What is property, literary, artistic, commercial or financial? Surely it is nothing other than the exclusive right to dispose of something and to enjoy it. In the latter case it is usually question of a house or of land.

What does it mean to possess something, a house for example? It is a Utopia, like banknotes, for we do not even possess our own bodies, whose fate is independent of our will, ever liable to illness, accident and death.

Have we the right to possess anything at all, however minimal, in this existence? What belongs to God is God’s and what is Caesar’s is also God’s.

We have the right to own worldly goods which really are a part of existence. In the Lebanese Constitution, private or individual property is sacred, strictly defended by law, which does not even allow one to covert another’s possessions.

One may possess a goat, some chickens, or even a flock. Does that mean that we can do what we like with them? There was a time when one could possess human beings, slaves or serfs over whom the owner had rights of life and death.

With Christianity such custom disappeared, replaced by ideas of brotherhood, equality and liberty. In fact the slogans of the French Revolution go back to a couple of thousand years before the Revolution, but the Christians of the West have forgotten all the teaching of the Church. Here in the East one often sees framed signboards saying, “The owner is God”, meaning that in fact we own nothing. It is hard to believe that we had to wait for the nineteenth century for a partial abolition of slavery, which however continues under other forms. Pharaohs, Greeks, Romans, with their great civilizations! To be free under the Romans one had to be a Roman, what injustice! But to possess the truth is even more difficult.

I knew a certain father of a family called Butros, Peter, who earned his living by the sweat of his brow. However, he had ample income and this covered his needs. He was surrounded by his family, his wife, his two daughters and his three sons. The children were happy to show off their clothes in front of all the people of the village, especially their new shoes shining with polish. Even now, mothers pick the finest clothes for their children for Palm Sunday.

The children of Butros were careful not to dirty their clothes. Sometimes they were bought for the feast-day of a child’s patron saint or an occasion such as the Assumption. In the evening they were carefully pressed and put away for Eastertide.

Butros was a general handyman, constructing walls, making terraces, taking care of livestock and bringing in the harvest. He knew how to buy and sell and even had cobbler’s tools so he could mend shoes and carpenter’s tools so he could knock up a table or repair doors and windows.

From time to time he would buy a plot of land bordering his property, using the money he had saved in order to be able to buy a cow or a goat to build up his flock. The work force was largely unpaid, consisting of his wife and children,. They shared the work with love and enthusiasm and so shared also the property, the pleasures, the joys and the sorrows.

Once or twice a year everyone went to buy shoes and clothes. Before the end of Lent, the garments were measured for and placed on order, as ready-to-wear did not exist yet and one had to go to the tailor’s a couple of times to ensure a good fit. Even the cobbler would measure one’s feet and then choose the right wooden form. Then the new clothes and the shoes would be given out on Palm Sunday to commemorate the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem accompanied by children.

Butros had an answer to every problem. He was first and foremost a farmer. He would sow the cereals unaided but for the harvest it was the whole family that set to work. He also sowed tomatoes, parsley, cabbages, courgettes, and other plants for the vegetable garden. He had his own lunar calendar, fitting his activity to the phases of the moon, waxing or waning, whether pruning the trees, weeding, planting or watering. Even cutting somebody’s hair was to be done preferably under a waning moon a few days before the new crescent.

The personality of Butros modified his whole environment. The children watched their father and learnt from him, happy to imitate him as they saw in him their ideal. Only the Benjamin of the family, Yaacoub (James), had a will of his own and wished to change the rhythm of their daily life. Yaacoub was only just seventeen years old when he started studies at the university. He had a passion for biology and he spent his time in the library, searching, reading and gaining culture. He was of a solitary and withdrawn nature, not very talkative. He was also very generous, giving of what he had to those who had nothing. The fact is that Yaacoub was spendthrift. Nothing had any value for him; it is well said that what one has not gained by the sweat of one’s brow is not appreciated. So Yaacoub was argumentative, rebellious, very generous and helpful to the point of sacrificing himself for others.

He had friends of both sexes, comrades from the university whom he used to invite to his father’s house. Butros was proud of Yaacoub, being himself almost illiterate, and he extended a warm welcome to all his son’s companions.

