Between Me and the Old Lebanese Woman!...

Thoughts inspired by the cover picture
of "The Woman's Voice"... July 1953

A First Encounter

The moment I received this issue of our excellent magazine, and after I had opened the cover and scrutinized its picture, I happened, on my way, to meet the editor-in-chief; and I could not help but greet her and then at once raise an objection to that wrinkled, frowning face heading this elegant magazine, at a time when other magazines adorn themselves with fresh, radiant, smiling countenances. I completed my protest, though granting in fairness that the picture is not without charm — but from an esthetic standpoint it does not please the buyer's eye, nor invite immediate admiration. And after Edvick Jureidini Shayboub had heard everything I said in this hasty outburst, with her habitual calm and her keen shrewdness she did not retort, as she would have had every right to do, "And who asked your opinion of the cover picture?" or "Who says your judgment is the measure of esthetic or commercial values in literature?" Instead she referred me to the paragraph on the following page which explains it. Then we exchanged a "smiling" farewell and parted... And from that moment — I do not know whether it was the old woman's picture alone, or the editor's quiet defense of it, or both together — an army of passing fancies was stirred up that would not leave my imagination until I withdrew into myself and said, "Let me look again at what the paragraph explains." Then I bent over the furrowed face, and behold, it unfolded its features and its secrets; light glowed in the two eyes that probed the depths of my perplexed soul, and the tight-pressed mouth opened upon a tried and tested wisdom and said:

The Old Woman Speaks

I was taken aback by the question of the modern, emancipated woman — I, the old, the fettered one — when the issues of her magazine appeared at the opening of her new era, asking whether I had "anything to offer her" in her present general stage; for I do not know how to read, and no tie binds me to Western civilization; I understand nothing of politics, and I was not reared on the complicated social creeds.... I am nature's fosterling and the trueborn daughter of Lebanon... My modern sister described me as having "wisdom, firmness, and endurance." But in truth, whatever wisdom my features betray is with me nothing but instinct; what she called firmness is in me suppleness; and what she named endurance is the power of continuance, nature's law and nothing more:

I have never once forced my soul to do what it abhors, nor have I sought a contrived, deceiving happiness. "I weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice." I hold duty sacred — it is my religion — and I labor, toiling and content, for the sake of my little kingdom, like the bee going from flower to flower gathering honey. I am kind to the stranger and good to the neighbor; a word of thanks means more to me than the wreckage of this fleeting world. I am tender toward my kin and do not belittle them, and I look up to those above me with an eye of trust and esteem. I set truth in the place of the soul. I scorn flattery and begging, and I temper self-love with charity and giving. The most precious thing I own is my health — no argument there, for "a sound mind is in a sound body" — and in this nature is my ally; she is for me the most effective tonic and physician. We work together, nature and I: I do not push her from me by overtaxing my strength, nor does she push me away ungrateful for her bounty... Her law is moderation, and her code is growth and ascent.

Caught Between Two Things

I said to myself, while the old woman rambled on without end: "Very well —

high-sounding sayings we have heard so often and believed; very good indeed — but what are we to do with civilization?" And I fell to thinking again of this mighty civilization that has made bodily comfort so alluring to man that he has become its slave, while in truth it wears out his brain and his nerves and robs him of the soul's solace and its peace. A violent loathing for it took hold of me, for I found myself in revolt against it, yet unable to retreat backward to primitive nature; and what if I gave my soul free rein while all around me were the worshippers of its idols and the servants of matter, which is its instrument?

It was as if my discerning companion perceived the snare into which she had cast me, and wished to make her purpose plain. So she addressed me first:

— I am nature's fosterling. And you?

— Nature is my mother, though I have forgotten her..

— And her law — what is it? Do you remember?

— Moderation; and their code is growth and ascent.

— And civilization — is that not also growth and ascent?

— Indeed it is..

— Then what would you say to a natural, moderate civilization?!

A Middle Way

This conclusion pleased me; I rejoiced, my care was lifted, and I marveled at my unlettered teacher. But my joy did not last long before one final question shattered my ease....

— But civilization knows no moderation; it stops at no limit; it has no mercy; it goes on and on...

— It is for you to curb its tyranny and hold it within its fruitful, useful bounds. This is my message to you above all... that you take in hand the reins of the age's temptations and appetites...

"So that if it should happen that you are left twenty-four hours without a maid, your whole being is not shaken. Or if someone comes in upon you before your lips are freshened — do you not steal away to the mirror before you say: Good day?"

If you can shed a tear not at the cinema

but over some poor wretch.

Or if your soul thrills to the trilling of the birds and the dances of the daughters of dawn.

If your husband's relatives direct a word of criticism at you and you do not lose your balance.

Or if your neighbor summers in Europe and you do not burn with envy and spite.

If the artiste swaggers down the street in trousers and you do not lie awake wide-eyed with shock.

Or if whisky is set before you, you refuse it without flinching.

If you do not smoke until your breath reeks with the perfume of tobacco.

Or if you rise fresh and radiant to build up life and energy in those around you.

"Come back to nature — to running on your own two feet, to sweat, to the scorching sun in the generous plains or the rugged terraces. Here are the hills and hollows my feet have known stone by stone since the days when I was a bounding gazelle; and I shall remain in love with them until movement fails me and my breast embraces their dust in the last sleep."

And When We Met Again...

The old woman's face faded from me after I had come over to her way, and I resolved to greet the first signs of dawn the next day on one of the peaks of Lebanon. And when I rose for my early walk, exercising my legs on the narrow winding paths and opening my lungs to the pure breezes, I began to chant the words of Rose Ghorayeb:

Whenever the east wind blows,
my heart is shaken with longing for the days of youth,

and it drifts toward the hills,
where the spring-water glistens...

And my eye fell — while I was still on the slope — upon "a burial ground of one of the far-off villages, where one of the Lebanese grandmothers lies at rest — nay, one of those struggling heroines, number one," in the words of Salma Sayegh... I let my gaze linger on the enchanted spot, and her words of yesterday flashed through my mind; then I turned back slowly, the morning breeze playing with my hair and the forenoon sun kissing my cheeks, while a heart completed the song...

drawing from her resolve and guidance,
humble to the end of days.