Youssef the chosen, sympathy and friendship, summer in Lebanon, learning business

Lebanon Art, virtual art gallery

Youssef, the Chosen

Under every form and at every level, from primary school to university, instruction may be summed up as follows: a teacher with the required knowledge, a source both of wisdom and of love, and with him a great number of school children or students. There is an exchange of knowledge and of ignorance, ending up with research and individual effort.

There are some students who are really gifted and absorb and understand straight away, while others are less brilliant, just as in cycle racing you have the mass formation and the individuals who lag behind. Some pupils are never forgotten by their teachers, while others soon fade from his memory.

As for myself, during all my teaching career, I have never paid any attention to the religious obedience of my pupils, to their nationality, to their social class or to their political leanings. This was my practice throughout my whole career. I was like the celebrating priest who turns his back towards the faithful; all were anonymous. Learning must be for all, human and above all free.

After forty or fifty years of teaching, it is difficult for me to remember many of my students. But for just a few, hearing their voice or seeing their profile brings their presence before me as if it were only yesterday.

I used to busy myself with those activities called “awakening” in the field of art; artistic activities, drawing, coloring, and visits to studios and exhibitions outside where I was working. The students then became comrades and the master a father or elder brother. Communication was faster, comprehension easy, and the whole group as one, without any intruder.

There was a certain Youssef, whom I had completely forgotten, of average height, rather wiry, protruding bones, eyes deep under prominent eyebrows, pointed chin, shoulder blades covered with a brown skin, fingers the joints of which could be counted, the bones of his wrists and ankles sticking out. He had a distant look in his eyes, thin lips and a mouth that left some folds in his cheeks, hair cut short, a long neck and a prominent Adam’s apple. In other words a body well put together and full of life and rapid reflexes. All told, he was a very ordinary pupil, who came to see me particularly at the beginning of the troubles of 1975 together with some other companions of his.

The schools and universities were shutting their doors almost daily, there was a lack of security and reliable communication, there were bombardments and acts of terrorism. But in fact most people seemingly did not realize the gravity of the situation. Some thought that the skirmishes would last only a few days while many never imagined that aggressions between Lebanese could reach such a scale. One common opinion was that the violence was simply staged so that each party could show its muscle or its importance and that soon there would be national parliamentary and presidential elections; and calm would then return, especially as after a first round the three months of summer remained relatively quiet. But in the autumn the violence heated up again to become infernal. My presentiment and my convictions, inspired by friendship with Raymond Eddeh, foresaw a steady slide of quicksand toward a mortal crisis that might last a hundred years. This war in Lebanon, which lasted fifteen years between 1975 and 1990, was one of the most murderous.

To provide information there was at that time only the local and international press, the official TV, various agencies and some radio stations. One could see transistor radios carried in the hands of people who hoped to hear at last some encouraging news.

Every individual commented in his own manner and there were endless discussions, some favoring a restructuring of the State, others a federal Lebanon, others religious cantons, others a union with other states, and yet others a mini-state. From right wing to left, with extremists and fundamentalists, there was an incredible mosaic.

But the facts were quite different. The hands that wove the plot needed no advice from anyone; the plot would continue and nothing was yet finished. Despite agreements reached here or there, despite talk of a new constitution, people’s troubles were not over.

As for Youssef, he liked to come up to me and listen to me, to profit from my sympathy and friendship. He was really very friendly, devoted, helpful, honest, frank and human. People were at a loss how to spend their time and had to adapt themselves to a new kind of existence which every day went from bad to worse.

Some fixed their basements up as shelters to be used during the bombardments while others sought safety in the villages in the mountains or simply went abroad. The Lebanese pound maintained its value as currency and the economy was surprisingly stable. I said to myself that it was necessary to keep the youngsters occupied and not wasting precious time. A start must be made; it was still early May in 1975 with another six months before the university year opened.

I was living in Jounieh, then a small coastal town where there were a number of scholastic and university institutions, seminaries for the clergy, monasteries, and a cultural center, not to mention religious communities both male and female and educated lay folk.

The bay of Jounieh is one of the most beautiful that Nature has bestowed on Lebanon, dominated by towering hills of 800 meters, over 2,500 feet, with valleys, springs of water and a pleasant beach. Between mountain and sea there is a narrow plain, then full of vegetable gardens and little orchards mostly of citrus fruits and banana trees. A walk around Jounieh in March or April was to be overwhelmed by unrivalled scents as of Paradise itself.

