Rawiya, Story-teller and Water Waitress

I began working as an artist painter very young in order to earn my daily bread in a variety of many-sided disciplines.

I taught drawing and water-color in primary and in junior high. I gave private lessons and did illustrations for the printing presses, while at the same time pursuing studies in art in the appropriate centers, such as the Italian Cultural Institute, l’Atelier de l’école de lettres, and some other studios. I used to read extensively in order to extend my culture, but did not neglect leisure-time activities, for example fishing, swimming and sports.

I was even asked to teach in a village not far from my usual residence. I alone looked after all the children, although they were of different levels. Everything went well, for the children liked me and I devoted myself wholeheartedly to them. We were one big family.

There was a time when school classes were held under the village oak tree near the church, with the parish priest taking care of the formation of the local children. The pupils were at the same time productive workers; this meant that they helped their parents in the fields, planting and raising livestock as well as taking lessons in reading the epistles.

The following year I was transferred to Jounieh, the town of my birth, to a rather larger school, where there were five or six teachers in addition to the principal. Seeing my artistic leanings, the principal asked me if I could take on exercises of formation and development such as drawing and handwork. The school was mixed, which means that it was very progressive, as the large schools in Jounieh had not yet reached this stage, and were still teaching either boys alone or girls alone.

wereIn the East, even in church, the men were kept apart from the women, who were relegated to seats behind those of the men The front rows of seats in the church were reserved to the men, as if there were a frontier line marking off access to things spiritual. Now, of course, all that is a thing of the past. In any case, the school where I taught was only a few hundred yards from the military barracks, so there were many children of soldiers who came to register, both boys and girls.

These little pupils came from all the religious communities, and the atmosphere was calm and peaceful, with social harmony and real contact between the different communities.

The school was near the church on a hill facing my home, from where I could hear both the bells and the whistles. I could see my mother hanging out the washing on the balcony or strolling in the garden. Whenever I was needed for something urgent or important, my mother would hang a large sheet on the balcony or a piece of white linen; then I would jump up and during the school break get informed or give help where needed, for in those days there were still no telephones in the houses.

The teachers and pupils together numbered scarcely a hundred, though later there were to be three or four times as many. For myself as a painter it was an inexhaustible mine of riches. I could choose whatever models I wanted for portraits, sketches, drawings or paintings. All the children, boys and girls alike, were only too happy to pose for me. I knew pretty well where their homes were with their families and close neighbors. Some of them I visited. I shared their sorrows and their joys. I started every class with a prayer to the Holy Virgin, a habit I had got into at the school of the Marist Brothers where I had studied. The Hail Mary was recited by one of the pupils whether Christian or Muslim, it made no difference. When I entered the class, all the pupils were standing and silent. I would call on one of them, “Say the prayer,” and then would start my course, which was always well prepared and interesting for the children, who applied themselves ever more keenly.

On this hill by the school, life could not have been more pleasant. There was no playing truant, for in this little primary and intermediary school the children, aged between five and sixteen, breathed an air of freedom and affection. In this way the pupils spent eight years with their teacher, quite a society and quite a life. We were more than a family; I loved these young people and tried to help them every way I could.

During the holidays, there were some pupils who invited me to their homes in their villages. These good village people wanted to give their children a certain degree of knowledge and learning, often making great sacrifices to pay the fees and scholastic material with money earned by the sweat of their brow.

There were big landowners who did not have liquid money to invest in their property, while on the other hand there were courageous peasants ready to rent fallow plots of land on which they worked, digging and tidying, making walls for terraces, watering, and spreading the good soil on the upper level where the humus, manure, the sun and the weather made it fertile. They would plant hundreds of vines, apple trees, pear trees and cherry trees. For the first four years on this good soil the peasant would plant vegetables, potatoes, lettuces, cabbages, onions or haricot beans. As the young trees grew and started to bear fruit he would tend them and according to the contract would exploit this field for a number of years, giving some of the profit to the owner and keeping a third or a quarter for himself. Like this, the rich got their rent and the peasants got their share, to the satisfaction of all concerned.

In the school I had particularly noticed four brothers whose father was called Naëf. When I asked them what their father did for a living, they said that he cleaned up fallow land to make it into profitable market garden, and that they gave him a hand during their holidays. They described their village and places that I knew, with the river flowing by their garden, and a spring and a deep cave which people came to see, known in fact as the Spring of the Cave. Their father Naëf was a courageous and energetic son of the mountains, daring to take on long-term projects. He was a kind, good father, a religious believer and honest, taking care of his family and loving it as he did his land. I promised the four children that one day I would pass and visit them.

