My Darling, my Dear One!

This is an absolutely true story. Most of the events happened in the village of my mother. I have had to alter certain names since there are still some descendants surviving with whom I am on very good terms. But not many people know all the facts and, to take my research as far as I have, I have enjoyed the help of individuals close to the families concerned and I have used certain letters and archives.

All this started at Ain el-Harir, the Spring of Silk. It is a little village in the Shouf, in the heart of Mount Lebanon, halfway between Deir el-Qamar and Beit ed-Deen (The Monastery of the Moon and The House of Religion). The name of the village leads one to suppose that there must have been plantations of mulberry trees along the terraced fields to provide food for the silkworms. Maronites and Druze lived there peaceably together, sharing their troubles and their joys under the same sky. They even sometimes intermarried without any discrimination. They went to the same village school run by the parish priest to learn how to read and write, which was sufficient for their needs.

Now we go back to the time around the year 1840. Lebanon, like all the Arab Middle East, was occupied by the Ottoman Turks.. The Sultan of the Sublime Porte was considered the Khalifa, the highest Muslim authority. So in the vast area covering the Middle East and North Africa there reigned the Turkish peace, that is to say submission and obedience, and consequent injustice as well, except in this mountain corner of Lebanon where contestation was permanent. The people of this mountain area have always proclaimed their autonomy and fought for it, rejecting all occupation and interference in their personal affairs. The Lebanese were attached to their emirs, their chiefs, and their qaimaqam governors, something displeasing to the Ottoman authorities.

At Ain el-Hair, therefore, a certain Saad, a Druze married to a Maronite Christian, lived happily with his spouse Mariam and his children, two boys and a girl. Saad’s family was called the Family of Lions, the Sabeh. Lion and sabeh have the same meaning, but in addition sabeh is derived from the word for seven, Sabaa. It is said that the lioness becomes pregnant once every seven years and that her gestation lasts 106 days, three months and a half, and in support of this the eldest child, the girl Mantoura, was born in 1850, her brother Assad seven years later, in 1857, and the youngest, Khalil, seven more years later, in 1864.

Mantoura, then, was fourteen years older than Khalil. Their mother Mariam (Mary, a common name in all the religious communities) baptized all three of her children, so each had in effect two names, an official name and a name indicating a patron saint. In the parish register Mantoura was written down as Mary-Mantoura, Assad as John-Assad and Khalil as Paul-Khalil. When little Paul was born, Mantoura was already fourteen years old and had several suitors. She was beautiful, open, communicative and very modest, as well as being from a highly respected family and well brought-up. But misfortune descended on the Saad family, for the mother died in childbirth as the result of a violent fever, passing to another world while still young.

So now when only fourteen years old Mantoura became in effect the mother of Khalil; she took charge of him, postponed marriage, and looked after the house and her father as well. In a house plunged in mourning, Mantoura did her best to spread some hope and happiness and to bring some life into the home. And with all that, it was through the little Khalil that hope would return.

For little Khalil, Mantoura was both sister and mother together. She adored him, took care of him, sang to him and fondled him. She filled both his life and that of their father Saad, who was much attached to Mariam and to his family. He constructed walls, houses, and terraces, for he was a stonemason who made a good living out of his work as he was a master of his craft. He was everywhere in demand and it was said that ten elephants could not push over a wall built by Saad. As a skilled mason, Saad would lay down a wide foundation and make a wall with two surfaces, one interior and the other exterior acting as a façade, with a space of a yard between them into which he would pack stones well ordered and integrated. There would be filling and small stones behind the inner surface, and the wall would have a broad base more than three feet thick while the top would be a little less than sixteen inches thick. The whole work would be carried out with much art and expertise.

The elder son went to school and also lent a hand to his father, thus learning his craft of stonemason. In those days very few people proceeded to higher studies, and in any case there was no university in the whole Middle East; there were only certain faculties in the religious orders which had existed since the fourteenth or fifteenth centuries, mainly for philosophy and theology. For the general run it was enough to be able to read and write. After three years Mantoura (Mariam) got married to a Christian and set up her own little family. She still had to look after her younger brother and her father who was torn with anxiety. Khalil was surrounded by friendly faces and Mantoura would leave her own family in order to be close Khalil. My Darling, my Dear One! she would sing to him, خليل خليل يا خللّو إنت حياتي و إنت الكون كلّو, until the whole family learnt this tune and sang it for little Khalil. At the age of two with his fair locks he looked more like an angel than a human child.