Yaacoub would sometimes go away for the weekend to relax in one of the many monasteries or hostels that took in students. These times of withdrawal were of great help to him, times when he could reflect, meditate and think about his existence and his future. All his brothers and sisters were married and had left home, so leaving it empty, and Yaacoub did little to fill the void. Butros would visit me from time to time to tell me about his worries and troubles and about the emptiness now left in his life.

Sometimes he would bring with him Yaacoub, “his father’s pride and joy”. Yaacoub would tell me a little about his adventures. Once he was at the monastery of Feytroun in the month of January, when the water had frozen in the faucets and there was ice covering the large pools used for irrigation. He told me that he was tempted to walk across the frozen surface of a pool, but he had hardly put his foot down when the thin sheet of ice gave way and he was plunged into the chilly water.

On another occasion, he spent a whole morning helping a neighbor to put up a chicken-run, for he liked to do a kindness. He revealed to me that by sitting for a competitive exam in his faculty he would be able to pass from Biology to Medicine and that he was studying Biology, which was very interesting, by force of circumstance, not having been able to take the entrance exam for the medical faculty earlier on. He told me that he spent whole days between Feytroun and Meyrouba simple observing the most beautiful rocks in Lebanon. This mountain site had been endowed by God with all the wonder and beauty he could give. Perhaps God had furnished it specially for his spiritual retreats! This site extended over some three miles, with rocks weathered by the centuries and the marks of geological epochs. There were view of cliffs, of oak trees and of other forest trees as far as the eye could see, going up from three thousand feet up to a height of five thousand.

As for the forms taken by the limestone rocks, their aspect, the impression they made, the fascination and states of mind they provoked, I can give an idea of them with this little story. Just over sixty years ago I went for a hike and a picnic and some relaxation in this place together with my friend and master Omar. He would stop every couple of paces to exclaim, “This rock is the Sphinx, the other one Rameses, and there is a crouching lion, there a mother, and the Round Table and an altar of sacrifice, Emir Fakhreddine, Emir Bashir, an unmistakable equestrian statue,” and so on.

Michelangelo would have converted the place into a whole open-air museum of sculpture, a Pantheon, a Pyramid, surrounded by the Evangelists, saints and birds of prey. There were menhirs that might have been placed in the lonely wilderness by the hands of Titans. Each rock was rich with symbols and legends of the past, of Aphrodite and of Adonis. One could read these fantasies in the shapes without number as in the medieval cathedrals with their countless statues in this University grown out of Nature. One could reach out to one’s Creator and to all existence. Indeed the environment surrounding these rocks is divine and now the authorities have become aware of this heritage and forbidden the opening of quarries here and the destruction of these fantastically carved rocks. I speak of my experience in this high place and can feel with Yaacoub, who wandered here as did the many flocks of goats who grazed on grass and on oaks, jumping from rock to rock, sparing neither the rhododendrons nor the local flora.

The thoughts of the future young Doctor Yaacoub were however far away as he was not spiritually at rest in this place. He lived a dream as a young lady friend at the university had enraptured him and awakened in his soul a pure flame that burned within him all day long. He would have loved to have been accompanied by Sarah, to have been able to embrace her, to run around with her or with her to rest in the cool shade of the towering stones. Had he declared his love to Sarah, who was close by him at the university and felt drawn to him? It was in this lofty spiritual sanctuary, this rural cathedral, that he made up his mind to tell Sarah that he loved her. Then two or three weeks later they were sitting together in the cafeteria and he took the opportunity to speak to her of his sincere and unselfish attachment to her, and almost at the end of his sixth year, the last before obtaining his diploma, he thought of making his home with Sarah as its reigning princess.

