. For long Khalil mourned her deeply, suffering greatly from his loss. But the cruelest shock came when the brothers and nieces of Wardeh informed Khalil that all the property in which he had invested was held in the name of Wardeh and that he could not inherit from her. The reason was that as far as the Lebanese civil and ecclesiastic authorities were concerned he was not recorded as her legal husband. Therefore the family was to see no more of him; he could just take with him his personal affairs such as clothes and manuscripts.

Khalil understood fully the applicable law, so he could only do as the others said and pack his bags. There was practically nothing left of his fortune, the one possession being the unfinished house in Ajaltoun. Beyond that he had no means left and could only tighten his belt. As in all the difficult moments of his life he went to see his sister Melanie, who also had grown old. She asked the gardener to furnish a room for a month or two in the house where Khalil had been received. She asked the contractor who did repairs and maintenance for the orphanage school to let his workman make Khalil’s house habitable.

This job was completed in under three weeks. Khalil moved in and settled down as best he could with his very limited resources. He no longer had any income and borrowed from the creditors who were always hanging around him, offering their services to get him some suitable property.

I could feel that while Khalil was living poorly he still had his pride! His old books were now no use to him, like the library that Don Quixote threw on the flames. I soon had to leave the town high school but every time I passed by his home I would go and greet Khalil, each time bringing some little token gift, a bottle, a box of cakes, or something of the sort.

On my return from Madrid in 1964 I passed through Ajaltoun, but my old friend’s house was not recognizable. In its place there was a large complex of several stories with some thirty apartments, a supermarket, and a hairdresser’s.

About Khalil I learnt nothing. But when passing through Holy Cross Hospital at Jal ed-Deeb to visit and give a boost to a friend of mine suffering from depression, I noticed at the end of a corridor somebody staring at me, sitting on a wheelchair and stammering, unable to express himself. I went up and took a close look at him. He had tears in his eyes as I hugged him. It was Khalil, now hemiplegic, old, and at death’s door, and cared for by the kind nuns. When his creditors had auctioned off his house, the money remaining was given to the nuns for them to look after Khalil for the rest of his days.

Poor Khalil! What a sad end for this wonderful, ambitious, kind-hearted, courageous man who had never lost faith in God! Such is life!

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K. J. Mortimer