Follow the Women

Thoughts from the Levant is my story and the story of Follow the Women, a caravan of hundreds of women from all over the world who have cycled together through the Middle East for weeks and weeks, seeking the human face of a region that has become the untiring genitor of endless conflicts…

Quest of understanding for some of us, quest of identity for others, quest of sharing and change, this ride through the cradle of so many illustrious civilizations is also a way of saying that - beyond religion, race and politics - an other Middle East is possible.

Follow the Women in this unique adventure through gorgeous Lebanon, majestic Syria, welcoming Jordan and Holy Palestine…

www.followthewomen.com

Getting ready for the adventure

Thursday May 1st, what a hectic “Labour day”!

After very last-minute arrangements , last-minute must-do pre-travel shopping (as if shopping wasn’t ALWAYS a must), last-minute goodbyes to approximately two hundred friends and relatives, a rushed pedicure & manicure in between, a very tough packing process and an endless speech from dad on security precautions while travelling in the Middle East, I was ready AT LAST to jump in the plane…exhausted but sooooooooooo excited!

The flight was one of the most pleasant I ever had. A little mistake in the seat number while boarding got me a welcome drink and an invitation to visit the pilot cabin, an invitation that I got extended to the whole flight (nothing being nice can't get you!), spending it with 2 incredibly smart pilots, with whom I had a great time discussing, among others, the everlasting Arab-Israeli conflict, the US invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan (and the Syria/Iran eventual invasion plans), the Moroccan Western Sahara conflict and the many other political issues of the region.

After about 4 hours of what is commonly referred to in pilots’ jargon as “blue-flying” (ie. exclusively over the Mediterranean Sea), a warm voice from Beirut airport control tower welcomed us with an unexpected “Marhaba Habib Albi” (Welcome sweet hearts), which is, as I was told later, a very common way of speaking even to strangers in Lebanon.
Coming from a country influenced by Berber culture of self-restraint, the pilots and I couldn’t help but laugh at this exuberant welcome and mellifluous tone when one of them suddenly pointed the horizon with his finger...
There She was.
Poet Nizar Qabbani’s Lady of the World, the Pearl of the Middle East, the Paris of the Levant, flanked by snow-capped Mountains of Lebanon and generously opening her arms to the Mediterranean Sea and to the thousands of visitors she has welcomed over its 5000 years of existence, shaping its history and enriching its culture.

Beirut…

Founded by the Phoenicians, original inhabitants of Lebanon, who named it “Bérût” (the Wells) and part of numerous succeeding empires - Persian, Assyrian, Greek, Roman, Byzantine, Arab and Ottoman - Beirut, in the manner of Lebanon, is an incredible mosaic of people, cultures, religions, and traditions, and a living testimonial of centuries of bustling History.

Beirut…here I am!

Beirut...First Glimpses

To a first time visitor, Beirut unveils its diversity the first second you step out of the airport. The whole city is a patchwork of colours, features, looks, architectures and social categories: fancy cars rushing along side jalopies and scrap heaps about to give up the ghost (but still rushing almost as fast as the first ones!), luxurious buildings and ritzy villas neighbouring tumble-down shacks, Mosques’ minarets greeting Churches’ bell towers here an there and an impressive display of Red, White and Cedars – the Lebanese flag – everywhere, as if the country, with its numerous identities, was constantly struggling to remind everyone that the ONE identity that should remain above all religions, factions, ethnic groups and political tendencies is the Lebanese Identity.

First Police check point.

First of the numerous ones that have spread all over the country after Israel’s attack in July 2006 and the resulting severe destabilization of the Lebanese political system, check points seem to be part of the country’s daily life and my Lebanese friends were almost amused by my surprise and excitement.
This one is a Lebanese Army checkpoint, that one is under March 8th Forces’ control, that other one is under March 14th Alliance’s. Welcome to the kingdom of confusion!

In fact, Lebanese politics is a labyrinth of parties, armed militias, religious groups and ethnical minorities…To make it simple, the 2 major rivals are:

- The March 14 Alliance, named after the Cedar Revolution and known to be anti-Syrian. It is led by the following major parties: the Future Movement, the Progressive Socialist Party and the Lebanese Forces, in addition to 11 other groups (just that!)
(For more info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/March_14_Alliance)

- The Pro-Syrian opposition (commonly referred to as March 8 Alliance), including Hezbullah, Amal Movement, Free Patriotic Movement, Armenian Revolutionary Federation and no less than 18 other different parties (!!!!)
(For more info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/March_8_Alliance)

Isn’t it amazing how all the components of this chaotic little world manage to fit in 10 000 km²? (When they do…)

Beirut by night..

A quick shower (my own “quick”-standards: 30 minutes), the illusion of a little nap and many layers of Glam Bronze powder later, my best ally to fake a well-rested look, I was ready to discover the Lady of the World by night.

Driving from Ramleh El Baida, a residential neighbourhood south of Beirut, all the way along the seashore, through Boulevard du General De Gaulle, and passing by the famous American University towards the Downtown area and the Hamra neighbourhood, I could capture a touch of Paris here, a bit of Amman there, a glimpse of Venice further, an air of Barcelona in between and a striking similarity with Tanger - Morocco’s northern Pearl - in many regards, particularly the Corniche area, the high Mediterranean-style buildings, the multiple floodlit mounts surrounding the city and the tiny up and down hills streets here and there.

Police check points again.

The lovely downtown area - little architectural jewel of French Mandate-era and Art-Deco buildings - has been divided with barbwires and ugly massive concrete blocks into 2 distinctive zones, defacing the area and blemishing the gorgeous façade of Al Hariri Mosque.

Hezbullah militias camping on one side.
March 14 Alliance on the other side.
And the President’s seat empty for 18 months now...

The cleavage is obvious… and the growing tensions perceptible in the way both militias screen out the very few walkers that still continue to hang out in this area. Not that it is closed or forbidden but most Beirutis abandoned its fancy boutiques and stylish restaurants and pubs for friendlier and safer areas in the city. And the once Beirut’s most fashionable and trendy street,Maarad St,has become a sort of deserted no man’s land between 2 rival little states, inside a bigger - very weakened - one. Only one restaurant decided to ignore the political situation and remained open. We decided to have diner there; a colourful méli-mélo of yummy Lebanese mezze and delicious Lebanese wine; before heading to “Le Prague”, a cosy pub in the fancy pro-March 14 Alliance Hamra neighbourhood, a few blocks from the American University of Beirut.
Le Prague reminded me of St Germain pubs in Paris: a very chilled out atmosphere, loads of students, beers everywhere and “reading corners” improvised here and there with piles of French classic novels and… Asterix and Obelix comic books!

