Beirut the City That Moves Me

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Board of Regents of the University of Oklahoma

University of Oklahoma

Beirut, the City That Moves MeAuthor(s): Evelyne AccadSource: World Literature Today, Vol. 76, No. 1 (Winter, 2002), pp. 85-89Published by: Board of Regents of the University of OklahomaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40157011.

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2/6

t h e

i t y

T h a t

o v e s e

EVELYNE

ACC

AD

Whenever

I

hear

the

destination

"Beirut" nnounced

by

the

stewardess

as

we are

about

to

land,

my

heart

leaps

with

joy

and

excitement,

and

I

am

overwhelmed

with a

sensation of

identity

and

belonging.

I

look

out

the window

at

the

city

below,

which has

changed

so

much

and

yet

so little over the

years,

and I

see

the same

flat

roofs,

the same mountains

rising

from the

sea,

the

many

sites of demolitionand reconstruction rom the

seventeen

years

of

nightmarish

war

(1975-92),

ll

of

which makes me love Beiruteven more

in

its

despair,

like

a

mother

tending

her sick child.

My

heart

palpitates

with

emotion for this

country,

which has never ceased

to

amaze me

with

its

capacity

to

overcome

war and

de-

struction

and

its resilience

n

continually

starting

all

over

again.

1

love

many

other cities:

Paris,

Chicago,

Tunis,

Cairo,

Singapore outstanding

and beautiful

all. It

is

in

Paris

that I

write

best,

in

my

little

apartment

n

the

18th

arrondisseinent,

verlooking

the

Montmartre eme-

tery

and

its white

gravestones

dotted

with

splashes

of

color,

flowers

and

yellow

leaves,

like

paintings by

the

Impressionists

who once lived

and

worked

in

this

neighborhood.

The Paris

sky

has

extraordinary,

ver-

changing light,

clouds

that

break

apart

and

rearrange

themselves as

they alternately

hreaten

and

comfort,

reflecting

he hours

and

the

seasons,

a

metamorphosis

in

tune

with

the

rhythms

of

nature. Death here is

peace-

ful;

it

does

not

frighten

me,

or

rather,

no

longer

fear

t.

In

Beirut,

during

the

war,

I

was

afraid

of

death,

for

I

could

feel

it

so

close,

so

tangible.

WORLD LITI-RAILRH

'IOH AY

V\I ,1 Y.R 2002 85


3/6

It is

in

Chicago

thatI

come to terms

with

the

multi-

plicity

of

my identity.

1

discover the enormous

attrac-

tion of

skyscrapers

eaching

up

to the

clouds,

their

armsextendedto the

wind,

but also the slums

and

poverty

of its South

Side,

like the South

of

Lebanon

crouchingunder sun and snow. Violenceherefrightens

me more

than in

Beirut,

or

it

is often

gratuitous,

as

inexplicable

as

a

desert

wind. In

Chicago,

one is

told,

there are "littleBeirut"

districts,

o

be avoided like the

plague;

but

I

have never wanted to

avoid

Beirut,

ittle

or

big,

and I don't

understand he

logic.

Tunis

I

cherishas

a

harbor hatshelteredme

dur-

ing

some of the hardest

years

of the Beirut

war. It

is

all

curves

and

seas,

hills dotted

in

blues

and

whites.

It

re-

minds me of Beirutwith its

history

of

conquests

and

exchanges.

It

is also

a

crossroads

of

many

civilizations,

languages, religions.

Its sun

and

sea

are

soothing

to the

soul,

permeating

each

gesture,

each

thought.

It

is

here

that

Queen

Dido landed from

Phoenicia,

he Lebanonof

pre-biblical

days.

She founded

Carthage

and

erected

temples

to the

Phoenician

gods

and

goddesses

that

blessed its

shores.

Like

Beirut,

Carthage

was

conquered

by

the Romansand

disappeared,

o be

replacedby

Tunis. Tunis

and

Beirut,

wo cities risen from their own

ashes,

have

spread

themselves out

monstrously

n

re-

cent

years,overflowing

on

all

sides

with

ugly

concrete

buildings

devoid of esthetic

planning.

Cairo

I

have

visited

many

times on research

rips.

My

fatherwas born

in

Egypt,

and

relativeswhom we

like

to

visit

are

still

living

there.

I

have

always

been fas-

cinatedwith Cairo'sCityof the Dead,an entiredistrict

made

up

of

cemeteries

which used to surround

the

city

completely

but

has,

over

time,

been

transformed

nto a

free-housing

or

low-income belt

within the

sprawling

metropolis.