In 1840 massacres became more and more widespread, with violence perpetrated by tribal factions. Instead of imposing law and order, the Ottomans took sides and themselves took part in the outrages, and so the consuls of the Great Powers were obliged to intervene. Saad decided to emigrate to Latin America, to Argentina, where there were some of his old friends who had emigrated earlier. Khalil was now six years old and Assad thirteen. After a week of tears and emotional leave-taking, the three went down to the then small port of Beirut, where a ship was waiting to sail. In those days going to the New World was an adventure that lasted two months. Passengers had to provide their own food, taking on fresh supplies at each port of call. Saad was perhaps the only Druze who emigrated; both his own late wife and the husband of Mariam being Christian, he feared reprisals and was concerned about the two boys.

As the ship breasted the first waves, the three looked for the last time on the summit of Sannine, still glowing in the last rays of the setting sun. After a long voyage, the boat finally reached Buenos Aires, where they took train for Cordova, the second largest industrialized town in Argentina.

Saad was helped by Lebanese already settled there to find his old friend. For Mariam Saad felt no worry, for she was in good hands and well liked. For himself and his two sons a new life was beginning. Saad and Assad easily found work in a construction company, while Khalil was placed in an orphanage run by nuns who took good care of him. Saad went to pick him up every Saturday and they passed the weekends together, after which Khalil returned to the Sisters on Monday morning. Within three or four months all were able to express themselves in Castilian Spanish. It is said that for any language a couple of months are enough to learn the two hundred words needed to express one’s basic requirements, so the three were now well established. Their one concern was for their sister Mantoura-Mariam and they anxiously awaited the arrival of newcomers from the Lebanese Mountain, from whom they learnt that the situation was going from bad to worse, with atrocities in 1860 such as there had never been before.

As a master stonemason, Saad was soon able to set up his own business, improving his condition and showing himself a capable businessman. When he was ten years old Khalil went to study in a college not far from their house and Saad took on a schoolmistress to be at his side and help him. As for Assad, he was his father’s right hand.

Morning and evening, Saad talked only of Mantoura, his village, his beloved wife and the murderous events. He prayed to the Holy Virgin for her to protect Lebanon and all its people. Saad had deep understanding and respect for the human person. H repeated endlessly Mantoura’s song Khalil Khalil ya Khellou inte Hayati, inte el Kaoun kellou, which Khalil when little had learnt without understanding its full meaning.

Now Khalil was fifteen years old and was growing up a young man, while Assad was twenty-two. An accident at work caused the death of Saad and of two workmen. Seeing a beam badly adjusted and fearing it would fall and do harm to the workmen, Saad had run up to push them away, but was too late. An accident was inevitable. Once again the family, now reduced to two, was in mourning.

But after the period of condolences and of expressions of sorrow, life started afresh. The two brothers were very close to one another and helped each other. They had one great dream haunting them, that of returning to Lebanon one day. There they knew only Mantoura, their village having been completely devastated. Even today one sees hamlets and isolated houses in ruins which date back to the years between 1840 and 1860. Certain associations, businessmen and otherwise wealthy individuals have managed to buy up such places, to restore them and to bring them back to life.

Assad went out and about with the young ladies of Cordova. He was a handsome man, athletic, affable and generous. Five more years had passed and Khalil was now twenty, Assad twenty-seven. Khalil urged his brother to get married, for they were well placed socially and lived in a spacious dwelling. So at thirty Assad married, and Khalil occupied rooms in the same residence. They received scant news from Lebanon. Khalil launched out into business, with trading, industry and consultancy. He was bold, vigilant, honest and energetic. The two brothers were well off and remained always united.

Khalil, known as Carlos in Cordova, reached the age of thirty while Assad was now thirty-seven. Khalil could scarcely remember his sister Mantoura-Mariam and her children his nieces, and had no memory of his mother. A deep nostalgia to see his home country took hold of him. He consulted Assad, and the latter encouraged him especially now that the Great Powers through their consuls had installed a new constitution, the Mutassarifate, under an outsider, a Christian, who would run the country. Since the family’s arrival in Argentina Khalil had never left the country, one where he had his friends, his relatives and his whole life. A lifetime had passed. He was thinking also of extending his business and having agents in Lebanon. A Lebanese friend newly arrived in Argentina had given him the addresses of his relatives living in Antelias, a little to the north of Beirut.