The pleasant soirée goes on late…From politics (unavoidable in any conversation that lasts more than 5 minutes in Lebanon) to literature (unavoidable in the homeland of Khalil Gibran and May Ziada) to fashion (also unavoidable, though for no reason) I was happily familiarizing with my first Middle Eastern host country, and getting a deeper understanding of all the dynamics of Lebanese society and politics.

Morning Beirut!

I hate alarm-clocks! They’re the perfect party-pooper after very little time in Morpheus’ delicious arms and some inauspicious consequences: a combination of morning headache and dramatically deep dark circles. Thank God, an other combination - Paracetamol magic little pills and my beloved Glam Bronze powder - did a pretty good job and, boosted by a sip of Turkish coffee and by the excitement of meeting my hundreds of cycling mates, I was fairly presentable (I think so…)

What a beautiful sunny day!

Beiruti joggers have already invaded the Corniche and some lucky folks are even swimming. Couples in their fifties hand in hand, HOT fashionable athletic guys (that I could obviously spot miles away), trendy girlies with the whole jogging-must-gear (Sports hair strip and wristbands, mini Evian water bottle and I-pod), kids in bicycle or running kites and a few dog-walkers here and there, I started feeling less miserable about my waking up early :-)

Brand new luxurious condos are wildly mushrooming all over the coastline but from time to time, an old building scattered with machine guns’ shots would rise, reminding Lebanon’s decades of war and civil unrest.

Cycling Beirut

Being the only one from Morocco is quite intimidating…It seemed to me that all the other participants knew each other from diapers-days and thinking about the last time I had approached a woman to socialize, I found myself looking for memories close to diapers-days too…Not that I am not the socializing kind but socializing with the opposite sex is just way easier (probably because it is way more practiced). I was thinking about a nice/catchy/ womanish conversation subject (ie. Pads vs. Tampons while cycling, recommendations on sunscreen protection factor – yeah I know, so “cliché”) when I heard a “Hey! What’s your name?” behind me.

My first cycling buddy - a young woman my age - is from Barcelona and shows off proudly, along with her team, her belonging to Catalonia, which is no big surprise, given Catalonians’ propensity to clearly mark their cultural difference with the rest of the peninsula. Followed the introduction to the other lovely Catalonians and my official adoption - a few minutes later - by the team :-)

My bike!

Having one woman choose a bike (or anything else) can be very challenging...Now, getting 250 WOMEN to try different sizes of bikes and make sure the one they pick works fine is a true CHAOS but looooooooooots of fun :-)

I think that our "MEN" (Beirut by bike team) deserve a special tribute. You guys ROCK!

I could, somehow or other find my way to my companion for the upcoming weeks and, size-checking and cycling-testing processes done, I couldn’t wait to start the journey!

Once upon a time Sabra and Shatila...

Some names are engraved in Arabs' collective memory with fire letters…


"Sabra and Chatila" is one of them.

Often described as living witnesses of the numerous atrocities perpetrated by the Israeli Army during decades of occupation, they have become - along with Deir Yassin (1948), Khan Yunis (1956), Abbasieh (1978), Fakhani (1981),Al Aqsa Mosque (1990), Hebron (1994), Qana (1996 and 2006), Jenin (2002) (those are the most famous only, the list is obviously not exhaustive) - the symbol of our own version of Jewish people sadly famous device “We shall remember”.

But the case of Sabra and Shatila is different, because the responsibility - massively devolved upon Israel by the public opinion - is in reality shared (not to say mainly born) by Christian Phalangists, who were almost totally spared the brunt of the condemnations…

So what happened that day of September 1982?
After a thorough research through Lebanese, English and Israeli resources, I have put together the following summary, hoping you won’t get lost (as I did so many times!). I would also love to hear different perspectives and opinions

Sabra is a poor Shiite neighborhood in the southern outskirts of West Beirut, which is adjacent to Shatila UNRWA refugee camp set up for Palestinian refugees in 1949. Over the years, the populations of the two areas have mingled, and the name "Sabra and Shatila camps" has become usual.

1982.

The Lebanese civil war is at its height, opposing Palestinian refugees and Muslim Lebanese factions (allied with Syria) to Christian Phalangists (supported by Israel), in various shifting alliances, and killing each other in an endless whirl of massacres competing in cruelty.

The Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO), led by Yasser Arafat, had been using southern Lebanon as a base for attacks on Israel, and Israel had been bombing PLO positions back. A failed attempt to assassinate the Israeli Ambassador in London on June 4 by Abu Nidal’s organization (a Palestinian left-wing front that has always refused to negotiate with Israel and that had split from the PLO in 1974) gave the Hebrew State the perfect excuse to invade Lebanon.
Obviously, the UN condemned this violation. But obviously nobody cared..
After 2 months of US-mediation, the PLO agreed to leave Lebanon under international supervision and Israel committed not to advance further into the country, but its military troops remained stationed in the southern region.
On September 14, Lebanese President Bachir Gemayel (part of the Israel-friendly Christian Phalangist party) was assassinated by Syrian Intelligence agent Habeeb Shartuni, who confessed the crime. Though Palestinian and Muslim leaders had no responsibility in the murder, Israel’s Defense Minister at the time; Ariel Sharon and Prime Minister; Menachem Begin decided to violate the US-agreement and re-occupy West Beirut, surrounding the Sabra and Shatila camps and setting hermetic check-points in all entrances and exists. In fact, the President’s assassination gave Israel the so-expected opportunity to re-enter Beirut and get rid of the few remaining PLO activists. It didn’t do it itself though, it invited Phalangist allies to “cleanse” the area under their control. We all know the rest of the story…

1500 Phalangists armed with guns, knives and hatchets entered the camps late in the afternoon and began raping, slitting throats and shooting blindly…
Women, children, old people, youth…No one was spared…

3 days later - 3 endless days of massacres later - the Phalangist militias left the camp, leaving behind thousands of mutilated bodies (3000-3500 according to Israeli journalist Amnon Kapeliouk), from newborns to elders, scattered all around the camp…