Sarah was in no way surprised, for she had reciprocal feelings and saw in Yaacoub the ideal lover, active, ambitious and attractive. Their relationship became so intimate and their meetings so frequent that the other students considered them as an already united couple. Sarah visited Yaacoub in his modest home, where she was presented to Butros and his wife, both of whom wished to see their youngest son, the last bachelor in the family, safely married. Butros met me one day and asked me my opinion about everything concerning Yaacoub and Sarah, as I knew the father of Sarah as well as of Yaacoub and was familiar with their general family situation. I found the match a good one, but I had some doubts about Sarah’s side for I knew that her parents would have liked her to have some more distinguished suitor. On seeing his daughter’s warm feelings for Yaacoub, the father of Sarah as a result of his contacts with his brothers, who lived in Brazil, thought the marriage out of the question. He waited until July to announce to his whole family that they were going to pass the summer at Sao Paulo with his brothers, who were estate agents and extremely rich. Lebanese emigrants settled in Brazil have one overwhelming desire, which is to get their sons married to Lebanese girls, for these are still more traditionalist and well educated, and are therefore inclined to maintain close relations with their mother country.

A surprise voyage! Sarah had hardly enough time to take leave of Yaacoub and to say goodbye to him in the hope of seeing him during the coming October at the end of summer. The couple bade farewell to each other with tears in their eyes, but deep within himself Yaacoub felt that Sarah was slipping away from him and that this goodbye was for good. In fact his presentiments were right, for Sarah never came back from this trip. Her father had foreseen everything, even asking for her university grades, having them legalized, and then having Sarah entered at the university in Rio, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Once she was there, dozens of charming and exceedingly wealthy suitors asked her hand, while her wily father urged her to continue her university studies as he had arranged.

Finding herself alone and isolated, and realizing that any question of marriage with Yaacoub would arouse the fierce opposition of her family, what could she do? As she no longer had the desire or the courage to further pursue her studies, she entered into the life of the high society in the many sophisticated clubs of Rio and the superb hotels, with evenings in grand style and sumptuous outings, in short a life of ostentation. She did not bother to take her finals in History and under the pressure of her parents, uncles and circle of friends she married a certain Julio, a fine man of Lebanese ancestry, though knowing scarcely four or five words of Arabic, who was in business in a big way and was madly in love with Sarah.
Having lost Sarah for good, Yaacoub withdrew further into himself, enclosed in his own universe. He slept little, a fact which worried his father Butros. At the medical faculty, or rather in the hospitals where he was an internist, he devoted himself passionately to his duties, taking the greatest care of his patients. He went out less and less. At home he passed unnoticed and the house knew only a void; with his continued absence, the gap widened between Yaacoub and his father. His mother took refuge in prayer to the Virgin Mary, while his father, who knew more of the world, was aware that his son’s love had been impossible.

The difference between a healer and a medical doctor is like the difference between an astrologer and an astronomer. The former takes note of what he sees and stores the learning of his ancestors, while the latter in a comparatively short time acquires experimental knowledge about which there can be little doubt. For surer diagnosis, he has recourse to a number of tests, RX, scanner, IRM, echography, and so on.

I used to know a certain Greek Catholic priest, Father Matta (Matthew), who had inherited from his father and grandfather traditional treatments of healers. He gave his treatment for free and people came in their thousands to consult him, and he would feel and sense what was wrong with them. He would look into their eyes or their throat and touch their fingers and always give an infallible diagnosis and give prescriptions made of various extracts. In fact there used to be many such healers who had inherited the methods and ways from father to son, the secrets of which they preserved with care.

There also used to be certain “Moroccan toubib” who traveled about on horseback with small bags of herbs and potions dangling from their saddle and would shout “Maghribi”, meaning coming from the Arab West, vaguely Morocco. People used to wait for them eagerly, for they also had power over evil spirits, and pretended to be able to make contact with spiritual forces or to be in touch with the invisible and the other world. Many simple people would wait for one of them to come and would, for example, ask him to revive the love of a spouse or to get the spirits to intervene on their behalf. He would then burn some mysterious magical incense which would cost dear or use some similar charm.