Thesuburbsof

Cairo,Beirut,

Chicago,

and

Tunis are similar

n

their disorder

and

poverty;

the

rapid

increase

of their

populations

makes

them burst

at

their

peripheral

eams

and

overflow

with life

in

splen-

did

misery.

Singapore

I

discovered

only

recently,

hanks to

a

brother

and

his

Chinese

wife.

It

is

a

city

of

contrasts,

like

Chicago,

with

skyscrapers

and

order

at its center

and a

discipline

more

akin

to

the

Swiss

mentality

than

to

anything

American,

yet

with

an

appealing

disorder

in

its Chinese

and

Indian

quarters,

with colorful

and

sensual Buddhist

emples

in

the middle of souks dis-

playing

the most exoticfruits

and

vegetables

I

have

ever

seen,

all

of

it

exercising

a

harmonious

calming

effect

in

its

reserved

Eastern

warmth and

hospitality.

Singapore,

ike

Beirut,

opens

onto the

sea,

but here

the

sea is

an

ocean,

majestic

and vast. The

humidity

of

its

wind sticksto the skin as

in

Beirut,

calling

one to

the

horizon

and

to

farawayplaces.

Still,

no

city

is as effective

as

Beirut

n

turning

my

emotions

upside

down,

in

confronting

me

with

my

identityin all of its complexity, n makingme realize

what

lies

at the core of some

of the world's

most crucial

issues.

It is

in

Beirut

hat I

seek

answersto

my ques-

tions,

because here

I

have

experienced

hem

directly.

Each time

I land in Beirut

now,

I am

reminded

of how

I

felt

right

after

my

father'sdeath

and

during my

conva-

lescence

from breast

cancer.

1995.We are

approaching

Beirut.Soon

we

will

land.

Night

is

falling.

Beirut,

he

magical city.

Beirut,

the

sensitive

city,

so often close

to

folly

and

death.

Beirut,

eaten

up

by

a

cancer,

a

devouring

war over

which

it

triumphed.

Beirut,

city

of

my

childhood

and

adolescence.I miss Father,who will not be thereto

greet

me

with

his broad

smile,

who

tormented

me

dur-

ing my

adolescence,

only

to

apologize

later

and

tell

me

that I was an oversensitive

child,

that

he should

not

have been so

strict

with me.

I

cry

over

the loss

of Father

and

the loss of

my youth.

Beirut,

o

me,

means

family,

adolescence,

youth,

craziness,

ife

and

death,

mixedwith the

tragicdestiny

of

a land

to

which

I

feel

attracted

as to a

magnet.

So

much is

happening

all the time

in

Lebanon.

My

heart

s

both

heavy

and

light

fromall its

wounds,

slowly

heal-

ing yet reopening

with

the

slightest

movement

of

wings, with any aggressiveness,with every harshword,

with each

painful

image,

with

each

utteranceof

unas-

sailable

dogma,

with

all

the

memories

this

country

holds forme.

Why

have

I

always

been

driven to return

to this tormented

and?

I

plunge

into

my

past

and inter-

rogate

it.

1973.Winter

had taken

Beirut,

raw

and

biting.

The

sea

winds

gusted.

The shutters

rattled,

and

from

time

to

time

a

window

would shatter

n a

sudden

shower

of

glass.

Sitting

near

a

fogged-over

window,

I

watched

the

street flooded

by

torrential

ains,

the

rare

passer-by

who

leaped

over

the

muddy pools,

a

hurried

merchant

straining

every

muscle to

push

along

his

wobbly

cart,

laden

with

luminously

purple

eggplants

and

scarlet

tomatoes,

globules

of color

glistening

with rivulets

of

rainwater.

Far

away,

on the

horizon,

the

sky

was

black,

the

sea

a

menacing

white.

I

was transfixed

by

the elec-

tricity,by

the

beauty

and

fragility

of the

moment,

by

the

sequences

of

my

life when

I had

sat

looking

out

86

WORLDLITERATUREODAY

WINTER

002


4/6

upon

this same

thoroughfare,my gaze

drawn

to

that

same

horizon,

dreaming

of the

future,

expectant

of

what

I

hoped

life would

bring.

It

was the same sea

I had

often

crossed,

ts tone

having

altered

n

tempo

with the sea-

sons,

in

rhythm

with

my

life,

yet always

the same

sea of

hidden and immutabledepths.

I had

sailed

that

sea,

speculatingupon

unknown

coastlines,

new

faces,

unpublished

novels,

and

always

I

had

returned o this small cornerof the earth called

Lebanon.

Why

had I

always

come back

to this turbulent

country,

devastated

by

wars,

conquests,

colonization,

revolution,

and

religious

fanaticism?