As the news of the massacre spread around the world, accusations started pouring down on Israel mainly, the role of the Christian Phalangists being kept under hat and seldom mentioned. Today, if you google “Sabra and Shatila”, you will find that most sources point at Israel as “THE” responsible of the genocide, but to my opinion, though the Hebrew State had definitely a responsibility in this tragedy as they sealed off the camp and “invited” the Phalangists in, making it an exclusively “Israeli crime” is hiding part of the truth and leaving many murderers unpunished. Until now, 26 years after the massacre, no concrete action at the national or international levels has ever been taken against any Phalangist leader or member of Saad Haddad’s “Free Lebanon Forces”, who also took part to the genocide…

Menachem Begin’s first response to the accusations was the everlasting discourse of “Anti-Semitic blood libel against the Jewish State”. But as the controversy grew, voices from inside Israel rose to demand explanations and a few weeks after the massacres, 300 000 Israeli citizens (literally 1/10 of the Israeli population at the time!) gathered in Tel Aviv, in one of the biggest protests of the country’s history, to ask for clarifications.

A Commission of Inquiry was established, led by Supreme Court Judge Kahan and known as the “Kahan Commission” and investigations concluded that “Israeli military personnel were aware that a massacre was in progress without taking serious steps to stop it”, for which Israel bears part of the “indirect responsibility”.

Furthermore, The Kahan commission found that Ariel Sharon "bears personal responsibility" and recommended his dismissal from the post of Defense Minister, stating that:
“It is our view that responsibility is to be imputed to the minister of defense for having disregarded the prospect of acts of vengeance and bloodshed by the Phalangists against the population of the refugee camps and for having failed to take this danger into account when he decided to have the Phalangists enter the camps. In addition, responsibility is to be imputed to the minister of defense for not ordering appropriate measures for preventing or reducing the chances of a massacre as a condition for the Phalangists' entry into the camps”

With as much hindsight as an Arab could have in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, I think that this commission was a great tribute to Israeli democracy,as highlighted by Henry Kissinger, who claimed that "a few governments in the world would have undertaken such a public investigation of such a difficult and shameful episode."

However, even though the Kahan Commission concluded that Sharon "should not hold public office again", he was elected Prime Minister in February 2001…

What kind of Prime Minister could a mass-killings' aficionado become?

The response has an other fire letters name: Jenin...2002...

Living Sabra and Shatila...

2 pm…

Sweltering heat…

Sabra and Shatila.

We swapped Beirut’s Corniche into an other face of the Lebanese capital: the refugees’ camps.

As our bus drop us out at the entrance of the Camp, I was surprised to see a happy crowd waiting for us, braving the blistering heat and gathering all around the Ghobeiry Municipality modest square, erected in memory of the victims of Sabra and Shatila’s massacres.

Nothing fancy…No names engraved in marble, no benches, no rose-bushes…just a few fluffs of shriveled up grass, 3 posters with horrible pictures of the massacres and a date…1982…

The Palestinian refugees living in Sabra and Shatila seemed extremely happy to see us: men with Keffiehs (Palestinian traditional white and black scarves), women with lovely black and red embroidered dresses (typical from Palestine too) and hundreds of kids togged up in their nicest outfits, running all around us, offering flowers and laughing in a frenetic concert of “Where are you from?”

When asked the same question back, they all had the same answer: “Palestine!” and could name their home villages and even sometimes the neighborhoods, which I found quite interesting. Those kids were born in Lebanon, they belong to the 3rd or 4th generation of descendants of 1948 Palestinian refugees and they have never seen Palestine.
And yet…they still call it home and proudly claim that they shall definitely come back “mahma tala azzaman” (no matter how long it takes)

Touching…

Especially knowing that in all Palestinian-Israeli negotiations, the question of Palestinian refugees’ legitimate right to return has always been a bone of contention, as soon after 1948, Israel passed a law forbidding Palestinians’ return, and assigning all their land holdings to a custodian of absentee property (!!!!!!!!!)

I have discussed several times this issue with Israeli friends and found myself often confronted to 2 types of reactions:

- Either a strong denial, claiming that this would be the end of the Jewish state. In fact, the large numbers of refugees (1948 refugees’ descendants number around 5 million today), together with the much higher birth-rate of the Arab population as opposed to Jews, would soon create an Arab majority in Israel and the country would loose its “Jewish specificity”.

- or a more moderate speech, recognizing the tragedy of 700 000 Palestinian women, men an children expelled from their lands in 1948 but considering other solutions to the problem, such as an official recognition of Israel’s exactions in 1948 with public excuses and possibly financial compensations for land dispossession.

But Palestinians’ aspirations to go back keep growing, and their hopes never fade away, as this poem of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish tells…

“I come from there. I render the sky unto her mother
When the sky weeps for her mother.
And I weep to make myself known
To a returning cloud.
I learnt all the words worthy of the court of blood
So that I could break the rule.
I learnt all the words and broke them up
To make a single word: Homeland.....”

I asked one of the teenagers who was proudly lifting a Palestinian flag and making a “V” sign with his fore and middle fingers: “What makes you sure that you will come back?”
He seemed surprised by my question.
Despite their terrible living conditions in Sabra and Shatila, there is no room for doubts or discouragement.

"Like the day always succeeds to the night,he said,the return always succeeds to the exile"

And he added, with a sad smile:

“At the moment, Palestine lives in us, until we get to live in it again, someday…”

Time to leave.

I didn't want to leave.

Sabra and Shatila are often described as "places you don't want to see".
But for some reason,many of us wanted to see more...to hear more...and to let those have-nots of History feel that there are people who still care about their fate.

Our bus team had lost all his enthusiasm on the way back to the hotel.
No socializing, no singing, no gossiping...Everyone was quiet and pensive.

I couldn't stop thinking about the kids' smiles and unwavering confidence in their return to Palestine someday.

Someday...Like the day succeeds to the night...

Party - Lebanese Way :-)

Back to Beirut’s glossy neighbourhoods…

Despite 17 years of fratricide war (1975-92), a back and forth military occupation by both Syria and Israel and a country currently made into a puzzle by the different political parties, Lebanese people are still famous for their unshakable will to enjoy life and Beirut hosts one of the most vibrant and original nightlife in the Arab world.

Gemayzeh street.