All these traditions greatly amused Yaacoub, who lived in an atmosphere of scientific rigor with detailed analysis and discovery. I felt in him an excellent doctor who was amused by the old empirical ways, which however he would not condemn outright, saying that some of them were quite admissible and effective although others were ridiculous. He came to see me from time to time, when I would feel that he had been hurt in his self=respect and dignity. But time passed and one day he told me that he had been made chief of a ward in an important hospital. I felt that while Dr. Yaacoub was caring for his patients he himself needed someone to care for him, and this someone had vanished, disappeared. Sarah who had been launched on a literary career was now mother of a family and living a life of luxury in Sao Paulo, loved and spoilt by her husband and by those around him. Once she had been married and was well set up, her parents came back to Lebanon to spend their time with their children and grandchildren.

In 1976, seeing that the war in Lebanon was going to be long drawn out, I decided to go on an artist’s tour in Europe, in the Americas and in the Emirates, and this I did.

The first stage of my trip was in Brazil, visiting Rio, Sao Paulo and Bel Horizonte, where I spent some months putting on three shows of my works, about which I will write in another article concerning this voyage. One afternoon a beautiful, slender, distinguished-looking lady came to my exhibition accompanied by two girls and a boy and showed herself very interested in my work. She ordered two of my pictures and then left, leaving behind her name and address – Sarah! Next day at the same hour Sarah arrived alone, and seeing an empty seat next to me she greeted me and sat down. She said, “Today I have come not to see your show but to see you!” I felt ill at ease, troubled, and wondered what this widow could be wanting; for after her previous visit an official of the club where I was showing had told me that she was a lady of the high society, a V.I.P., and that she had been a widow four or five years. Her husband had died in a tragic car accident when his vehicle had overturned while going over a bridge at high speed. Now, I thought, what could she want from me, this widow? Was I going to be drawn into further adventures? I shuddered, short of breath, tortured by the unforeseen approach.

There was a silence that seemed to last an eternity, marked only by some tears that rolled down from the eyes of this beautiful and silent Sarah. She said to me that she had left her children Christina, Marina and Yaacoub at home because – hardly had she choked out the name Yaacoub when I understood, the whole matter becoming clear in my mind; I understood that she had something to tell me and some sorrows and regrets to speak about. Wishing to let her know what my sixth sense had revealed, I asked, “Aren’t you Sarah, the daughter of Mr. X and the idyll of Doctor Yaacoub?”

“Stop!” she interrupted me and burst into a fit of sobbing, no longer able to hold back her emotion. When she had calmed down I told her that the famous Doctor Yaacoub had lived since her departure in the deepest solitude, lost in his dreams and memories. He came to me sometimes to look at my work and then I could feel how deeply disappointment had cut into his soul, he who was so brave, obstinate, enlightened and full of faith. I also sometimes met his father, now very old, who had suffered greatly when all his children had married and his house be a desert. His white locks of hair made him look a hundred years old although he was not more than seventy, for Doctor Yaacoub only made the house seem even more empty, being always away in the hospitals, wishing to forget what had happened. The death of his mother, wife of Butros, had been a severe blow for the two men living under the same roof without ever exchanging a word, two generations with nothing in common.

Sarah listened to me, wishing to know more, and then told me about her husband who had perished in the car accident. He was a marvelous man, generous, open-hearted, and to her devoted, but the feelings and emotions that she had felt towards Yaacoub were unchanged, rather they were stronger than ever. Her one desire was to see Doctor Yaacoub happy, even though she had more or less betrayed the true love she had known for him at the university; while she had everything she could want, he had nothing. She had called her son Yaacoub on account of her yearning for this past love although her husband had wanted a more Brazilian name, that of his maternal grandfather.

He had said, “You shall choose the names of the girls and I will choose the names of the boys.” She had chosen Christina, after he mother called in Lebanese Msihieh and Marina, the name of the daughter of Yaacoub’s professor, and broke the agreement by insisting on Yaacoub for the boy. Sarah spent three hours opening her heart to me and then I accompanied her home. During my stay in Sao Paulo I did the portraits of her children, so I saw her every day, with Doctor Yaacoub the sole subject of conversation. She wanted me to help her as soon as I got back to Lebanon, knowing of the friendship that linked me to the Butros family. When I left Sao Paulo in the company of the Lebanese consul there (later ambassador), her last words were, “Follow the promptings of your heart, help me and help Yaacoub!”