Now in 1890 travel by sea in large ocean liners had become a little more comfortable. On Khalil’s arrival at the port of Buenos Aires and at his first view of the sea with his gaze turned towards the East, the tears welled up in his eyes.. He fingered the Miraculous Medal of the Virgin Mary hanging from his neck in the gold locket that his sister Mantoura had given him. The ship took to the sea heading for the Old World, a transatlantic liner of a generation before the famous Titanic which went down in 1912. It docked at Barcelona in Spain for several days, allowing the passengers to change ship for Marseille, reached after a day on the water, where cargo was unloaded and loaded and new passengers taken on. From the deck Carlos-Khalil watched the quay and the arriving crowd. Among them he saw two nuns with their luggage, one looking in her late twenties and the other a little over fifty.

The sea was calm and the sky azure. As he walked up and down on the deck he heard the strains of the song Khalil Khalil ya Khellou, but despite its familiarity he paid little attention, supposing that it was some sort of a popular song that everybody sang in Lebanon. He was simply impatient to discover this wonderful new world of the East.

A nun never travels alone and two are always seen together. These two recited their prayers together and shared all the discomforts and pleasures of the trip. They sometimes came up on the deck for a few minutes to get a breath of sea air and to make the acquaintance of the other travelers, whom they invited to join in their prayers. Among these was Carlos, who was delighted to make contact with the two, Sister Mélanie and Sister Brigitte, as they were Lebanese. Sister Mélanie was young, lively, very beautiful and with a charming face looking out from the white winged cap and the blue habit of the Lazarist Sisters of Mercy of St. Vincent de Paul.

Sister Brigitte was older and not very talkative but she was a thoroughly capable nurse, giving help to those who were overcome by seasickness. With all the calls in ports on the way, it took almost two weeks to reach Beirut. During meals, all the passengers met together in the boat’s main dining hall. Carlos felt drawn towards the nun Sister Mélanie. He thought only of her during the whole trip.

At the port of Genoa the passengers went ashore to buy provisions, to amuse themselves, and to see the city with its famous cemeteries. Carlos proposed to accompany the sisters and hired them a cab for the whole day. He looked after them and devoted himself to them in every way. He felt Sister Mélanie to be a sister soul and she in turn expressed her admiration for Carlos with the greatest delicacy. When going up the hillside cemeteries where the caves are works of art, the Sisters would sometimes stop to pray, and Mélanie could be heard singing Khalil ya Khalil, ya Khellou. Could Carlos continue to be indifferent? Was this all mere chance? He turned his mind away from such thoughts and redoubled his attentions to the nuns, buying them everything they touched. He bought them a large packet of holy pictures, medals and other things of interest. Carlos confessed to them that he was traveling in order to get to know his homeland, to see the village of his father and the tomb of his mother, and to find his sister if she were still alive. The two kind nuns offered their help and gave him the address of their convent at Zouk. It was an orphanage where many boarders who were not orphans came to study and to receive the best formation in studies and crafts. In addition to the traditional school subjects, the girls learnt embroidery, weaving, sewing, cooking, pastry-making, medical treatment, nursing and the rendering of first aid. My own mother, as an only child, was placed in this school of the Sisters of Mercy and never knew any other. It was she who put me on the trail of this story.

Zouk, which has always been known as an important center for silk-weaving and for making certain confectionaries, attracted many pupils. Further, those in search of a bride would come to the Mother Superior of the school to ask her for the hand of a student or for help in finding a suitable girl. As my father had done a considerable amount of work for the convent, the Mother Superior proposed to him a young lady of a good family, an only child, skilful, honest, very capable, a good future housewife, and so on. In this way my father came to know my mother and the two were married. Both died quite young, my father at the age of thirty-five and my mother twenty years later. They had been a fine couple, blessed by the Lord.

An entire day was spent at Genoa by Carlos and the Sisters, where they had a good look-around, visiting churches, alleys and stores before returning aboard ship in the evening to proceed on their journey. Ships sailed mainly at night, unloading and taking on cargo at ports during the day. Carlos’s boat called next at Naples and then in Egypt, crossing the Mediterranean diagonally and finally reaching Beirut in the evening. On beholding Sannine in the distance, Carlos burst into tears; he kneeled in front of the Sisters asking for their prayers, but he was unable to express his feelings and his admiration for Mélanie. They promised to see each other again at the convent in Zouk as soon as an occasion presented itself. The few words of Arabic that Carlos knew were not enough to allow him to express himself easily, for his second language was French, which he had studied at the school of the Marist Brothers in Cordova.