Previously named Rue Gouraud (after the French general), it has become the new “place to be” in Beirut, with its lovely mid-50ies stone buildings, colourful shops and stylish pubs. Dozens of cars are queuing up to get into the narrow street, merrily honking every now an then and droping off hundreds of revelers dressed up in an impressive show of fancy fashion designers, reminding me of some “hot” spots of Casablanca.
Brazilian clubs, French bistros, Jazz bars, Tapas taverns, Arguilé cafés and many other nightlife little wonders are lining up along the street, featuring some very funny/weird(?) names such as “Le Perroquet bourré” (the drunk parrot”),“Gauche-caviar” (the Caviar-Left, in reference to very liberal/capitalist left-wing political movements) or “Barbu” (the Bearded) etc. Gemayzeh definitely deserves its “Little Soho by the Sea” nickname, lending itself perfectly to the Spanish party-way "Marcha": one drink here, one other there, until the sunrise.

After a nice diner and "Drinks-round 1" at Le Petit Café, we happily decided to start off the Marcha at a Jazz bar.
Stone walls, wooden benches, leather couches (for a few lucky ones), red ambience - very East Village-style - and a dangerously HOT singer (right, chicas?) that made us immediately renounce to the “Marcha”...
Official excuse: overtiredness of course ;-)

Watching Beirutis’ party-way confirms the famous French adage “Tell me how you party, I’ll tell you who you are”. Lebanese people do everything with EXCESS. They drive like crazy, dress excessively posh, party hard, laugh loud, drink heavy, dance till they drop and have a huge thirst for fun, totally understandable in a country torn by political unrest for decades.
In Morocco, since Casablanca’s suicide-attempts in May 2003, the merest rumour of a terrorist attack or a simple security alert in a club would keep everybody at home for weeks and weeks. In Lebanon, instability has become part of people’s daily life and not only no one cares anymore, but the feeling that one might loose everything at any time has given them an unmeasured passion for life...which they just decided to live day-to-day, enjoying every single moment of it.
I was even told that it’s been quite common in the past to have them hit the clubs in one part of the city while bombs were hitting another…

Sacré Lebanon!

Mount Lebanon

Mount Lebanon has historically defined Lebanon.

Its snowy peaks have given the country its name “Lebanon”, from “Laban” which means “white” in Aramaic (a Semitic language still spoken in some parts of the Middle East) and many patriotic songs refer to the white mount as a symbol of the country.

We arrived to Baakleen, lovely town in the Shouf Mountains, a district of Mount Lebanon governorate.
Birth place of Emir Fakhereddine Al Maani, who founded “Lubnan el Kebir", (the Great Lebanon) and fief of Lebanese Druzes (a Muslim minority) and Christians, this lovely town stands proudly on the Mount, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

After a yummy home-made breakfast prepared by local women (oregano and paprika bread, olive oil and goat cheese), and a warm welcome speech from the Mayor of the city, we started the ride through the mountains.

Mediterranean mountain villages have all this “little something” in common, and cycling through Lebanon’s mounts, I felt several times that I could have been anywhere in Spanish Alpujarras or Moroccan Rif. White houses with flowery balconies and charming orchards, small stone-built churches with red bricks rooftops, little ceramic fountains plazas and olive and pine woods between villages…What an amazing feeling of tranquillity and security, as opposed to Beirut’s hustle and bustle and endless security check points!

The region seemed totally spared by the climate of political instability and a group of over 250 women passing by cycling was definitely an uncommon event that brought out of their houses many people: women, men, old, children, youth, waving to us and hailing “Marhaba!” (Welcome!).
I was touched by the many shops’ owners leaving spontaneously their counters and standing at the edge of the road, offering us juice, fruits and candies. What a good excuse to stop a little bit (especially in uphills!), rise up our glycaemia and have a quick chat with Druze people.

This curious Muslim community has principles that are greatly influenced by Greek, Sufi and Gnostic philosophies and claim to be a reformatory sect, rejecting traditional religious practices and privileging spirituality. They follow the Sunni train of thought on history and their principles focus on honesty, loyalty and altruism. They’re known far and wide for their hospitality and warm welcome of visitors to whom the doors of any Druze home, wealthy or modest, should always be open.

A few “improvised” stops, yummy snacks and little chats later, I realized that I was running far behind my cycling mates and decided to speed up a bit, responding (with regrets!) to many other invitations to fruits/candies/juice-stops by polite “Yaatekom el Afieh” (May God give you good health).

A little after we passed Sheheem, where local NGOs welcomed us with more sweets and the traditional Lebanese Dabkeh (a Middle Eastern dance in circle), and in a totally unexpected steep slope, my bike’s fore tyre went down and I had my first fall off.
Nothing serious, just a few scratches and a sour ankle but Jawad our “Beirut by bike” team boss was firm: no more cycling for me today, I had to join the little emergency-minibus… :-(

By the beginning of the afternoon, we reached Jiyyeh, a seaside town famous for hosting the country’s largest power station. This power station, along with the nearby bridge connecting Beirut to the south of Lebanon was severely bombed by Israel in the July 2006 attack and the resulting oil spill released over 16000 tons of crude oil into the Mediterranean sea, destroying marine life along Jiyyeh’s coast and reaching as far north as Syria and Turkey…

The vision of the disemboweled cooling towers brought us back to Lebanon’s reality of constant instability and frequent wars, after a short break in the peaceful and quiet environment of Mount Lebanon.

But the multiple cranes and concrete blocks’ transporters around the bridge - which reconstruction is almost finished - showed an other reality…the one of a country challenging wars and instability and never ever saying die :-)

Riding the Beqaa Valley...

An other beautiful sunny day!

My face and shoulders have already suffered a few sunburns from the past days cycling and my sunglasses have left horrible tan marks on my face: very red nose and cheeks and very white circles around my eyes.
“Pray not to meet the man of your life today!” joked one of the chicas.
Oh he’d better not show up today if he doesn’t want to take to his heels…Even my super-powerful Glam Bronze powder has become helpless!
But then...if he’s really “the man of my life”, shouldn’t he love me just the way I am? With my sunburns, red nose and horrible tan marks?
Girls’ morning talks :-)
My chica pointed at her watch to stop my romantic thinking: we were late (as usual).
“You will have plenty of time to elaborate on the “man of your life” theory while riding through the Beqaa Valley today!”

Lebanon’s major farming region and agricultural source, the Beqaa Valley is famous for its vineyards and some of its wineries’ history goes back as far as 6000 years.