In the school there was also a little girl eight or nine years old, brunette, with long hair drawn into two plaits, often dangling under a straw hat. She was smiling, friendly, full of life and affectionate. She was a Muslim, but I forget whether she was Sunnite or Shiite. In our little school, with both boys and girls of different religions, harmony and mutual affection reigned. This particular little girl had two brothers older than herself. She was called Rawiya, which can mean either storyteller or bringer of water, the one drink which truly quenches thirst.
Rawiya, brunette, of average height, and full of life, grace and sympathy for others, worked like an ant or a busy little bee, active, studious and wide awake, and as such could not pass unnoticed. I made some sketches of her in the school, but I wanted to do her portrait on canvas, for which she would have to sit for me in the studio not far from the school.

I lived in premises among the houses occupied by the soldiers, close to the barracks, so I had to ask permission for Rawiya to come to me. The father and mother had heard talk about this schoolmaster who did drawings of the pupils and had also heard about my kindness, so they said to me, “Consider Rawiya as your own daughter, and she can come to you whenever you want her.” Like this we got to know one another; the father of little Rawiya visited me several times and I did several portraits of the girl. She was a little princess, more beautiful than any in the royal family of Spain painted by Velasquez. My house was a roomy old building in an orange grove which I inhabited alone with my unfortunate cardiac mother but where ten individuals had once lived.

I felt in this little pupil a pure fine soul close to my heart; I noticed that she was made much of and held in affection by the other pupils her companions. I also found she was a “seer”; as she grew up she took to telling fortunes in coffee cups, in the palms of people’s hands, and above all in sea shells, of which she always had in her school satchel a handful picked up on the beach. These shells were of every description, winkles, mussels, some bright and shining, whole, silvery or like ivory, ochre, pink or grey. Some were broken, showing their inside spirals, seven or eight.

Seeing into the future, reading one’s luck, meant throwing the shells on the ground with a flick of the hand, closing the eyes, concentrating and asking for wishes, but always in God’s name. Once the shells were scattered on the ground, the fortune teller could see ahead and prophesy, read into the unconscious, and ask the client, “If that comes to pass, you will reward me…” This was discovering the secret, mysterious and intimate side of things.

This so-called “profession” or career was a craft of the gypsy or Bedouin women. The shells lay deep in their pockets like the rosary beads of nuns of old. There were many who believed in the predictions, so much so that there were many who would not leave their houses without knowing what the sea shells revealed. Little Rawiya was one of these seers despite her youth, able to go on talking for hours with inspiration, clarity and sureness of vision. Schoolmasters and mistresses, neighbors, friends, all fought to have their fortune told, about marriage, work, children, travel, adventure, projects, love, happiness or disappointment.

For myself, Rawiya was Dante’s Beatrice. I loved her with my whole heart, for I saw something of myself in her.. She in turn had much esteem and respect for me, considering me as her spiritual father. She loved to dance in the school and spread joy around her. She could sing as well, with rich expression, and was friendly and innocent. She was absolutely unique and stood out among her brothers and friends. I have already said there was no distinction of religion in the school; Rawiya’s Christian companions adored her and found her friendship enriching. They loved one another, helped one another, swapped their ideas and visited one another.

Rawiya passed by me often; my mother took to her and offered her packets of candy. She told me she was happy in Jounieh with its atmosphere of freedom, openness and familiarity, and that she did not like living in their little hamlet in the Beqaa plain. I used to buy her books, stories suitable for her age. She told me that during the long holidays of summer she spent most of her time with a neighbor who was a dressmaker, so learning a trade.

She told me that she used to go to the church on Sundays and pray with her friends, while her parents made no objection as they were open to every kind of religion. But when she went to the beach with her friends, she would remain picking up shells, not daring to plunge into the water. She told me that she had never had any adventures with friends of her brothers or other boys. She lived in another world. From 1954 to 1961 my friendship with Rawiya was something pure and fine.

At the school there was a little girl, a Druze who had lost her father, though her mother was Christian – I do not remember her name, for that was fifty-five years ago! She was intimate with Rawiya, they were fond of each other and were closely attached to each other. I had done several sketches of them both, for sometimes they came together to visit me, especially to savor whatever my mother had baked for her grandchildren, my nephews, in the form of tarts, cakes and sweetmeats. My mother offered them not only pastries but also sandwiches and fruit to eat on the way. She was very kind-hearted and liked to spoil the children.

During the summer vacation I decided one day to visit my pupils near Hrajel. One evening I went to the four brothers children of Naëf, and was received with open arms. I took a stroll round their property and saw with admiration the efforts made by Naëf to make the soil productive. That night we lay down on a terrace under a vine after a long evening together.
The next morning we went along the river to get to the cave previously mentioned. We took with us sprit lamps, candles and matches. For the first twenty yards or so, we had to crawl on our stomachs to reach a wide space and enter into the bowels of the earth.