During the summer in Lebanon, many students work and gain experience, learning their business and putting some money in their pockets. I had an extensive stretch of land in the region around Byblos (Jbeil) that had fallen into neglect, so I proposed a wage of ten or twelve Lebanese pounds a day, the equivalent then of four to five US dollars, to anyone who would care to take part in putting it back to use. This proposal excited Youssef as it meant that he would always be close to me.

“For you I am ready to work for nothing,” he had said to me, but this I would not agree to. The work was not easy and the scores of students who had turned up were under building foremen, craftsmen knowing their job. Youssef was neither hardened nor strong, in fact rather delicate. So I said to him, “You look after the meals and supplies, don’t work in the fields.” He was happy at this, for he knew something about such matters. In point of fact, his mother, an honest woman from the mountains, ran a small snack bar in which she fried fallafel and potatoes and made up sandwiches Youssef gave his mother a helping hand whenever he could although she had never asked it of him.

Fallafel are a food widespread in the Middle East and particularly in Egypt. Despite their being an Egyptian invention they are really good when they are the work of a Lebanese cook. In Lebanon, this popular dish made of beans, chick peas and spices fermented together is served together with chopped onions, radishes, parsley, mint and tomato. It is put on the table with cream of sesame and lemon, garlic and salt, and can be rolled up in Arab bread as a sandwich. It is much liked, vegetarian and cheap. Every day countless thousands of falaffel snacks are sold.

Youssef came from a village called Hrajel lying over 1,500 meters (nearly 5,000 feet) above sea level. A little higher, between 2,000 and 2,500 meters up, there are ski slopes overshadowed by Sannine, the most beautiful mountain of all the lands of the Mediterranean. It sums up in itself the glory, pride and power of the nation of Lebanon. I have passed whole days contemplating this living summit, and have made it the subject of dozens of paintings. Every minute of the day its colors change, shifting from shade to shade. It is in dialogue with both human beings and the forces of Nature. Not long ago, it was capped by snow all the year round.

On its eastern flank, Sannine slopes down to the Beqaa and the Anti-Lebanon range. These semi-deserts high in the mountains are called the Jurd, where from spring till autumn the people of Hrajel bring their flocks of sheep and goats by scores to find rich pastures. Goatherds, shepherds and livestock raisers spend the summer in temporary tents. Water is plentiful in this region, coming mainly from two abundant springs, known as the Milk and the Honey, ones which haunted the dreams of the Hebrews in the Bible! Here is a marvelous return to Nature. The families do not waste any time; some members plant a few rows of vegetables while others ferment milk to make yoghurt, labneh or a highly esteemed cheese. Some however sell the milk to cooperatives which specialize in dairy products.

Nobody is lazy when up in the Jurd. The folk there get up with the sun and go to sleep late at night. Youssef’s brothers led their flocks to be away from home for several months. Youssef did not like this job of herdsman, nor in fact any other. He enjoyed an easy life without labor or fatigue. The income flowing into the house was for all the family and in any case he spent almost nothing. However he did want to do some studies, which was why he came to me.

Youssef was only a short time my student. He grew attached to me; we were on the same “wavelength”. He was enthusiastic about my ideas, my dynamism and my principles. I was still living in Jounieh in a typical ancient and old-fashioned house with ample space. It served as a meeting-place for my friends and pupils and for party members, whose leader was always at the door. Food was always served hot on the kitchen table. I welcomed and helped all and sundry. I brought up my children in a friendly spirit with activity and dialogue, a sharing and an exchange.

It was Youssef’s job to come every day and to go with me for us to work out our plans. He would go to the bakeries to get a supply of some dozens of French loaves and several kilos of fresh bread. The evening before he would have bought chicken, meat, sausages, vegetables, cheese, eggs, fruit, soft drinks and water, thus providing a daily menu. He spent the evening cooking, to return early next morning to make up the food into packets or bags, which he loaded into one of the cars going toward the site where we worked. In high summer the heat made the work exhausting. Youssef had fixed up a refrigerator from which he went round the volunteers bringing them water, aspirin and bandages for anyone who had got hurt. At midday all gathered under a pear tree for their lunch. Youssef made sure that everybody got his share. It was a sight to see. The inhabitants of the little village nearby came to watch these pupils, saying that never in their lives had they seen such a workplace, like a hive of bees.