We started the ride from Kab Elias, the 3rd most important city of the Beqaa after Zahlé and Baalbek and a clearly pro-March 14 Alliance town, with blue ribbons (the emblematic colour of the movement) and portraits of former Sunni Prime Minister Rafic El Hariri everywhere.Politics again!

We enjoyed an other yummy home-made breakfast prepared by Kab Elias women, a Dabkeh spectacle performed by children (the population of Kab Elias is very young, 60% are under 25) and…a 150 women-line to get to the bathroom!
One of the local women came to invite me for coffee at her place in a very rudimentary English - which I found so cute! - and when I responded in Arabic and told her that I was an Arab, she hugged me and insisted that I come. “ Haidi ussulna” she said (These are our traditions). I would have gladly accepted if I didn’t have 60 km cycling ahead and after some tough negotiations to decline the invitation, she got me promise her to visit her house whenever I come back to Kab Elias.

I had made so many friends this way during my previous trips to the Middle East and recall particularly this Palestinian family in one of Jerash refugees’ camps in Jordan. I was travelling alone from Amman to Jerash to visit the Roman city ruins and sat by their daughter in the bus. She first thought I was a foreigner and started struggling with the few English words that she knew to hold a decent conversation. I was amused by her efforts and let her practice a few minutes before I switched to Middle Eastern Arabic and told her hat I was from Morocco.
Hospitality is not a random nice Arab tradition. It is a cultural must and every Arab should honour “Abir a’ssabil” (the visitor) and offer him/her meal and shelter, no matter how modest they are. My bus-mate invited me to share their lunch, called up the extended family (her siblings, aunts and cousins) to come over for tea and meet the “Moroccan guest”, and took me with a dozen of her relatives to visit the Roman city.
I first felt a bit embarrassed and though I was originally planning to spend a quite afternoon meditating between Jerash ruins, far from Amman’s hectic and cosmopolitan way of life, I found myself surrounded by a happy noisy little crowd, who had mobilized the whole afternoon to take care of me. So nice to feel like a little princess, be it for a short afternoon :-)

One of the Danish cycling mates who saw the whole negotiation process with the Kab Elias lady smiled to me and said: “In this region, loneliness has no room!”. She was so right.

The Beqaa villages are scattered between olive groves, wheat fields and huge vineyards, and the whole valley is surrounded by snow-capped mountains’ peaks of the Anti-Lebanon mountains range on the one side, and Mount Lebanon’s on the other, giving it a little air of Moroccan Atlas (without Marrakesh’s palm trees though)

Very pleasant ride and lovely sceneries but a bit less fun than yesterday, as most of it was on countryside roads, outside the villages and with no contact with the people (and no fruits/juice or candies’ invitations :-)

Poetry at Chateau Kefraya

We reached the Chateau Kefraya domain, one of the renown vineyards in Lebanon, and as most my cycling-mates rushed to stock up on dry fruits, gracefully offered by our winemaker host in pretty baskets, I obviously skipped (hate dry fruits!) and went straight to the wine tasting tent, where I enjoyed a quite substantive aperitif :-)

Back to the Chateau’s main tent, I met with the Iranian team and as soon as I pronounced my family name - Khachani (which means “from the city of Khashan” in both Arabic and Farsi) - I got an official and unanimous approval on my Persian origins and an extremely interesting lecture on Kashan’s history and architecture:

Located in the province of Isfahan, Kashan was one of the primary centres of civilization, more than 7000 years back. It is famous worldwide for its silk and carpet factories, its rubies’ shops and its architectural masterpieces, such as the Tabatabei house and the Aga Bozorg Mosque. It is also known as one of the most traditional and conservative cities in Iran. The contrary would have surprised me…Apparently, conservatism in my father’s family has far reaching origins! :-)

“Do you like poetry? asked one of the Iranian girls. You MUST like poetry! Kashan is home to one of Iran’s foremost modern poets! His name is Sohrab Sepehri.”

You got me there lady… How can I not like when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found its most subtle wording? Poetry is thoughts that breathe and words that burn. It is not a thing we see - it is a light by which we may see - and what we see is Life.
Poetry is just the evidence of Immaterial Life...Life in its most beautiful expression...How can I not like it?

And if Kashan is home to poetry, then it is definitely our hometown!

The Iranian mate started telling me some of Sepehri’s verses, trying somehow or other to translate from Farsi to English but even though I couldn’t grasp much of it, I could capture a bit of the beauty of Sepehri’s poetry. After all, Alfred Houseman was right when he said that it may be inadvisable to draw out the meaning of poetry…Perfect understanding sometimes almost extinguishes pleasure. As Sepehri said:

We are not to comprehend;
The secret of roses, but maybe
Swimming in the incantation of roses

Thinking Love at the Beqaa

I don’t know if it was the wine or the poetry but as we left Chateau Kefraya and started cycling again, my mind got back to my early-morning meditation on “the man/woman of one’s life”.

The idea of having “one person meant for you” is quite tempting. I know it sounds terribly fogy but I kind of like Plato’s theory of 2 humans originally combined split in half and condemned to spend their lives searching for each other.
Life would then be the restless quest for this one-and-only half of one's soul. And when you meet, you just feel a magnetic pull towards one another, nothing words or reason could ever explain, it’s just there…an indefinable chemistry and the deep feeling of belonging together.
What a beautiful feeling…
New York City …3 years back…One of my Iranian-French flatmates (Iranian again, what a coincidence!) was describing to me her soul-mate experience. She said “We didn’t need to talk, we were above words. Our skins were talking for us, it’s just like if they had recognized each other”. It sounded like a fairy tale…the fairy tale everyone wishes to live.

But then…what if you never meet THAT person?
What if you never experience THAT chemistry and feeling of belonging?
And what if you do, but a person who seemed “meant for you” at some point of your life doesn’t seem so anymore at an other point? Wouldn’t it be limiting to think that you could experience the soul-mate thing only once in your life?

Human mind is not a static thing; it keeps evolving, shaped by life experiences. Isn’t it the same with love? Aren’t we able to love different people, differently, and at different stages of our lives? Or do we love different people but always keep that unique soul-mate-type-of-love for ONE person, just like Fernando Ariza - the hero of Garcia Marquez's novel "Love in the time of Cholera" - loved Fermina Daza, (his adolescence crush) 51 years, 9 month and one day, despite the many many women who crossed his life...