This excursion lasted for some hours, ending at a narrow opening that took us toward the top of the mountain. Here I had the pleasure of being all the time surrounded by my pupils and spent indeed a wonderful day. I slept another night under the vine and the stars. I pointed out the Little Bear and the Pole Star, known as the Phoenician, and explained to my friends how to distinguish a planet from a star. The Planet of Love, called the Shepherd’s Star or the Morning Star, is in fact a planet, the planet of the heart, Venus. During the night one could hear the yapping of the foxes that approached the homes with a keen eye on the henhouses and the barking of the sheepdogs answering back.

In the morning, the mother of my pupils, while making bread, baked for us the famous man’ousheh. She spread the dough and covered it with a layer of oil, thyme and sumac, making what serves like the croissant roll in France or like the Bocadillo in Spain, as a popular form of breakfast not at all expensive.

The morning was devoted to exploring the mountain slopes above Ain el-Laban, the Spring of Milk. All the springs have a name redolent of mystery, and a little lower down there was Ain el-Arooss, and Ain Bent el-Malek, Spring of the Princess Daughter of the King. After half an hour’s walk we came in front of a cleft among the rocks which we entered, sometimes crawling and sometimes upright. Inside there were large tunnels at several levels, where the remains of avalanches indicated much danger. The inside of the mountain is as full of holes as a Gruyère cheese.

My pupils very prudently left here and there various indications such as a hat, a gun, a handkerchief or a bag to mark the way out and so avoid being lost. We passed more than an hour in the depths of the mountain and when we emerged we had picked up a good many fossils. We then devoured our lunch near a spring.

That evening I returned to Jounieh happy and relaxed. What a pleasure it was to share friendship with such good people and how dangerous it was to penetrate into such caverns, an adventure that I would not dream of repeating today without being in the company of speleologists and without being supplied with the proper equipment!

How did things stand between the four brothers and Rawiya? It is through a description of the family atmosphere embracing pupils come from all sides that one may better understand the attachment of Rawiya for the girls who were her friends and for Jounieh.

On the day in October when the school reopened, I saw again all the faces which had become familiar to me. I looked forward to seeing Rawiya before anybody else, but this time in an upper class. The bonds of affection were reconstituted and the pupils talked about their adventures during the holidays, Rawiya telling me about her childhood memories in her village when she helped her mother bake their bread or herded their sheep and goats as was normal in rural life up in the mountains. But always she had her winkle shells in her pocket to answer other people’s demands.

Was this “Beatrice” a gypsy? Happy and helpful, she considered Jounieh to be terrestrial paradise. She loved study and never once repeated her class. She loved to sew, cook and do housework. In Jounieh, she was free to do as she pleased. She felt fully at home, true to herself, and able to express herself to the full. She was far and away above her brothers.

In 1961 I had to go to Madrid, not returning until 1964. Rawiya then confided to me that when her soldier father left the Army, she had no desire at all to go back to their village. He would have to leave the house provided by the barracks and to leave it to somebody else. His daughter was sad at the idea that I would be traveling again and would be away for a long time.
I suggested that she should stay and live with my mother, who was lonely and unwell, keeping her company. For herself she would be fully free. However, she did not fully grasp what I was saying. Her little Druze friend was anxious and concerned about her. The great day of my departure came, and concern about the fate of Riwiya was put aside, although I thought about her and the years spent in the school every day. I wrote to my mother saying that if Rawiya wanted any help and wished to live with us, she should do her best for her. That was all.

I received no more news of this bewitching fairy who fascinated people who had questions to ask, who loved her and who listened to her. She knew how to transport us into another world, one of dreams and of hopes. Folks gossiped about what Rawiya had said, what she had foretold and what she had prophesied. On my return from Madrid, I dropped in at the school, finding there a new generation of students who had little memory of those that had passed before them.

Time passed. I got married and had children. Life flowed by. I forgot the very name of Rawiya’s village and I lost all trace of her, consoling myself as best I could. I supposed that one so gentle, capable, intelligent, communicative and able to manage would know well how to look after herself.

Early in the years 1970 to 1972 one could feel a worsening of the general situation. The newspapers became more outspoken and a crisis loomed on the horizon, with the kidnappings, hostile declarations and militiamen who armed themselves and trained.

The country then lived through a nightmare, one that lasted thirty years and left Lebanon devastated. One day when I was in our house in Jounieh there was a ring at the door and a nun appeared, one whom I regarded but failed to recognize. However, I felt subconsciously that this person under the religious habit was not entirely unknown to me and what was more the sister greeted me with affection and joy. Surely she must know me! Under her religious habit she appeared very beautiful and serene.

