This was the view from Beit Yahoun, two weeks before the war. A tiny little town, on the outskirts of Bint Jbeil. A town where family history runs deep. My parents and uncles were born here. My grandparents (whom I never got to meet because of the war during the 80's) were also born here. This was the view from my parent's newly built home. All of their retirement money. All of my father's sweat for over 50 years was put into their dream home. The place where they wanted to spend the rest of their lives. Now, it is bombed.
In the afternoons, a shepherd would come by the house with his seventy some-odd goats, sheep and a dog. I looked forward to that time of day, just to play with the goats. I marveled at the dog's ability to keep the sheep and goats together. At one point, they all drifted onto the road, blocking it completely. Two UNIFIL tankers, with mostly Sikh UN peacekeepers in them, were coming down from the hilltop side of the road, and quickly the dog, at the shepherd's whistling command, started barking at sheep. One by one, they sprinted onto our side of the hill, as if they knew the drill. I enjoyed that so much. Such simplicity and yet, such an art, really.
One day, the shepherd told me one of the goats was about to give birth. I spotted her, lying down, looking tired and exhausted from the sweltering summer heat. He said she would be giving birth on the way back. He pointed to the northward hilltop. "Over there, in that mountain, is my brother." There were sheep and goats scattered about, like little white pecks, moving in a consistent pattern. "I wish she could wait a little longer," said the shepherd. I asked him what he would do if she gave birth before they reached home. I'll never forget what he said. "She's a mother, and we need to care for all mothers. I help her, and then leave her to clean the baby. Then I carry the baby with me until we reach home."
But then, one day, the shepherd stopped coming. Hell came knocking on my parent's door. And the neighbor's door. And the neighbor's neighbor's door.
I still have a hard time swallowing. I keep thinking that I was just there. Everything seemed to be moving along. The economy was picking up after the fatal assassination of PM Hariri, investor confidence was building up after the Syrian 'retreat', the real estate market was booming. The summer concert events promised to be a spectacle. Even 50 Cent performed in Beirut! I'm glad he got to experience it before the bombs rained on the pearl of the Mediterranean. How about it, 50 Cent? A rap for Beirut?
It is difficult for anyone to comprehend the Middle East. You either have to be from there, know someone who's from there or be baffled by it. Regardless of which, I love the land. I love it's people and it's paradoxes. It's magical. There is no simple way of explaining it. It is written all throughout the land. No surprise why so much blood has been shed.
Each day that passes, I wonder about the shepherd. I wonder if he and his brother survived the Israeli ruthless bombings? I wonder about his sheep and worry for their safety. I wonder about the little baby sheep. Did he or she make it? A little piece of me wants to believe it escaped miraculously. But another piece of me is torn. I know that if not a missile, an Israeli land mine would probably take care of its limbs. Death is imminent in our land.
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