I still remember the first guy I “loved” :-) I was 8 years-old and he was 10. He was French and his name was Gabriel. God I LOOOOOVED HIM!!! I would always join the “catch me if you can” team at recess and spend it running after him…Of course, I never told him anything (what the hell would an 8-years-old girly tell a 10-years-old boy!) and the following year, his father got a job somewhere else and they left Fez…Destiny brought Gabriel back on my path a few years after: I was 15 and when I talked to him, I immediately realized that if we had met later, not only would I have never fallen in love with him but I would have probably never even looked at him. He became one of those hippy pot-smokers and heavy metal lovers…So not my type :-)

I know an 8-years-old crush can't really be considered as "love" but isn't love at the end a matter of timing?
Or would your soul-mate, the “one-and-only”, be above time-considerations?


....


The road to Rashaya, little town on the mountain top, was getting more and more difficult. Sinuous up hills had succeeded to the flat road and I had to get off my bike several times and walk it up.I was exhausted, thirsty, hungry (yes it happens!) and could barely wave to the villagers who came to greet us.

We finally reached charming Rashaya, at the foothills of snow-capped Mount Hermon. Rashaya is a mostly Christian and Druze mountain town, with typical red brick rooftops houses and tiny streets, and is famous for its local jewellery factories and shops.
According to Deuteronomy 3:8, Mount Hermon served as the northern boundary of the Promised Land. It was also a possible site of the “Transfiguration”, where Jesus took his disciples, Peter, James and John for prayer and conversed with Moses and Elijah, who had appeared beside him.

FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!

After what seemed to me to be the yummiest meal ever (nothing special though, the usual Lebanse Mezze and rice with meat), I took a little walk around with one of the chicas and two Turkish mates and stopped by a terrace, with a great view of majestic Mount Hermon.

Since the 6-Days war in 1967, the southern slopes of Mount Hermon have been occupied by Israel and unilaterally annexed in 1981, along with the Syrian Golan heights. This sector of the Mount is believed to be heavily patrolled by the Israeli Forces, as it is a strategic observation post for monitoring Syrian and Lebanese military activity.

It seemed to me that no matter how far could one go, the conflicts of the region would always pop up,often unexpectedly, like in this quiet and charming little mountain town.

It was getting dark and quite chilly. Time to leave…

The Civil war...

May 6th

The Lebanese government decided to suspend Beirut airport security chief Wafiq Shqeir for “alleged ties to Hezbollah” and declared the Shiite militia’s private communications network to be illegal.
Hezbollah denounced the government’s decisions, claiming that its private network was essential to its resistance against Israel in the south and took control over the main roads of the capital in protest, blocking the way to the airport and shutting it down.
This coincided with a strike originally called by labour unions to protest against the government’s economic policies and to demand pay raises and the strike quickly escalated into street battles between supporters of the government and Hezbollah militants…

“It looks like the civil war has definitely started…” said one of the Lebanese mates.

I came to the Middle East to see what it was like to live in this powder keg, and political troubles had to be part of the experience. Surprisingly, I wasn’t really preoccupied by my own situation as a foreigner trapped in this time bomb, where any random little incident seemed to be able to set war wheels in motion. I guess my 250 wonderful cycling mates’ positive spirit was behind that feeling of relative tranquillity :-)

But I was really worried about my Lebanese friends and about Lebanon itself. What had happened was the expectable outcome of a 17-months political deadlock, where tensions have been adding up for too long and could find no other way out than violence …
The government’s decision to fire Wafiq Shqeir was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, just like Austrian Archduke François Ferdinand’s assassination in 1914 plunged the whole European continent into the murderous 1914-18 conflict.

First phone call... Mom :-)

A mother is never as cute as when she’s worried about her kids!I tried to reassure her the best I could, blaming the Medias for exaggerating things and she seemed surprised to hear me talking more about the lovely Lebanese places, sceneries and people rather than a way to actually fly back home the soonest.

Leaving the Middle East was none of my intentions at the time...

Dad’s turn…Extremely worried and a bit angry because he was originally opposed to my travelling to the Middle East in such uncertain times. His own version of mom’s tender “Hello darling” was (literally): “Where the hell is your stubbornness going to drive you?” Daddyyyyyyyyyy…he is so cute when he is upset! I grew up hearing the stubbornness thing almost everyday, and would always answer with the famous Arab quote: “Man shabiha abahu fama dalam” (The one who looks like his father is not to blame).

I guess it is always more difficult for people who see the conflict from outside…All they see is gun shoots, blood and a fast increasing number of victims everyday and they can’t help but imagine the worst.I couldn’t blame them for being worried, but I was certainly not going to give up now, no matter how long would the troubles last. The feeling of uncertainty was part of the experience, and as we reached the Syrian border at nightfall, I couldn’t wait to pursue the adventure through the Thousands and One Nights’ land: Syria.

We reached the Sham (common denomination of Syria; the Northern Arab territory, as opposed to the Arabic peninsula in the south) late at night… a breezy and quite May night...

We were exhausted and I fell asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow.

Towards Damascus

I didn’t get more than 4-5 hours of sleep at night ever since I left home and morning wakeups were becoming a tough moment, probably the worst of the day for a big sleeper like me!

Despite 3 alerts (one by the hotel reception and 2 on my cell phone), I woke up only 10 minutes before the scheduled departure time and still can’t figure out how I managed to join the team on time! I guess it was the excitement of visiting Damascus…

We reached Jabal Qassioun, a mountain overlooking the city, early in the morning and started our cycling journey from there. The weather was perfect: hot and dry, just like Fez, the city where I grew up and I felt a bit sorry for my northern cycling mates, used to much milder weathers ;-)

The first thing that calls the attention of any visitor in Syria is the overwhelming presence of President Bashar El Assad’s portraits, which are often accompanied by his father Hafez’s. It stroke me the first time I visited the country, 4 years back, and though I noticed that there were a bit less portraits of the father this time, Bashar’s presence in the public space was still very strong. Bashar in military uniform, Bashar in modern suit, Bashar glad-handing crowds, Bashar in huge posters, Bashar’s pictures in taxis, buses and random cars’ windows…Bashar and Bashar and Bashar…Bashar everywhere…Welcome to the Baath regime!