It turned out that she was the little Druze I had known, the friend of Rawiya whom I had also known at the school. She told me that she was wearing the habit proper to her vocation. She lived in a Western order of sisters whose house was for the moment at Zouk nearby. Soon she was to go to Europe, but for the moment was helping people in the locality who were poor and deprived. She had a long list of families in difficulty. I promised to visit them to offer some help, something which I did several times. I went to them taking boxes of milk, rice, sugar and conserves which they redistributed to those in their care. I even asked my friends to give some assistance to the religious congregation.

My first question to the former little Druze (whose mother, remember, was Christian) was, “And Rawiya, what news have you of her, where is she? Why has she stopped contacting me? I always remember those lovely times past when Rawiya was the pupil of the school and my favorite.”

Tears streamed down the cheeks of the beautiful sister and at first she was too upset to speak, while I burned with impatience to learn what had happened. The sister told me that on such-and-such a date when Rawiya was still not yet twenty years old, she had committed suicide, had killed herself. She had shut herself up in the kitchen in the village, then poured petrol over her head and her clothes and set fire to them., so she died burnt alive. What lay behind all that?

After the return to the home village following her father’s retirement from the Army, several had asked Rawiya’s hand in marriage. Her father, who had seemed so understanding when I had known him earlier, decided to marry his daughter to a cousin that Rawiya neither loved nor desired. Meanwhile, she was the slave of her parents, of her brother and of her uncle. She could decide nothing for herself, having only to shut up and obey. But this was impossible for Rawiya, the emancipated little gypsy.

She resisted, leading one hell of a life in the home, with quarrels and disputes, but all in vain, for she had to obey. Her mother dared say nothing. Theirs was a masculine society, with the woman kept in the background with the cooking, household chores, and the children. No rights, no voice, only total submission. Of course, this is no longer the case with our compatriots of any community, for they are now modern in outlook and take their daughters’ wishes into consideration.

Precisely what happened in Rawiya’s home I do not know. Just how severe was the pressure of her relatives and what were the demands of those wanting her hand?

How can one be forced to love another? Love is like patriotism; we are fanatic in our attachment to our nation and to the one we love. In what state of mind was Rawiya for her to pluck up courage to take this ultimate fatal decision? Had she thought about those happy days spent in Jounieh and in the school? About her comrades, about myself her spiritual father and intimate friend? What had she done with those seashells, large and small? Did she ever think of those sittings when she was proud to have her portrait painted? Had she wished to serve as an example to girls of her generation, to show that death is better than submission and humiliation. Had she wished to bring on a revelation in the domain of morals and customs? Had she read one last time into the future by throwing her shells onto the pages of existence? So many questions passed through my mind while I was still under a shock impossible to describe. I passed over a week doing nothing, so paralyzed was I by the news of this event.

When the leaping flame scored her flesh, what extreme pain and suffering had she faced? She knew agony in order to find freedom again. She was a martyr to ancestral traditions and customs that bind us in chains and kill us. Rawiya, I ask your pardon. I put my mother and my house at your disposition, but you did not have the courage to free yourself from the social customs to which we are held hostage. You wished to treat with Eternity rather than reconcile yourself with mankind. You freed yourself from this earthly body which held your soul in order to betake yourself to the world of heavenly dreams. You will have the companionship of our celestial Mother. I beg you, Rawiya, to implore the Lord and his Holy Mother to come to our help, you who are in Paradise. You must be throwing your shells to amuse your Creator, to prove that his creature is worthy to be his work and that in her the Creator has poured all his love, his understanding, his grace and his purity. Do the people of Paradise have need of your shells in their eternal felicity?

While listening to the nun my wife was in tears, but my mother had passed away three or four years before. Rawiya took the Holy Virgin as an example and as her ideal in life. The nun added, “This happened some years ago. Every day I pray to God for him to save the soul of Rawiya. He will answer me and I look forward to meeting Rawiya one day in Heaven. I know that this was going to deeply upset you, and I did not want to say anything about it to you who see cases of misfortune every day and do your best to help. All that I ask is your prayer, what more can one do?

I met this good sister two or three times before she went completely out of my life. I can only suppose that she is living out her vocation somewhere in Europe, probably Italy or Spain.
Then one day a week later, I was in one of the nearby universities where the newspapers were kept classed in chronological order. I chose the file where the date of death of Rawiya was mentioned and read in a column the following:

R., twenty, burnt herself alive, refusing the bridegroom imposed by her father. Preferring freedom in death to submission, she doused herself in petrol and set fire to herself…
How much longer at this the turn of the twentieth century can we admit such injustices? Several times have I read and re-read the lines quoted above to make sure that I was not dreaming, each time with tears running down my cheeks.

Rawiya dwells in my mind in all her transparency, her simplicity, her love, her predictions, and her kindness as if it were yesterday. Seeing her in a sunlit and flowered clearing in the forest of my memories, I also have begun to collect shells on the shore in memory of Rawiya.

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K. J. Mortimer