Carlos had some addresses given him by friends in Argentina to whom he had promised he would visit their relatives. The port of Beirut still retained its old-world charm and there he hired a cart drawn by a mule on which he loaded his bags to be taken to a boarding-house in the central square, la place des Canons, later rechristened Martyrs’ Square. He spent the first night wandering through the narrow streets of the city and savoring in restaurants the typical dishes whose names he hardly knew.

Then came meetings with businessmen he knew of and with whom he had to negotiate. He had marks of high-quality leather that he wanted to put on the market as well as other products. Then after a week in Beirut settling business matters, he asked how he could reach Ain el-Harir, the birthplace of his parents in the Shouf not far from Deir el-Qamar.

Not many people knew of it but at length he was given directions. He set off early one morning accompanied by a well-disposed individual and followed the coast southwards from Beirut. They rested a while at Damour before climbing the mountain to arrive at Deir el-Qamar, where he spent the night in a monastery belonging to some monks. On the way, Carlos was deeply affected by the sight of all the destruction, of ruins and of houses empty, burnt out and devastated. His sadness increased at the view of villages razed to the ground and with no sign of life. He was told by the monks, to whom he gave an offering for the restoration of their church, that Ain el-Harir was now absolutely dead, and the buildings all destroyed including the church of St. John. Most of the inhabitants had emigrated or sought refuge in calmer areas elsewhere in the mountain. Tears rose to Carlos’s eyes. However, he went next day to Ain el-Harir, some five miles further on, going on foot as there was no means of transport beyond taking a donkey.

After more than an hour’s plodding he arrived there in the company of an elderly man familiar with the area. They stopped by the spring which gave its name to the locality and drank to refresh themselves with its pure cold water. Carlos was speechless. The two men walked across the village with destruction all around. Here was Khan el-Harir where once the cocoons and the silk were treated, there was the house of the mukhtar (mayor), there was the little school and also scattered around the houses of various individuals. As they crossed one particular ruin the old guide said, “This was the house of the master mason of the village, a certain Saad, married to a Maronite, who emigrated we don’t know where with his two boys. We have heard nothing about them since then, nor about his daughter Mantoura. You know, Mr. Carlos, all that was thirty years ago.”

Carlos could say nothing; he slowed down and wept deep within himself. He finally turned towards the church, where the grass and weeds had grown tall. The old man made the sign of the cross and prayed for the repose of the souls of the departed and Carlos did the same. He looked around the graveyard, tore up some weeds and cleared certain stones; he was sure and certain that his father, a stone-cutter, must have chiseled a letter, some sign, on the tomb of his mother. Finally the old man discovered a stone with some letters inscribed that he, who was completely illiterate, could not decipher. On seeing the stone, Carlos understood that this was the family tomb where his mother had lain ever since his own birth. He threw himself on the ground, flung his arms round the stone, tore up the earth, tidied the vegetation, and then sobbed his heart out.

His elderly companion was at a loss what to do, but did his best to console Carlos and to calm him down. Carlos was exhausted as he mourned over the tragic scene of past futile massacres, ruin and flight that could well have been avoided. He picked some of the wild flowers that lent their beauty to the grave and then left.

Back at the monastery Carlos was in a hurry to leave the mountainside and return to Beirut, without daring to cast another glance behind. It took him a whole day to return to the city and once there he flung himself down on a sofa where he remained another day as if paralyzed, unable to move, with his thoughts far away. But the idea of seeing Sister Mélanie again woke him up to the world and gave him some new energy, courage and will power. Next day he went to Antelias to see his contacts from Argentina, by whom he was right royally received. Antelias in those days was nothing but one vast orange orchard. All the same, he would have liked to have made this trip accompanied by his brother Assad or by his sister Mantoura disappeared long ago, or at least to be near Mélanie.

Scarce ten miles separate Zouk from Antelias, not a great distance, but where was “Tallet al-Azra”, the Hill of the Virgin, where he might have hoped to meet Mantoura? So one Saturday morning he woke up very early and told his friends that he was going to Zouk to see the nuns. At six o’clock just three hours later he reached the convent and found the Sisters all in the chapel attending Mass. The church seemed like Paradise, and he scanned the Sisters until his eyes fixed on Mélanie, whose every movement he watched closely.