An other striking thing was people’s attitude towards us, as we reached the small villages close to the city. While women and men alike would spontaneously wave to us or come to greet us in Lebanon, in Syria they stood far from the road, watching our bikes’ convoy with curiosity but without getting close and seldom waving to us. There were practically no women outside and the very few that we saw stood in separate groups, often behind men, and with the same reserve. Of course, a group of 250 foreign women cycling wasn’t something common in this region but while Lebanese people took the opportunity to come and talk to us, Syrians just stayed well away, which I figured illustrated perfectly the impact of totalitarian regimes on people’s attitudes and behaviour.
Everything new or unusual seemed suspect (feared?) and people’s natural spontaneity was lost.

It was a very pleasant ride though, mostly through down hills (which gave a little break to my exhausted calves) and we seemed to play hide-and-seek with Damascus, expecting her to appear behind every bend. But Lady Damascus is a typical Arab woman :-) She likes to play the hard to get and appeared after she let us long for her, unexpectedly but majestically, lying on a large plateau on river Barada’s south bank and sheltered by Anti-Lebanon Mountains...

The Jasmine Scent of Damascus...

Damascus is one of the oldest cities of the world and a great symbol of Arab culture and civilization. Conquered by the Rashidun Caliphat forces a few years after the death of Prophet Mohammed, the city’s power and prestige reached its peak under the Umayyads, first Dynasty of the Islamic Empire, which extended its brilliant civilization from India to Spain and made of Cordoba a little Damascus in the West.

Damascus…

To a native of Fez, Damascus could easily be a second hometown. Same semi-arid climate, same Millennium history and plethora of outstanding historical sites, same bougainvillea and jasmine bushes decorated streets, same vibrant intellectual and cultural life…Same stately demeanor of places that have moulded History.

But to me, Damascus was - above all - the city that sheltered poet Nizar Qabbani’s childhood and witnessed his first steps into the magic world of poetry. Through a lifetime of writing, Qabbani conquered the Arab world with his rebellious verses and celebrated Arab womanhood with passion and voluptuousness. The stunning sensuality of his poems pushed the boundaries of what was considered appropriate in Arabic literature, and he used to claim proudly that "one should never be horrified by sensuality but by attempts to cover up its beauty". Damascus remained a powerful muse in his poetry and in his will, which he wrote in his hospital bed in London, Nizar Qabbani wrote that he wished to be buried in Damascus, which he described as the "the womb that taught me poetry, taught me creativity and granted me the alphabet of Jasmine”.

Palestinian writer Salma Khadra Jayyusi said: “To poetry lovers, the Qabbani baptism is like a tattoo on the spirit. It cannot be removed”.
I was definitely Qabbani-baptised and as we entered Damascus, his “Jasmine Scent of Damascus” verses came to my mind:


يا شـامُ ، يا شـامَةَ الدُّنيا ، ووَردَتَه
يا مَـنْ بحُسـنِكِ أوجعـتِ الأزاميلا
ودَدْتُ لو زَرَعُـوني فيـكِ مِئـذَنَـةً
أو علَّقـونـي على الأبـوابِ قِنديـلا
يا بلْدَةَ السَّـبْعَةِ الأنهـارِ .. يا بَلَـدي
ويا قميصاً بزهـرِ الخـوخِ مشـغولا


Riding through Damascus’ large tree-lined avenues was such a great experience!
Many people were lining up along the sidewalks or on the bridges overlooking our little convoy and some of them were discretely waving us and saying “Marhaba”. There were also more women in the streets and though the majority had their hair covered, or wore the traditional Syrian hejab (a black scarf pined at the level of the chin, which was also covered), some were dressed the Western-way. But they would very often stand separately from men, and except a few ones who approached us in family (daddy, mommy and kids all together!), the others stayed far.

We passed by the famous Victoria Bridge and headed towards the Martyrs Square, named in memory of the nationalist militants who were killed by French colons at the end of the French mandate. Damascus’ buildings in the modern area of the city are very similar to Cairo’s. They MIGHT have been white decades ago but never got repainted and became greyish-brownish, giving the city a dusty and out-dated touch. Their façade is often encrusted with dozens of colourful advertisements, featuring doctors and lawyers cabinets’ names, hairdressing salons or travel agencies all together :-)

We reached the Christian neighbourhood of Bab Tuma (Saint Thomas Gate), named after Thomas, one of the 12 apostles of Jesus who is believed to have lived there for some time. It is one of the oldest boroughs of Damascus, also known as one of the city’s major shopping areas and the stores reminded me again of Cairo’s main shopping street Talaat Harb, with its colourful windows and extremely kitschy clothing :-)

Al Husseinieh Refugees' stories...

In Arab history chronicles, 1948 is often described as the year of the “Nakbah”, the “disaster”, referring to the creation of the State of Israel in historical Palestine after a UN-mediated international vote (and not a local referendum, as entailed by International Law) and to the resulting forced exile of 700 000 Palestinians from their homeland.

The “Nakbeh” was for me a series of books, conferences, TV documentaries, movies etc… It was the quill of Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish and the sweet voice of Palestinian singer Rim Banna, both celebrating their lost homeland.

As we arrived to Al Husseinieh refugees’ camp, in Damascus’ outskirts, I discovered the face of the “Nakbeh”, beyond talks and readings…

Hundreds of children, women and youth were waving olive branches, Palestinian and Syrian flags while singing popular Dabkeh song to welcome us:
"Ya halaaaaaaaaaaaa
"Eshta’na kteer ya Habayeb
"Mahma yessir ya Habayed rah netla’a Sawa
"Ya halaaaaaaaaaaaa
"Frehna Frehna w raf ettayer bejwanehna
"Kan ghiabkom jarehna w’hal rjoôkon halaaaaaaaaaaa

which translates (more or less) to:

“Be most welcome! We missed you, beloved, but were confident that we would meet soon
“Be most welcome! We were so happy that we lent our wings to the birds to fly with
“Your lasting absence was hard for us to cope with but finally you have come!"

As I spontaneously started moving my shoulders up and down following the rhythm of the song, 2 girls from the camp took my hands and dragged me into a fast-widening circle, improvising a lovely Dabkeh with other children beside the UNRWA Health centre. I was way less sure-footed than them and it took me quite a while to duplicate their frenetic steps but I think that I made a decent Moroccan Dabkeh, which got me a round of applauses at the end :-)

The kids were extremely excited and their mothers’ attempts to have them keep quite and stay in the line became quickly useless, which I found really amusing and I really wished I could talk to them all and hug and kiss them all! They were so cute!