From Sao Paulo i went to Rio, and from there to France, where things were made easy for me by my French nationality. In France I bought a second-hand car in order to return to Lebanon. I followed the Sun Road to Italy and then reached Piraeus in Greece, from where a boat took me to the “Christian”-held Aqua Marina port next to the Lebanese town of Jounieh. Before reaching the Lebanese coastline I radioed to a Lebanese monk who had a private radio set for him to come and meet me, for at that time the radio was the only means of communication.

At Jounieh I took up my life there again but found many surprises. Sometimes we would be sitting at table helping the children with their studies and sometimes we would be in the basement to shelter from the bombardments, coming out later as though nothing had happened and listening to the news, which was always very disturbing.

When the bombardments got worse, the only thing for us was to leave the house to go to a quieter region a dozen or so miles to the north of Jounieh which was not the objective of any belligerent forces. The area of our house in the middle of Jounieh, near the port, the schools and the market, was always a favorite target. Also, I had to receive various friends who wanted to talk with me in order to exchange opinions and say what they thought.

One day when the children were at school, my wife Andrée was working in the kitchen, and I had left the door half open in order to be aware of anyone’s presence, I had gone a hundred yard along the road in order to dump our bags of rubbish in the municipal garbage truck.. Just then Providence had it that Yaacoub came on the scene; at the bottom of the stairs he had met the mailman, who had given him the mail to pass on to me. I could see them both from where I stood. There were no mailboxes in front of the houses such as one sees in the United States. The mailman would deliver letters each day in a different quarter, Jounieh then having few inhabitants, but later he went his rounds on a bicycle. This particular fellow was named Raouf, meaning tender-hearted, and he was known to all. He knew everybody in the region and everybody liked him. Later the increased number of inhabitants, the traffic and the enlarged infrastructure meant that now there are fifty employed in receiving and distributing all the letters.

A few seconds after taking the letters in his hand, Yaacoub read on one of them: “Sender Sarah…” and it was like a thunderbolt. He stared at the envelope, became agitated and lost, although he had several times dropped in on me, chatting with the children and telling them stories. I had been beside him and his father for a couple of hours at the time of his mother’s passing away, but he had never opened his heart to me and I had said nothing as I had not found the occasion suitable. This envelope awakened his sixth sense. What Sarah was this, a Sarah who wrote to his friend? Was it possible that I had said nothing and had not passed him on news? He could scarcely tear himself away from this mail, which he offered to me in spite of himself.

We went inside, where I placed the letters on the TV set before going to wash my hands, as we were in the habit of doing in our house; when coming in from school or from anywhere outside, the first thing the children would do was to wash their hands. As I moved around I noticed that Yaacoub was standing by the TV set and staring at the letter and at the stamps which showed the country it came from, Brazil. I did my best not to show any interest but I felt that Doctor Yaacoub was overwhelmed. At this time he was forty-three years old, quite the confirmed bachelor, and feeling old age approaching.

Once I was alone I opened the letter, which of course was from Sarah, the only Sarah I knew. She informed me in the letter that she had sold four of my canvases and that she had kept two or three for herself, for when I left Sao Paulo there were six or eight that were not sold. Sarah had said, “Instead of burdening yourself with them, leave them with me and I will be able to get my friends to take them.” Since then we had exchanged very few letters as because of the war the postal services were not functioning properly. At the end of this particular letter there was a postscript: – P.S. Any news of Yaacoub?

Next evening Yaacoub dropped in again. He hardly knew what to say, how to begin or how to express himself, for it was a long time since he had ever spoken of personal matters.
“I hope you had a good trip,” he said, “and that your exhibitions in Brazil, in San Paulo, Rio, and so on, came off well and that our consul, your cousin, was of help, and also the Lebanese abroad, who are generally influential, friendly and helpful…” I answered by raising my head, which only put him out further.

“You know the hospital takes up all my time, I have no more private life or time for myself. I sacrifice myself for others and the good days have gone…!” I decided that it was now up to me to tell him everything, without however causing him further upset. “You mean to say that you have never had any lady friends since Sarah went away?” I asked. This he confirmed.