Was

it

because of

nationalismor

patriotism?

Deep

within

me

I

really

did

not

know

if I

belonged

to this

country,

the

land

of

my

father,

or to the other

country,

that

of

my

mother.

I

felt

bound neither to the

one

nor to the other.

But

why

had

my

steps

led me here?

I

was

searching, rying

to

under-

stand,

while

meditating

and

reflecting

upon

that

land-

scape

torn

by

the violence of the

wind and

the

intensity

of the hour.

1980.The

Lebanese

civil war

shakes

me,

hurts

and

wounds me

deeply. My

world seems to crumble

and fall

apart

nto

fragments

of what

I

have held most

precious.

The

tragedy

makes me ask more

questions.

I

try

to ex-

plain

its

cruelty

both

scientifically

and

existentially,

hav-

ing

both

experienced

t

up

close

and

seen

it

from

afar.I

discover

that

practices

such as forced

marriage

and vir-

ginity,

claustration,

he

veil,

polygamy, repudiation,

beatings,

denial of freedomand of the

possibility

to

achieve one's aims and desiresin life - oppressions

which motivated me to

run

away

from Lebanon

at the

age

of

twenty-two

-

are

closely

connectedto the inter-

nal war in

Lebanon.

am

therefore

compelled

to make

connectionsbetween the role of

women,

the relation-

ships

between men and

women,

and the war.

They

become the central heme of

an

essay

I

laterwrite on the

subject.

I

analyze

the

meaning

of Beirut

and

the connection

between

sexuality

and war.

I

choose

a

few novels about

the war

in

Lebanon o illustrate he nexus of

sexuality,

war, nationalism, eminism, violence, love,

and

power

as

they

relate to the

body,

the

partner,

he

family,Marxism,

religion,

and

pacifism.

The works

studied,

originally

written

n

Arabicor

French,

are

by

Lebanesewomen

and

men,

authorswho have lived or are still

living

in

Lebanon.

All

the novels are set

in

Beirut,

n

the context

of

the

war,

and all

of them can be

analyzed

to show

how

war

and

violence are rooted

in

sexuality,

n

the treat-

ment of women

in

that

part

of the world. Most of the

charactersmeet with a tragicfate due to the war, the

women

being

the

ultimatevictims

of both

political

and

social violence.

In

the destructive

context

of

war,violence,

and

sex-

ual

oppression,

I

asked

questions

I

personally

elt were

most

pressing:

Were

there

positive

actions

and

resolu-

tions the male

and female characters

ould

take?

What

were the

differences

and

similarities

between

male

and

female

protagonists,

between

male

and

female

authors,

between those

writing

in Arabicand those

writing

in

French?

What

were some

of the

necessary

changes

Lebanon

had

to

undergo

to solve

its

tragedy

and once

againplay

its old

democratic

role as

a

melting pot

of tol-

erance

and freedom

in that

part

of

the world?

Therewere

indeed differences

between

the

ways

men

and

women

wrote about

war.

Women

authorsun-

masked

the

ugliness

of

war;

men exalted

it

and

even

found

pleasure

n

it. Women

soughtpeaceful

solutions

through

active,

nonviolent

means;

men asked

for more

violence

and

more

destruction.The

differencebetween

a

WORLD

LITERATURE ODAY

*

WINTER 002

87


5/6

man

and a

woman's

representation

f Beirut

appeared

to me even more

clearly

when

I

lived the

war in

Beirut

while there on sabbaticalor research eave.

I

watched

my

women friends

determinedly

raverse he

city

two or

three times

a

week,

repeatedlycrossing

the demarcation

line

-

the

most desolate,depressing,

and

(often)

dan-

gerous spot

in

Beirut

most of

the time on

foot,

as

only

a

few carswith

special permission

were allowed

through; hey

were convinced

that,

by

this

gesture,

real

as

well as

symbolic,

Lebanon'sreunification

would

ulti-

mately

take

place.

They

did

this

against

all

logic,

under the ironic

yet

sometimes

admiringgaze

of their male

companions.

They

defied the laws of

weapons,

militias,

political

games.

They

told me

how

the demarcation ine had

become

a

meeting place

where,

each

morning,they

looked forward

to

seeing

one

another,

walking

stead-

fastly

in

that

apocalypticspace

and

smiling

at

one

anotheras

they

passed,

consciousthattheirmarchwas

not

an

ordinary

one,

that

their

crossing

was

a

daring

act,

important

and

vital

to Lebanon's urvival.

1997. It

is

always

a

very moving

experience ust

to

be

in

Lebanon,

centerof

culture,

crossroads

of so

many

fascinatingexchanges,

a

country

that

has suffered

so

much,

to be

among

people

I

connect

with at

the

very

deepest

level.