Like Sabra and Shatila’s kids, they all answered “Palestine” to the question “Where are you from?” In fact, El Husseinieh shelters 2 different waves of refugees (and their descendants), expelled respectively in 1948 and in 1967, during the 6 Days War. The first ones proceeded from Sefad and Tabariye (Tiberias) and the second ones came from the villages of the Golan Plateau. Again, I was amazed by those kids’ strong attachment to a land they had never seen...

I arrived to the main centre surrounded by a little group of children who were all describing to me their school, friends, favourite cartoons etc in a happy squawk and stopping every now and then to pause for a new picture.
The refugees’centre is a modest building, with a small courtyard in the centre, partially covered by a thin zinc rooftop.
An old men handed me a cup of coffee… “Marhaba ya bneiti fi diar elli ma3endhon dar” (“Welcome my daughter to the home of those who have no more home”)

His greeting was simple, sincere, heart-wrenching…

I took the cup from his hands and spontaneously ducked my head to kiss them, as it is a common sign of respect to elder people in the Arab region.
“Enshallah tseer elkom diar areeb ya Aamo” I answered (Enshallah you will soon have a home uncle). He pat on my head with a bitter smile and lifted his hands to the sky: “Enshallah”… (If God wants)

During my previous visits to refugees’ camps, I had always met with people who were born there, had grown up there and who knew Palestine only through what had been told to them.In El Husseinieh, and for the first time, we met with old refugees who were born in Palestine, who had grown up playing in the shade of its olive and orange trees, and who suddenly found themselves taking the harsh road of exile in a morning of spring 1948.

“I was 10 years-old, said one of the old-ladies wearing the typical Palestinian traditional dress, and I was such a cheeky monkey! My family owned a little house in Sefad and I just loved to climb up one of the surrounding hills facing the Sea of Galilee and sit there, whiffing the delicious breeze coming from the lake.”

“I still have the smell in my nose…” she added, as her eyes watered.

“We didn’t take anything with us, said an other old woman originally from Tabariyye (Tiberias), just a few bundles where my mother - May she rest in piece - had quickly wrapped some clothes. We all thought that by the time the summer would come, we’d be back home. And it’s been almost 60 summers now…”

60 summers dreaming their homeland…

“I wish I could see it one last time before I dye…” and she burst in tears.

I had to make a huge effort to hold back mine. I hugged her tight and tried to comfort her. But I didn’t know what to say…What words could comfort an exiled?

She kept me in her arms for a few minutes and then wiped off her face with the sleeve of her dress and held firmly my face with her hands.

“You are educated and you get to travel and meet people from all over the world. Please tell them about our suffering. The world must not forget us…”

Her voice was imploring…I promised her I would do my best.

Despite the tough living conditions in the camps, I noticed that the situation of the refugees in Syria was slightly better than in Lebanon. But still, they were REFUGEES, vagabonds temporarily hosted by a foreign country that they definitely didn’t want to identify themselves to, and eagerly waiting for the day of the Return. Though the young generation was full of hope, I felt a bit of bitterness in the old one’s thoughts. As time passed, it had become more and more difficult for them to envision a solution, and even if they were convinced that their children or grandchildren would return to Palestine, one could clearly feel their despair and sadness to not be able to see their homeland before they dye...

The obligation to remember…

While I was talking to the 1rst generation of women refugees, listening to their stories and trying to cheer them up, my little new friends - 3rd and 4th generation -were standing around us, listening religiously to the stories told by the elders. While other children grew up listening to Snow White and Sleeping Beauty fairy tales, the unique tale these kids knew was named “Palestine”. The tale of a beautiful land torn down by endless battles between the “cousins”, metaphor often used in the region to describe the conflicts between Jews and Arabs…

“It is the obligation to remember” affirmed one of the women “Those kids need to know who they are and where they come from, it is the only way justice could someday be done to us”.

The fact that Palestinian refugees used a similar concept - "the obligation to remember" - as Jewish Holocaust survivors did to describe the sad episodes of their respective history is quite interesting. The Nakbah (forced exile of 700 000 Palestinians from their land) and the Shoah (extermination of around 5 million Jews in European death camps) are 2 different historical realities but they seem to have strongly shaped the collective memory of the 2 people the exact same way.

I didn’t want to get into politics… I had a lifetime to do that but a few hours only to spend with an absolutely adorable group of kids and to try to have them forget their burdensome status of eternal refugees for a little while.

I sat with them in circle nearby the health centre and started asking each one of them what s/he wanted to be in the future. Rama, a cute little blondie wanted to become a doctor, “to heal her grandmother” she said. M’hammad wanted to be a doctor too, but he specified that he wanted to be a paediatrician, as “old people are not nice”. My emergency shifts at the Paediatric hospital were none of my best memories as a Medical Intern but I found his spontaneity so cute! Yunis, Rama’s cousin, wanted to be a teacher, Elias a pharmacist, to “give free drugs to all the inhabitants of the camp”. Cute boy! Maissa wanted to be a teacher too, but a sports’ teacher as she imagined it would be the only career that wouldn’t make her spend her time in a classroom. Smart girly! I told them a bit about my cheeky monkey years, my hanky pankies at school,my passion for "Captain Majeed", famous cartoons'character, my flamenco dance lessons...

Time to leave again…and again, I didn’t want to leave.

Rama took my hand “Don’t go! Stay with us!”.
Habibtiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!
I really wished I could…

After a few more pictures, they all threw their arms around me, repeating “Don’t go! Don’t go!”

“Study well kids! And be good! You are the hope of your homeland Palestine”

It’s the only thing that came to my mind while kissing them goodbye. I turned my back and left, as they started singing Fairuz famous goodbye song “Zuruni kole sana mara, Haram tensouni” (Visit us every year that passes, don’t forget us”)

How could I forget them?

I didn’t want to look back…and as we were leaving El Husseiniah at the end of the day, the tears that I have been holding back rolled down my cheeks.

The Nakbeh wasn’t anymore a cold historical fact. It had a face now.
The face of the old men who offered us coffee, of the women who shared with us their stories and of hundred of children like Rama, Maissa, Mhammad, Yunis and Elias who were cultivating hope…and waiting…