they had begun nearly a year ago at the ambassador’s house, as if the intervening months had been no more than a trip to the powder room.
“We were talking of the differences between my country and Lebanon,” said Madame Jezzine.
“You have a good memory,” said Rogers.
“I thought later,” she continued, “of one difference that would perhaps help you to understand all the others.”
“I would like to hear it.”
“The best way to explain it is for me to ask you some questions. Yes?”
“Yes,” said Rogers.
“In America, what kind of houses did your pioneers build?”
Rogers thought a moment.
“Wood, mostly,” he answered.
“Of course! That is what we read in all our histories of America. Your famous pioneers exploring the vast continent, building their famous log cabins. Living in one for a few years and then moving on to build another log cabin somewhere else. That is our picture of America: a land of fields and forests and houses made of wood. Is it accurate?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Rogers. He found the Lebanese woman irresistible.
“Now,” she continued, “what kind of houses do we Lebanese build?”
Rogers looked at the walls of the Jezzine house, and through the window at the houses of the village. Every single one was built of the same material.
“Stone,” said Rogers.
“Correct!” said Madame Jezzine. “Now what does that tell you about the Lebanese? It tells you that we build our houses to last forever. A Lebanese man builds the house that he will die in, that his sons and grandsons will die in. He may go away to work in Africa or even America. But he will always come home to that stone house. For him, there is nothing else on earth except his house and his village.”
“I see your point.”
“Do you?” asked the Lebanese woman. “Are you sure that you do? Imagine for a moment what this man in his stone house will feel if he suddenly sees other people in his midst, who have come into his country and are building houses of their own in the shadow of his village. Do you think he will feel threatened?”
“Who might these newcomers be?” asked Rogers, already knowing the answer.
“The Palestinians, of course!” said Madame Jezzine. “As I told you once before, they are destroying my country.”
Their conversation was interrupted by an attractive woman sitting across the table, next to General Jezzine. She was a cousin visiting for the day, and she was dressed in the most exquisite summer outfit of silk and jade and pearls.
“Did you hear the news on the radio this morning?” asked the woman slyly. There was a look of pure malice on her face.
“No,” said Madame Jezzine.
“There was a bomb in one of the Palestinian refugee camps.”
“Was anyone killed?” asked General Jezzine.
“Malheureusement, no,” said the cousin. “Perhaps next time.” That was her joke. She laughed and put one of her long slender fingers delicately on the strand of pearls around her neck.
A waiter arrived with a tray piled high with roast quail, which had been shot by one of the general’s sons. Madame Jezzine turned to Rogers and said quietly: “Do you see what I mean?”
Rogers nodded.
There was gay banter around the table. Rogers got into a conversation with a young man seated on his left, who was married to the well-dressed cousin. He was a smooth, carefully groomed young businessman who was working in Saudi Arabia. His name was Elias, and he seemed to have many political contacts in Lebanon and abroad. He made rude comments about the Saudis and their backwardness through much of the lunch.
When the meal was nearly done, Rogers turned back to his hostess. He spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard by General Jezzine.
“Suppose I wanted to understand better the views of the Lebanese Christians,” said Rogers. “Who would you suggest that I go see?”
Madame Jezzine deliberated for a moment.
“My confessor,” she said softly. “Father Maroun Lubnani.”
“Where is he?” asked Rogers.
“Kaslik!” boomed a voice from across the table. It was the voice of General Jezzine. The usually stone-faced man was smiling.
22
Beirut; July 1970
Rogers travelled several nights later to the University of the Holy Ghost at Kaslik. It was a spectacular drive up the coastal highway, through East Beirut and the harbor of Jounie. There was a full moon out, painting a silvery beam across the Mediterranean and casting faint shadows within the dark stone cloisters of the university. It was an eerie landscape, drawn in shades of black, like a photographic negative come to life.
Kaslik was a symbol of Lebanon’s troubles. Once a sleepy religious institution, the university had in recent years become a center for militant Maronitism, a place where priests and students met to discuss Christian political tactics rather than theology. The issue was Christian survival, argued the firebrands of Kaslik. The Palestinian commandos had tipped the political balance in Lebanon toward the Moslems, endangering the protected status of the Christians. Some of the Maronite theorists went further and advanced the ultimate Arab heresy: the Lebanese Christians were like the Jews of Israel! Both were tiny islands in a hostile sea of Islam and Arabism. Before it was too late, the Christians should emulate the Jews and vanquish their enemies.
Father Maroun Lubnani met Rogers at the gate and escorted him to his monastic cell, a simple room that contained a narrow brass bed, a desk, two chairs, and a crucifix. Father Maroun was a sturdy man, built like a football linebacker. He wore a simple cassock with a rope belt, as if to say: I am a humble friar. Rogers didn’t believe it. He introduced himself to the Lebanese cleric discreetly, identifying himself only as a representative of the U.S. government who worked at the embassy.
Father Maroun gestured with his hand as if to say: Come now. Do you take me for a fool? The priest appeared surprised when Rogers spoke to him in Arabic. He said he would prefer to speak in French.
“Are you acquainted with the history of our Church in the Middle East?” Father Maroun asked.
Rogers didn’t answer, but it seemed that no response was required. Father Maroun had a prepared text.
“It is a history, I may say, of survival. It is the story of a mountain people who would not surrender their faith or their liberty.” As he spoke, the priest gestured with his large, thick fingers.
“Our ancestors sought refuge in Mount Lebanon thirteen hundred years ago, following a theological dispute in which they sided with Rome against Byzantium. They were driven from northern Syria into these mountains, and their ancestors have remained here ever since.”
The priest paused.
“Fighting for survival,” ventured Rogers.
Father Maroun looked at him with the pained expression of a professor whose lecture has been interrupted by an over-eager pupil. He arched his eyebrows and continued.
“The Maronites were never warriors. We were montagnards who fought only to protect ourselves. We welcomed other persecuted minorities into our midst: Greek Orthodox, Melchite and Syriac Christians, Druse and Alawite Moslems.
“As the centuries passed, we saw the rise of Islam and the periodic slaughter of Christians in the Middle East. The Armenians in Turkey, the Copts in Egypt, the Greeks in Anatolia. We saw people driven from their land. The Armenians lost their ancient kingdom. The Palestinians lost Palestine. The Jews themselves left Israel and