Sometimes Youssef brought coffee, either prepared on the spot or brought in a thermos. He did his job with love and passion. What concerned him most was to be close to me. I had given him the duty of writing down the days worked by the team and each week gave him the money needed to settle the wage bill. This was quite a complicated business, for some were paid by the day while tractors and bulldozers were paid by the hour, the builders by the square meter and others piecework.

I placed great reliance on Youssef, for he was a chivalrous soul with high ideal. He was the guardian of my house in Jounieh and was always present there. His mother gave me to understand that he loved me more than his father and other relatives and that I was his ideal. He would say to her, “If I am married and have children, I want to bring them up like the children of my master.”

Youssef’s real moments of happiness were when he could listen to discussions among my friends and hear their opinions about the course of events. He was totally attached to Lebanon, his fatherland and nation. When the visitors had gone, he would come to me with his own opinions. He was well able to analyze the situation and was totally sincere. Our ancestors who fought for centuries against invaders and against the Mamelukes and then against Ottoman and other tyrants were not intellectuals. They were not totally illiterate, most of them having spent some part of their childhood in the church school, learning to read about the Good News in the epistles and gospels. Their culture was not an intellectual one of abstraction, judgment and theory. They had good common sense, a pure and transparent soul, faith in God and love for others and for the land which gave them their livelihood. They had above all a feeling for the true values, for freedom and for justice and were a handful of people daring to defy for centuries the great Ottoman Empire.

Youssef had inherited from his ancestors an instinctive sense for heroism in life. Without knowing it, he was a pupil of Plato lost in the present-day jungle, a true Greek with a Christian heart and a pagan imagination. Youssef would not allow any injustice, any infringement of personal right or of self-respect. My children were fond of him and found him kind and sympathetic, very original with amusing little stories to tell them. They came to help him prepare the daily meals and provisions, often accompanying him to the work site. They were spoilt by all the students at lunchtime and during rest. Some would be discussing the program of the next university year while others would be casting doubt about it ever starting, but all thought that the sunlight would bring understanding.

The flour, sugar and certain foodstuffs were largely covered by the Ministry of the Economy, so a kilo of cheese in Lebanon cost only half what it did in Syria or Cyprus.
The mafia and the monopolists got into the game, so that the flour, bread, sugar and various necessities were smuggled out to Syria and Cyprus. Influential people would buy up several tons at subsidized prices to sell on the black market at standard prices. The consequences were disastrous for local daily life. In front of the bakeries there were long queues and distribution was requisitioned, so Youssef could no longer provide the bread needed every day for the workforce. The village mayors had right to a certain amount of flour to be distributed to the village people who baked their bread at home. Thanks to his connections Youssef was able to get hold of coupons for some sacks of flour. He prepared the dough overnight and asked a woman to come and make bread daily for the student workers and in this way the work went on without interruption. Formerly, every house had an oven or a round metal dome for preparing the bread. This was the work of the women. The men harvested the wheat, cleaned it, washed it, and took it to the mill. The flour was handled by the women. French bread was not known locally, but there were the different kinds of bread usually consumed in the country:

- Bread very thin, about a millimeter thick, cooked on a saj or dome-shaped metal plate heated by a small fire underneath. Such bread was crisp, light and digestible.

- Bread called tannour, cooked inside a small oven heated beforehand and filled with embers. This also was only about a millimeter thick and could be separated into two layers.

- Bread called tabouneh of hard dough rolled round a stick and then unrolled inside a small wood-heated oven to be taken out crisp, warm and browned.

- The ordinary bread baked in the large ovens of the bakeries. The dough is stretched into a circle two or three millimeters thick and twenty to twenty-five centimeters across. Dozens of these circles are pushed into the oven. The dough rises and balloons up before being pulled out after a few seconds. Two distinct layers are formed, upper and lower, easily separated.

The women sometimes improve the quality of the bread by grinding seeds of nettle-tree mixed with the flour, so allowing it to be kept for ten or fifteen days and the bread then eaten fresh. Some housewives add a little aniseed or caraway seed so as to leave a pleasant taste in the mouth. By way of contrast, Indians working for me have told me that in their country the women bake bread three times a day, early morning for breakfast, midday and evening, as their sort of bread has to be eaten fresh and warm.

At the present time there are no end of kinds of bread being sold, long French loaves, the Biblical bread, bread with different kinds of seeds, Greek oatmeal bread, Italian bread, diet bread and so on, it is up to you to choose.