Nasr Cafe of the

Pigeon

Rock

n

Ras-Beirut. took

a

long

walk,

and

now

I

am

having

a

cold beer while

writ-

ing.

The sea

in

front of me is

raging,

ike

this

country

with its unfathomableviolence.YesterdayEloiseand I

went to

pick up Theophile

at

the

airport.

A man in uni-

form

rear-endedour car. Eloise

ignored

it. We were

stuck

in

traffic,however,

and

the

guy

started

nsulting

Eloise.

She

responded

in kind. I

was worried because

the manwas

probably

armed. Eloise told me it would be

worse to let oneself be

intimidated,

hat

she should have

insulted

him

right

from the

beginning.

I

admirethe

courage

this woman has and the

support

she

gave

Theophile hroughout

he war. At the same

time,

I

don't

like the

way

one has to

push

and

shove

through

traffic

and

through

ines

here,

and

the

aggression

some

people

exhibit disturbsme.

Theopolis

n

the

mountains,

the churchbeneath

which Father s buried. Across from the

church,

one can

see the house Father

and

his brother

built,

where we

used

to

spend

our summers

and

where

Father

hought

he

would

spend

his old

age.

The

war

almost

destroyed

the

house,

which is still

standing

thanks to the

strength

of its walls of

hewn stone. Fatherdied

before

being

able

to

enjoy

the

fruit

of

his

labor,

but he was

happy,

in

love

with

Mother,

except

that

he suffered

too much

in

the

end

with

this terrible

disease,

cancer,

romwhich

I

too

have

just emerged.

Ras-Beirut,

ite of

my

childhood

and

my

adoles-

cence.I am sittingin the samespot whereJayand I had

sipped

a

beer,

almost

twenty-five

years ago,

when the

war

had

not

yet

started

and

we

did

not

yet

expect

it. We

were also not

aware

that

we would

split up

one

day.

So

much

has

happened.

How

many

things

are we still

un-

aware of?

How

quickly

time

goes by.

My

trip

to Lebanon

s

painful

but essential.

Mother

is

nothing

but skin

and

bones

at this

point.

She

weighs

forty-eight

kilos

in

spite

of her

height.

Some of

her bones

are even

showing

through

n

places.

She has to be

spoon-fed

now,

and

I

do

that for

her;

I

also

sing,

which

makesher

very happy.

She used

to love

singing,

and

I

inherited

her voice.

Now she can

barely

speak,

let alone

sing.

I can tell that

hearing

me

is,

for

her,

almostlike

singing again

herself,

and

her

face beams

with

joy

de-

spite

the

pain

she suffers

all

over her

body.

So

I

sing

and

I

sing, religious

and

folk

songs,

Swiss

and French

ongs

from

Piaf

to

Brel,

songs

in

English

and

Arabic,

whatever

comes

to

mind. I

go

through my

entire

repertoire

or

my

mother.

I

find it so

therapeutic

o

sing!

The house

in

the mountains

where the conference

took

place,

the

Nadia Tueni Foundation

n

Beit

Merri,

s

a

real wonderland.

Located

n a

pine

forest,

t

overlooks

Beirut

and

the Mediterranean.

ar

above the

pollution

and

the traffic

noise,

I

can

imagine

how

Nadia Tueni

was inspiredto write herpoignantpoetryin such sur-

roundings.

We were

all

very

moved to see how

faithful

GhassanTueni has

been to the

memory

of this

woman,

this

extraordinary

Lebanese

rancophonepoet.

I

try

to

be

faithful

n

my

own

way by teaching

her

work

in

my

classes

in

the States.

Her text

Juin

et les mecreantes

June

and

the

Miscreants),

dapted

for the

stage by

Roger

Assaf,

was

playing

at

the Beirut

Theater

while

I

was

there. Four

women,

four different

Lebanese

dentities,

four

religions

representing

Lebanon

Druze,

Christian,

Muslim,

Jew),

four

voices

and

four

ways,

fourwounds

expressing

their

despair,

their

suffering,

heir

oys,

and

their

sorrow

against

the

background

of the outbreak

of

war:"Canone

keep

the desert

from

leaving

with

one's

body

/

naked as

a

prayer

/

O

sumptuous

rottenness

each

day

is

a

resurrection

with the earth's

complicity

/

all

those unconcerned

with the sun

/

make

a

liquid

noise

/

the

nights

/

here

and

there

/

have the

flight

of

birds

in

their

eyes

/

and I

cry

the time of

a star

/

the one

who stole

my

death"

(my

translation).