As the Sisters filed out of the chapel, their eyes met and Mélanie smiled a mysterious and friendly smile, without actually greeting. In order to speak permission from the Superior was needed. While the Sisters carried on to the refectory for breakfast, Carlos remained in the parlor. He introduced himself and asked to see Sisters Brigitte and Mélanie. He was offered while he waited some tea and some confectionary made by the Sisters themselves. Finally, Mélanie and Brigitte arrived; Carlos felt he wanted to hug them and kiss them both but his respect for them restrained him to a more correct behavior. They exchanged greetings and good wishes and the two nuns asked him what they could do for him in return for all his generosity and kindness during the crossing of the Mediterranean.

Carlos explained the purpose of his journey, particularly his intention to go to Tellet el-Azra. He had an address there and a visit to make and Sister Mélanie said, “It’s not far from here, about a quarter of a mile away, here in Zouk, where my own home is. With Mother Superior’s permission we can go with you. I shall see my mother and my family.”

Permission was easily granted for the community could refuse nothing to Carlos, who had been so kind and generous. He offered five pieces of gold for the orphans in the school, and the Sisters could not do enough to thank him. It was seven-thirty in the morning, the air was fresh and the almond and olive trees offered refreshing shade. “Five minutes and we shall be there,” said Sister Mélanie happily as Carlos followed her. She skipped along singing Khalil Khalil ya Khellou for the benefit of Carlos. This was beyond belief! What was happening? Was this pure chance? Didn’t she know any other tunes, Carlos wondered.

Sister Mélanie asked him, “Who are the people you want me to take you to? I can tell you the name and age. I am thirty-five. Add fourteen and that makes forty-nine. A lady aged forty-nine, lives here, forty-nine years old, married locally, but coming from Ain el-Harir, and her name is Mantoura…” They were going up to the door, under the shade of a vine and from within Carlos heard again Khalil Khalil ya Khellou. Sister Mélanie turned to him and said, “From morning till night she repeats Khalil Khalil ya Khellou, and that will be my mother inside, she had a little brother beautiful as an angel whom she had brought up and loved more than she loved us her own children. He went abroad with my grandfather and my other uncle and for thirty years we have not had a word from them, no news at all, and yet we pray every day to Our Lady of the Fields that one day we may see them again.”

For Carlos everything now became clear. What further proof could he have that he was standing in front of the house of his sister Mantoura and next to his niece, called Mélanie? He stood transfixed in the shade of the vine in front of the door where Mantoura was to appear singing her lullaby Khalil Khalil ya Khellou. As for Mélanie standing next to him, she was wondering what could be happening. Then Mantoura appeared; she stared at the new arrival, this strange visitor from abroad, like none she had ever seen before. She approached Carlos, fixing her eyes on the medal hanging from his neck and enriched by the golden locket framing it. Carried away by her instinct both maternal and sisterly, she threw herself into the arms of Carlos-Khalil, who hugged her close. She held him tight against her breast and pressed him with questions: “My brother Assad? And my father Saad? Why did you come alone?”

Tears of joy streamed down the cheeks of Carlos and at last Sister Mélanie understood. What had misled her was the new name Carlos of her uncle, whom she had always known as Khalil. She kissed her uncle and admitted that she had felt a certain sympathy and attachment for his person from the time of their first meeting at Marseille. Khalil told Mantoura about his visit to Ain el-Harir, about the week spent in Beirut, and about his intention to restore the church at Ain el-Harir and to rebuild their house, which would encourage all those driven out to return to their village.

Khalil related how he had traveled with Assad and how they had set up their business and managed it. He told how some scaffolding had collapsed and caused the death of Saad, whose thoughts turned every day to his daughter Mantoura. He himself had come to Lebanon to fulfill the wishes of his father, who was always telling them about Lebanon and their family and about Mantoura in particular. He would like to take any of Mantoura’s children back with him to Argentina. Mantoura had two daughters, the elder was married and the younger was Mélanie the nun; she had two sons, one named Khalil after his uncle and the other named Yusuf after the great saint who was guardian of the Holy Family.

This meeting by which the family was brought together again under the vine was beyond belief, but oh! how joyful! Carlos kept the reservation of his room in the hotel in Beirut but stayed at his sister’s house, where he had once spent two years of his early childhood. He went every day to the convent to attend Mass and to see Mélanie. He offered all the remainder of the sum put aside to pay for the voyage to Mantoura to improve her situation. None of her children wanted to emigrate. He learnt the lullaby with its tune and a few more words of Arabic. One morning he went down with Mantoura and Mélanie to the port of Beirut from where he sailed to Argentina, which was a second homeland for him. But the parting was short, for Mantoura joined him in Cordova a few months later, while Mélanie remained in the convent, praying to the Lord who had been so kind to them.

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K. J. Mortimer