5th of February – Black Sunday

A drama in three acts, with unity of time, place and action

The time:

It was on one Sunday, day of prayer and of rest,
One that spring with its sunlight had blest.
In the churches and temples we awaited our Savior,
And the faithful all prayed with redoubled fervor.
The doors of our sanctuaries were all open wide
Like the souls seeking grace who were kneeling inside.
The skies were of azure and shedding the light
On flowering nature of a sun that was bright.

The place:

We were admiring Beirut, its headland and hill,
Called Ashrafieh the noble, a capital still,
Since Phoenicians and Romans of kings the resort,
Overlooking the sea and the mariners’ port,
With halls of the nobles and shrines of the blessed,
Pearl of the coast that its brave men had dressed,
Recalling our glory and power and persistence,
Impregnable tower and rock of resistance.
The hosts of a country that claimed to bring aid
Brought grief and destruction and slaughter and hate.
From the hills they hurled down all their murderous hail
But against the proud city ‘twas of little avail.
The brothers self-styled betrayed their own claim
For who with such cruelty can merit the name?
Then peace had returned and the town once more
Breathed progress and learning and prayer as of yore.

The deed

Till the day when a schemer, unknown and a stranger,
Disfigured the walls with lines to cause anger
Without our knowledge or sought approbation
For we stand for our faith and for all our tradition.
One Day of the Lord, day of rest and of prayer,
People were out to enjoy the spring air.
But the streets were invaded by savages wild,
In the name of religion their slogans were cried.
Slings they all carried and axes and spades,
Long-handled hammers and cudgels and blades.
They stormed through the streets with their faces ferocious
As if come from some hell with intentions atrocious.
Their very own clergy could no more contain
The violence of beasts who were no longer sane.
Theirs is the rage of fanatics who scorn
All pity and mercy, whose hate knows no borne.
Ashrafiyeh’s fair heights are left open to bands
That set fire and loot with criminal hands.
Fine churches and schools, tall buildings and cars,
Offices, stores and shops with their wares.
The sun can no longer send down its rays,
Such is the smoke that pollutes all the ways.
But the people of Ali have stayed in the South.
Obeying the orders from their leader’s mouth.
But others use violence and seek to destroy
Allowing no brake on the means they deploy.
Ashrafiyeh was given to grief and to sorrow,
Struck in its heart by events that made hollow
Talk of fraternity, hopes of living together,
Though all are brother and made for each other.
But the mission of Denmark, their object declared,
Was left quite forgotten and strangely was spared.
A caricature has taken place here
So the artist in Denmark really can sneer;
His doodlings at home may have caused a few smiles
But have kindled disaster at thousands of miles
The innocent suffer in Beirut once again
Thanks to the scratches of an idle pen.
God is our Lord and the message he sends
Must be used in love, not for personal ends.

The Night of Thursday, 1st and 2nd of June, 2006

Heads or tails? They are both the same,
Equal in their extremist flame.
When a plate is thrust in the burning fire
On either side the heat is dire.
Whatever is there to be said or done?
Reason is absent but dialogue must come.
The war of Jihad belongs to the past
We must come to the present and then hold fast
To democracy, justice and liberty, all to be found
Imposing themselves the whole world around.
Are you religious, political, public figure, authoritarian,
Let us be frank, not confusing the utilitarian.
Religion is fine but for the conscience of each.
Far from me to mock the rites the religions teach.
But each who wishes to mark his age
Can affirm his faith without war to wage.
To be dutiful, judgmental and critical,
These are the rules of the game political.
Disciples of Ali, dear fellow-countrymen,
Shouts and burnt tires are no signs of acumen.
Harm not your brother in this holy land.
Alone in the Orient here one may
Freely express what one has to say
And every value can raise its head
And for six thousand years from here has spread
With civilization in lands remote.
From “The Mountain Inspired” these words I quote:
“I recall to my dear ones our Phoenicians of old
Who in history’s dawn were formed in one mold,
Ere Christian or Muslim they became,
And were united in one glory and fame.
So as we advance we may be restored,
Through a faith that is raised to a higher plane,
To the love that was found when old gods were adored!”

Joseph Matar
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Translated from French: K.J.Mortimer