Following the Our Father, the Lebanese truly lived “Our Father who art in heaven, give us this day our daily bread.” Bread is a gift of heaven and wheat, the blessing of the sunlight, is the symbol of the body of Christ. The Lebanese expected their bread to come from the hand of God and not from the Ottoman authorities; they planted the wheat and labored thereon by the sweat of their brow. The very first thing that the peasant in the mountains made sure of to keep alive was the sacks of wheat that that he harvested. Next to that came the oil that he pressed out of his olives, and then the other stores, livestock, milk and eggs, and the fruit of his fig trees, carob trees and vines. That was about all. Four centuries of struggle were needed to find freedom at last, centuries of injustice and terror. One could do no better.

I mentioned that Youssef, this fierce patriot, was always beside me. I had great admiration for him, and when he was away for two or three days he would tell me that he had been to his village Hrajel to see to some work on his family land, to do some repairs in the home, or to buy a cow with her calf for his father to take care of. I trusted him entirely, for he was no slave as in the days of the Pharaohs.

Youssef was not the sort of handsome, athletic Don Juan round whom the girls cluster; in fact he often passed unobserved. He was vigilant, conscientious, modest and correct. I never learnt anything about his sentimental or love life, his relations with women; my impression is that he remained virgin at least up to his mid-twenties, with little place in his heart for the other sex. He was above all concerned with questions of nationhood, patriotism and also confession, even though he accepted others whatever their religion.

He was interested in politics and in the strategic maneuvers at election time. He wished for a strong army capable of imposing the law and defending the frontiers. He was keen on history and stories of heroism. He respected the moral values such as friendship and honor and was incapable of wrongdoing. I used to say to him, “You are helping me now and looking after the work site, but that is not going to last for ever. You have no career in mind, you are not fitted for higher university studies. You ought to learn some craft. Well, I have a friend who is a sculptor and worker in cast metal. You can learn from him casting, molding and all the associated techniques. I have another friend who is a leading importer and exporter of gold and jewels and can teach you jewelry. I know wood carvers, having a clean occupation demanding no physical effort, and master mechanics, electricians and central heating and air conditioning experts. Tell me, Youssef, which of these trades is of interest for you and I am ready to help you.” His answer was always the same: “I don’t need to work in order to earn money; I have my mother’s little restaurant and our property in Hrajel, and all I want is to be next to you and to help you in your plans.”

In Keserwan all the land once belonged to a family of sheikhs, and the peasants were their workers on a daily basis or were sharecroppers. This state of affairs lasted until the peasants revolted against their masters and seized possession of their lands. Certain families were the property of their masters, just like the Russian serfs once were. Many stories are told about them.

One such story concerns a sheikh having relations with a very beautiful wandering gypsy whom he used to meet secretly in one of the houses on his land. On getting to know about this game of his, his wife wanted to put a stop to it. She secretly contacted the gypsy and offered her a sum of money in return for her clothes and a promise not to return any more. The gypsy agreed and two or three days later the sheikh’s wife dressed up in the gypsy’s clothes, including the veil to cover the face. Then she beckoned to the sheikh from afar to join her in the nearby house. She arrived before him and darkened the house by closing all the curtains, shutters and doors, not forgetting to cover her face well.

His wife then walked always ahead of the sheikh and led him to the nearest bed, where she cuddled him closely without saying a word. At the height of their love-making the famous sheikh realized that he was having an affair with his own wife. He then said, “How is it you are so lively in sin and so cold and indifferent in wedlock?” In this way the woman saved the marriage and led her husband home.

Many stories went the rounds of the homes of the peasants to make fun of their masters, such as the one about the sheikh who liked to make his men work overtime without paying them anything extra. The proper working hours were from sunrise to sunset. At sundown the sheikh turned up and gave his workmen the order to plant a field of onions, which they dare not refuse. They took the little bulbs and planted them in the furrows with the shoot downwards and the roots in the air. It was already dark and the sheikh went home reassured and happy to have had his field planted. But with the first shower of winter the onions failed to grow and the sheikh realized that he had been tricked. He flew into a rage and when he was on his deathbed, so it was said, and the priest said to him, “Repeat after me, Jesus, Holy Mary...” all the sheikh did was to continue insulting his workers – “May the devil take them!” This only goes to show the gradual change in relations between masters and workmen and the gradually awakening awareness of the ordinary people and their reactions.

To come back to Youssef. He wanted neither to work nor to learn a useful trade. He had a vocation, but not a religious one, a vocation like a storm that carried him away in his whole soul and being, a vocation mentioned forty times in the Bible, a vocation, a passion, a whole life that was simply love for Lebanon.

