Rosette, the Priest’s Donkey
A Tale of Loyalty, Trial, and Unexpected Destiny
By Joseph Matar
In the villages of Lebanon of yesteryear, long before paved roads and engines, life followed a different rhythm, slower, harsher, but also closer to what truly mattered. People lived in close contact with the land, the seasons… and the animals. Among them, the donkey, and more specifically the jenny, held a unique place. Often spoken of with contempt, it was nonetheless indispensable in practice. A work companion, a bearer of burdens, a guide along forgotten paths, it shared the daily lives of the people with quiet patience and loyalty.
It is in this world that the story of Rosette, a jenny unlike any other, unfolds. A story passed down orally, enriched over generations, where faith, violence, memory, and unexpected justice intertwine. This account does not claim to be an exact historical truth; it has neither precise dates nor formal proof. But it carries within it a deeper truth: that of humankind, their beliefs, and the mysterious bond that unites them with animals. It is not based solely on anonymous oral tradition. It has been revived and structured thanks to the work of Reverend Father Jean Jabbour, a priest, artist, and man of culture, who collected and transmitted the essential elements of this story from ancient testimonies and family narratives. It is not simply a matter of recounting an anecdote, but of preserving a collective memory, rooted in a Lebanon of yesteryear, where history was transmitted more orally than in writing. As is often the case with ancient stories, facts intertwine with interpretation, and historical truth sometimes fades before a deeper truth: that of culture, faith, and human experience.
More than a hundred years ago, in the district of Batroun, there was a modest village called Zan. At that time, under Ottoman rule, life was difficult, but organized around community, faith, and work. Each family owned a few essential animals: a goat, some chickens… and above all, a donkey. Without it, nothing functioned: not transportation, not agricultural work, not trade between villages. The village priest, Father Youssef Juan, was a respected man. He didn’t limit himself to his religious duties: he cultivated his land, helped the inhabitants, and was always ready to help. But he also had another passion: writing. A renowned calligrapher, he bound Gospels, wrote titles, and worked on parchment. It was both his profession and his calling. To provide for the village’s needs, he regularly traveled to Tripoli, a large city in the north, where everything could be found: food, tools, medicine, and fabrics.
Lebanon at that time cannot be understood without its spiritual and symbolic dimension. In the collective imagination, Lebanon is often described as a land apart, almost sacred. Some stories even recount that God, after distributing the land to the nations, kept a unique plot for himself… which he ultimately gave to Lebanon. This vision, though imagined, reflects a profound reality: the inhabitants’ attachment to their land, their faith, and their identity. In this context, every village, every path, even every animal, participates in a story greater than itself.
Father Juan owned a special donkey: gray, speckled with white, gentle, and intelligent. She had been christened by the villagers themselves: Rose, Rosette, Rosetta… everyone called her by their own name. She wasn’t just an animal. Everyone knew her, petted her by the children, and respected her by the adults. She knew the paths, recognized the places, and seemed to understand far more than anyone expected of her. In a world where people could be mistaken, lie, or betray, she never betrayed.
Contrary to the often-perpetuated image, the donkey is neither stupid nor lazy. It possesses a remarkable memory, recognizes paths, places, and people. It fully participates in human life: carrying loads, working in the fields, traveling, and accompanying children. In the rural societies of the past, it was a silent pillar of daily life. Rosette was no exception: on the contrary, she embodied the most accomplished expression of this quiet intelligence and absolute loyalty.
One day, as was his custom, Father Juan prepared for his journey. He carefully noted all the requests of the villagers: coffee, tea, medicine, tools such as nails, pliers, and wire, and especially messages to be delivered to relatives in other villages. During the night, around one or two in the morning, he loaded Rosette into his carrier. The journey began. From village to village, he stopped, greeted people, and shared a coffee or a meal. The clergy were respected, and everywhere he was welcomed with kindness. He arrived in Tripoli at the end of the day.
The next day, while he was shopping in the souk, a gang of thugs watched him. There were four or five of them. Suddenly, they attacked him. They insulted him and beat him violently. Blood flowed from his face. They tore his cassock, leaving him almost naked, humiliated, and wounded. They took everything from him: his money, his purchases… and above all, his lifelong friend, Rosette. Abandoned and weakened, he was rescued by a kind-hearted Muslim merchant who offered him water, rest, and even food for the return journey. “You did well not to go to the soldiers,” he told him. “They are worse than those thugs.”
Father Juan resumed his journey alone, on foot. Each day was an ordeal. He moved slowly, stopping at acquaintances’ houses to regain his strength. Some villagers, moved by his story, provided him with a donkey to help him get home. Meanwhile, in the village, anxiety grew. When he finally arrived, exhausted, the villagers wanted revenge. They talked of forming an armed group. But the priest categorically refused: “I will not take revenge. We will pray.”
The days passed. But one thought never left the priest: Rosette. Was she alive? Was she suffering? Had she been sold? Killed? No answers.
One night, around two in the morning, the sound of hooves could be heard. Then another. Then several. The priest opened the window. It was her. Rosette! And behind her… about ten mules. Laden with carpets. Precious carpets, from Iran and Turkey, destined for Beirut.
The most likely explanation was this: after being stolen, Rosette was sold to caravan drivers. As part of a transport caravan, she was traveling to Beirut. But as she approached the fork in the road leading to Zan, she recognized the path. So, she turned off towards her village, and the mules followed her.
The carpets were unloaded, and there were many of them, precious. The Patriarch, informed of the situation, refused to accept them and declared to Father Juan, “God has sent you this fortune for the harm you have suffered.” The carpets were distributed, sold, and shared. The day the Patriarch came to baptize the priest’s nephew, the villagers covered the path from the house to the church with carpets.
Rosette, meanwhile, was the center of attention.
Over time, versions of the story have transformed. Names vary, details change, distances lengthen or shorten. But it is precisely this evolution that testifies to the vitality of the narrative. It is not simply a fixed fact, but a living memory. Father Jean Jabbour, in retracing this story, played an essential role: that of a bridge between generations. He collected fragments, compared versions, and attempted to reconstruct a coherent narrative of an event dating back more than a century. As is often the case in oral traditions, what matters is not the absolute precision of the facts, but the enduring nature of the meaning. And this meaning has never disappeared.
In old tales, it is often said that the donkey is stubborn, slow, and ignorant. But those who have lived alongside one know another truth. The donkey is not stupid. It remembers. It recognizes. It remains loyal. An old story tells of a man who wanted to teach a donkey to play the piano. He was mocked. He replied, “In thirty years, either I, the king, or the donkey will be gone.” This answer was not a joke, but a lesson: man always believes himself superior, but he has no control over time, nature, or life.
Rosette, for her part, made no demands. She spoke neither, nor judged, nor accused. And yet… She found her way back. She returned. And unintentionally, she delivered justice. What humanity destroys through violence, loyalty and memory can sometimes repair. And it happens that animals, silent and humble, through the purity of their actions and the faithfulness of their memory, remind us of what humanity sometimes forgets: the true meaning of justice. Rosette’s story goes beyond the simple tale of a loyal animal. It questions humanity’s place in the world, its claim to superiority, and its capacity—or incapacity—to recognize the intelligence and dignity of all living beings. As an ancient reflection suggests: human knowledge progresses ceaselessly, pushing back the boundaries of understanding… but without ever reaching the essential. Perhaps this essential lies precisely in those simple truths that humans sometimes forget… but which animals, for their part, have never ceased to embody.
Joseph Matar
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