I told him how this Sarah, the sender of the letter, whom I had met up with in Brazil, had helped me a great deal and that she had a son whom she had called Yaacoub. Straight away Doctor Yaacoub understood everything and broke down sobbing. But really he was happy, especially when I told him that the little Yaacoub had lost his father in a terrible accident and that even as a widow Sarah was more beautiful than a goddess. She was devoting herself to Marina, Christina and Yaacoub and she had been in tears throughout our long meeting as the nostalgia for old times was renewed.

Doctor Yaacoub was away from his consultancy and from the hospital for several days. To what monastery had he withdrawn? Butros came to me to ask me if I had any news about his son. I reassured him that his son would soon reappear and this turned out to be true. The doctor called on me with his passport and asked me to get my cousin to deliver him a visa without delay, for at that time with the sharp rise in terrorism the embassies were making it difficult for foreigners to travel to the countries they represented. Doctor Yaacoub had gone to be alone in order to reach a decision; it was a choice between his father, his patients and his consultancy on one hand and Sarah on the other. He had gone back to his dreams. He felt his heart beating once again and nostalgia overwhelming him.

The same evening by means of amateur radio I was able to ask my cousin to persuade the Brazilian authorities to facilitate the granting of a visa for Doctor Yaacoub. The answer came without delay even though in those days there was neither Internet nor email, only the fax working on and off. The doctor on his side suspended all his consultations and his secretary put up a notice that he was away abroad.

Seeing the peculiar emotional state of his son, Butros came to see me. He was in tears. I explained the situation and told him how Yaacoub had made up his mind, so it was better not to interfere. It would be useless to try to stand in the way. Just a few days later Doctor Yaacoub called on me to take down all the details he needed, the address and telephone number of Sarah, those of my maternal cousin the ambassador and those of certain kindly-disposed Lebanese whose acquaintance I had made.

He passed once more, this time with a taxi waiting at the door. Butros was with him. He said goodbye to me for the last time before going to the little port of Jounieh which was working at a modest level. This port was the artery in the East Region for those who wished to travel without going to Damascus Airport or to Beirut International, where there was little traffic, it having been deserted by most airlines because of the lack of security.

The story ends here. Some months passed with no news from Doctor Yaacoub, only some information about Butros, who had died of heart failure at home surrounded by his grandchildren, who all loved him dearly.

My cousin had been appointed Lebanese ambassador to the United Nations in the USA. He had a residence in Paris, where his children were studying and working. He came back to Lebanon every two or three years to see his brother, his sister, his house and his friends. Then he would get in touch with me and come and spend a day or two with me at Eddeh. His wife preferred to stay with her sons in France. He made mention to me of a certain doctor that I had recommended to him, one whom he found very likeable. “He came to say Hello! to me and to thank me. What else? I met him several times at the Monte Libano… Alone? No, he always had with him that beautiful Sarah. I felt that they were very close to one another and that this was not just a passing friendliness. All the big Lebanese colony knew Sarah as a donor of money to charities and of grants to students, and so on, a very generous woman and easy to get on with. Yes, I met him alone once at the hospital where I was having my wife treated for arthritis.”

There is no more to say. I suppose that Yaacoub had met Sarah, that their former love had found its old place in their souls, and that he was very happy in his new life. They had been separated for twenty years by force of circumstance but that old flame which burned in them had never been quite put out. I received no more news of Yaacoub, whom I had loved as one of my own sons. Perhaps he wanted to forget that old healing nostalgia that had once haunted him. There is still one more little detail. One Palm Sunday I met an old man who recognized me. He said that as a grandfather he now had two little girls more, born in Brazil, Sarita and Pierrette.

His consultancy has long been shut up “for absence abroad” and the brilliant young doctor called Doctor Yaacoub has long been forgotten. I did chance to meet one of his sisters, who told me that she had been on a trip to Sao Paulo and seen her brother, from whose eyes tears had flowed when she told him about the passing of Butros. He did not ask her any questions about his friends or even his brothers and sisters as though that difficult past and its nostalgia had been rubbed out by time once and for all.

Joseph Matar
All rights reserved © LebanonArt
Translated from French: K.J.Mortimer