From 1975 on, and even before, the State had lost all authority. On the ground there were only the communities, the clans, the parties, the militias, the mafia, the fanatics, the religious groups, the agents of foreign countries and what have you! There were some eighteen or twenty communities but no nation, something that Youssef refused to accept. He wanted by himself to restore law and order and respect for legality.

During the six months between spring and autumn, the work pressed on furiously. I got little sleep for I had also to make trips to Europe, especially to France. However, Youssef was always there to ensure that everything ran smoothly. Autumn came and in November several students had to leave either for school or for university, but they were soon replaced. Youssef brought in a dozen Indian laborers, so the work was continued, but in a different way. Now it became necessary to plant either in the open or under plastic roofing. Agricultural engineers from the big societies selling agricultural material offered their advice for free about sowing, planting out, caring, manuring, irrigating, spraying, harvesting and packing.

One of the Indian workers erected a vertical stone in front of his lodging and told me that it was an altar dedicated to Hanuman, one of his gods, whom he said was very strong and with one arm could lift a weight of half a ton or so, and was all-powerful. The first tomato gathered was placed on this altar, and so was the first bunch of grapes and the first bunch of flowers, so Hanuman was well served. This amused Youssef, who thought it a good idea and said to me, “I admire these Hindus for their vision and philosophy; they are aware that there is a superior force in charge of the world.”

From now on there was production and income, and it was possible to make plans and ensure slow but steady progress. Youssef did not sleep at the field, not did I. Each went to his respective home save that sometimes Youssef accompanied me, both of us on foot as we did not have far to go and could enjoy the pleasant walk.

Youssef told me that there were skirmishes in the Jurd between the local goatherds and militiamen from Baalbek or from the Palestinian camps, but each time an arrangement calmed everyone down and coexistence carried on as before. Youssef asked, “Who is quarreling with whom? And what for? The Palestinians were warmly welcomed in Lebanon after they had been ill-treated. Do they wish to lay hold of Lebanon and take it as a homeland in exchange for the Palestine they lost?”

In fact the Jurd was a natural frontier between the Maronites of Kesrewan and the hordes gathering in the Beqaa, extremists from all sides, from the Palestinian camps, from Afghanistan, from Pakistan, from Saudi Arabia, from Libya, from Syria, from Sudan and from Somalia, all the terrorist political left. The young people of Hrajel thought it their duty to defend all their region from any invasion.

But on our plot of farmland there were now tons of produce every day. For myself I drew practically no profit but there was benefit for those working. It was an ideal: to be of use to others and help them live. Nor did I lose anything, for soon there would be olive trees, avocado trees, and almond trees bearing fruit.

Youssef needed some more workmen and it became harder to bring Indians because of the formalities at the General Security. Youssef decided to engage some Lebanese from the North, who took turns every two weeks for one group to go home for the weekend and then return on Monday. Indians and Lebanese were kept separate, sleeping in dormitories apart.
One day, Youssef called me to come at top speed. One of the Indians had drunk a gallon of arak, a strongly alcoholic aniseed drink, and all the workmen had quarreled violently. I rushed two of them to the emergency ward of the hospital, both bleeding abundantly.

Another time I arrived to hear a great deal of noise with shouts and insults. What had happened? Ahmad, one of the Lebanese workers, had taken a heavy hammer and smashed the altar the Hindu Indians had raised to their god Hanuman. When I asked Ahmad, “What right have you to do such a thing?” he answered, “These people adore a stone,” further, “If I had a cannon in my possession I would have bombarded your church!” I calmed Ahmad and the Indians down, and gave Ahmad to understand that I would never have bombarded his mosque, a place of prayer, and that everyone was free to believe and to pray as he thought right. I further told Ahmad that it was not his fault but the fault of the bad formation and education that he had received; “You should know that I love you despite your aggressive ways and one day soon I will go and visit you in your village together with Youssef, for it is better to love than to hate!”

One weekend Ahmad did invite me to a wedding in his Sunnite village up in the North. I promised to go but the death of a relative obliged me to cancel the arrangement. During the wedding a vendetta erupted and bursts of gunfire swept through the crowd, killing four individuals including the bridegroom and wounding dozens more – all that between people related to one another!