88

WORLDLITERATURE ODAY

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002


6/6

1999.

1

went back

to Lebanon

and,

as

I

always

do,

took

many

walks down

memory

lane.

I

strolled around

the

campus

of Beirut

University College

in

Ras-Beirut.

n

my

childhood

and

adolescence,

hese hills were

still

wild,

covered

with

flowers,

with

birds

singing

and tor-

rents of waterflowing downhillwheneverit rained.

Now

they

are

disfigured

with

luxurious concrete

high-

rises,

many

of them vacant because so few

people

can

afford them.

It

is sad to see

Beirut ransformed nto

a

huge

constructionmonster.

Some

young people

came

to see me. We

had coffee

several times

at the

City

Cafe

right

below BUC.

It

is

a

very polluted

and

noisy spot,

but

I

was

glad

to visit

with them. One

young

man

confessed to

feeling rejected

because he is

gay.

A

young

woman told me the

only

outlet for sex

in

this

society

is

marriage.

She

was

made

to feel she

had

to

find

someone to wed

in

order to

be

accepted,

and

she

felt

marginalized

because

she did not

have

anyone.

I told them about

my

life,

what I had

expe-

rienced

n

my

adolescence,

much as recorded

n

my

novel L'Excisee.

hings

had

not

really changed

since

my

youth;

rather,

he bleaker

side of

history

seemed to be

repeating

tself

and

spiraling

out of control.

The

promis-

es of modernization

had

not been

kept;

the

specter

of

chaos

and

disease

looms

greater

hanever.

Beirut,

asphyxiated,

crushed,

put

to

death so

many

times,

yet always rising again

from

its ashes

and

from

the sea.

Beirut,

ike

my

life,

complex

and

contradictory,

with

its

multiple

identities,

ts wounds

barely

healed,

the scars still

spotted

with

blood,

reconstruction

till

in

its firststages.

I

cross the

newly

reconstructed enter

of

Beirut.

t

has been renovatedto revive the

spirit

of

the

old

build-

ings

and

souks.

But in an

ironic

contradiction,

hey

are

all

empty,

for no one has

enough money

to rent

them,

or

dares to

occupy

them

yet,

as

they

look

too

new,

too

pol-

ished.

The

purpose

of

restoring

old Beirut

s defeated.

I

walk

along

cobblestone

treetsclosed

to car

traffic.

My

heart

is

pounding

with emotion.

I walk

in an

empty

field.

There s

excavation

every-

where,

exposing

layers

and

layers

of

old Beiruts

rom

Phoenician,

Greek,Roman,

Ottoman

imes.Next to

the

field, a highway is being built,with its bridgesand its

high-speed

lanes. Beirut

will be

a

modern

city

after

all.

I

regret

the

disfiguration

of

the

landscape,

he loss

of the

center

that we used

to cherish

n

my

childhood.

I

weep

at the loss of

my

childhood

and

of

the

part

of

me

that

lies

buried

in

these

ruins.

EB

University of

Illinois,

Urbana

Bibliography

Accad,

Evelyne.

"Entre

deux."

Emotions. Boston.

Houghton

Mif-

flin.

1994.

. L'Excisee.Paris. L/Harmattan. 1982. (English translation:

Washington,

Three

Continents,

1989.)

.

Sexuality

and War:

Literary

Masks

of

the

Middle East.

New

York.New York

University

Press.

1990.

. TheWoundedBreast:

ntimate

Journeys

hrough

Cancer.

Melbourne.

Spinifex.

2001.

Adnan,

Etel. Sitt

Marie

Rose.

Sausalito,

California.Post-

Apollo.

1982.

Chedid,

Andree.

La maison

sans racines. Paris.

Flammarion.

1985.

Khoury,

Elias.

La

petite montagne.

Paris. Arlea.

1987.

Tueni,

Nadia.

La terrearretee.

Paris. Belfond.

1984.

.

Les

ceuvres

poetiques

completes.

Beirut.

Dar An-Nahar.

1986.

EvelyneAccad, a native of Lebanon,s Professorof Frenchat

the

University

of Illinois

n

Urbana.

Among

her

many

publica-

tions

in

French,

Arabic,

and

English

are the

novel

L'Excisee

(1982)

and

the nonfiction

exts

Sexuality

nd

War

1990)

andThe

Wounded

reast

2001).

She has

regularly

reviewed

contempo-

rary

francophone

nd Near

Eastern

iteratureor

WLT or more

than

a

quarter-century,

nd

recently

served

as a member

of the

2002

Neustadt

Prize

jury.

WORLD

LITERATURE

ODAY

WINTER 002

89

Beirut the City That Moves Me

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