LiBeirut
Usually I grab two bottles of Coke from the ice box and request “A
pack of Reds, for my Dad,” and he’ll hand me the Marlboros silently.
Last time, however, he snapped, “Your dad? He already bought two
today. I know you smoke them, you soosa, don’t make me tell him
next time,” he said that while pushing the pack to my palm, counting the money, and sliding it in his breast-pocket. This time I played
it safe. I inched towards the cigars, picked one up—wrapped in thin
paper, its aroma assailing my nostrils—I gestured to Aamer, tilting my
head, “One for the Sandinistas . . . ?” He erupted in fit of coughing
and laughter while murmuring “Good girl, good girl,” as he bagged my
pile of sweets, water-cooled Coke, and the Nicaraguan cigar I’ll share
with Rania.
He paused with the cigar between his fingers and I worried he’ll
press me over who will be smoking it. Instead, he ruminated, “You
know, this batch was rolled by the hands of a martyr. You can’t put a
price on the blessed work of a fighter. He died fighting in Costa Rica,
I believe.”
“I thought those were Nicaraguan . . . ?”
“The struggle is the struggle. You never know where it’ll take you . . .
That’ll be five thousand liras.”
I paid and quickly dashed off, sensing that he might go into a spontaneous epic poem of the FSLN’s exploits against the Contras.
T
o reach the vineyard, you’d have to walk up the hills to the east.
After climbing them, past a Maronite cemetery and a stretched citrus grove, you’ll find the creek running northward. And although you’d
only be a few paces away from the hole in Abu Mazen’s wire fence, you
wouldn’t crawl into it before pausing, turning west, and taking in the
view. Before you, the entire town, the Mediterranean in all its sagacity,
beyond it—behind you, in the distance, ancient mountains covered in
proud cedars that seem just as ancient. The spirit of the earth touches
you, and you are left with an inexpressible understanding of why people
die for this land . . .
Of late, I drift into it more often. Walking back home from school,
stopping the moment I hear it. Missiles whining above, increasing
streaks of grey quickly turning the pale blue dome into ash. Buildings
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