The following Monday Ahmad arrived and told me about the savagery between relatives, between cousins and brothers, admitting that love and pardon were far superior to hate and fanaticism. A friendship was formed between Ahmad and myself but later he left me to join the Army as a soldier. Ten years after making my promise I went on a visit to Ahmad in his home village, though without Youssef, and was received affectionately with open arms.

Youssef for his part gained more and more experience and his vocation became more and more mystical and enflamed. In his village, groups of volunteers had formed to defend their homes, their property and their inheritance and to protect their people when they were in the Jurd.

In Lebanon one finds twin villages, for example Ehden and Zgharta, which are occupied by the same inhabitants, Zgharta in winter and Ehden in summer. They have the same town council, the same mayor and the same administration. There are also Amshit and Byblos, which do not have the same inhabitants but people on one side hold all the land of those on the other, Byblos being the property of Amshit. The Jurd was the property or pastureland of the people of Hrajel, while monasteries possessed entire villages, though since various councils and agreement the monks have given the peasants private property.

Youssef used to inform me about everything that took place and about the coalitions that were formed, summing everything up. He was at my side despite his absences which became more frequent.

The female cousin of a former prime minister whose house was in West Beirut, a very open-minded Sunni Muslim whose sons were married one to a French lady and the other to an American, all great friends of mine, confided to me that she wished to keep her jewels worth several score thousand dollars in the Christian village of Mayrouba near Hrajel, as there was more security in Keserwan than in Beirut. She dumped together all her most valuable possessions, paintings, carpets and so on, and gave me the keys, asking me to take care of the house and the garden while she went off to America.

On her return, the situation had become worse; she was worried and wanted to go her daughter’s in the Gulf Emirates. She called on me and asked me to accompany her to the house. I had never opened it, only going around the garden from time to time. On opening the door, Boshra found everything as she had left it, with her box of jewelry still on the sitting room table. She gathered up the paintings and carpets and everything of value and we loaded them into my car. It so happened that on that particular day a customs official from Mayrouba had had his throat cut and there were checkpoints along all the roads. A girl armed with a K47 “Klashinkov” stopped me and asked for my identity card.

“Aren’t you Thérèse, one of my students at the Jesuits?”

“But this lady?”

“She’s my sister.”

Boshra trembled with fear but the matter was settled. However, getting back to Beirut was quite another question.

I told Youssef all about the affair and he was full of blame for me. “What! You went off like that without telling me! I would have gone with you, I know all these militia people.” Then an idea came to my mind. Every day there were kidnappings and murders and movement in certain areas became dangerous and snipers, with active along many main roads.

So one rainy day in winter, when a Christian villager had been kidnapped, his parents begged us to go to the leader of the National Bloc party, Raymond Eddeh, who was respected on all sides. He was staying at his residence in Sofar near the mountain pass of Dahr al-Baidar, on the way to Damascus. What a lot of round-about ways and short cuts we needed to get to Sofar. Youssef was with me and absolutely rained questions on the Bloc leader, his brother and all present!

One day he told me of his wish to go to France with me, saying that he would love to visit Europe, “the Daughter of Tyre”. He wanted to see this great civilization with its airports, trains and infrastructure.

The day came when Youssef was away for a very long time, ten or fifteen days or more. I telephoned to Hrajel to have news of him, not wanting to present myself at the little restaurant of his poor mother. Youssef was no longer with us; he had gone to Paradise, a martyr for this Lebanon he loved in his own special way. I contacted his brothers-in-arms, for I had had a premonition; indeed, Youssef had gone for arms training with some youngsters and the lads of Hrajel had to take turns at protecting a fortification set up in the Jurd in order to guard against any attack by the Palestinians or extremists against their village. I was told that he had received a bullet full in the chest when he was wanting to change position and that he died immediately. His body had been taken back to his home village, where prayers had been said and he had been buried. One of his companions told me that Youssef was very brave; missiles were raining down and, wanting to protect his friends’ positions, while bullets were cracking all around he had intended to take up a new firing point. He should of course have lain down and waited. Whether he was deliberately aimed at or hit by a stray bullet, it was the end. But it was not the end of his dream, for a short story summarizes a great friendship.

The little snack-bar was closed for two or three weeks. His poor mother went back to work without any enthusiasm, but telling me that for Youssef I had been his father and his ideal. When he was with her he spoke only of me, of my children and of all that I did. She also said that she had expected what had happened; she knew that Youssef had offered his life and existence for Lebanon and was one of the several young men of Hrajel who had perished as martyrs, heroic and courageous, writing indelible pages of the history of a great nation and heroic people.