In the Air of Brummana

If the villager in my country could make of his village alone a republic unto itself, he would not hesitate... The Zahlawi is a Zahlawi before he is a Lebanese, and so with the man of Shweir, the man of Bhamdoun, and the rest. For every town or village of ours in Lebanon has its own particular color, its distinctive stamp, its familiar dialect, and its legends and strange tales that grandsons hand down from grandfathers and sons from fathers. And how grand those legends are when fancy colors them and the naive imagination toys with them — an imagination that never soars beyond the bounds of the village, but flutters over its leafy wood, hovers about its dark caves, swims in the waters of its unfailing springs, and alights in its lonely windings and its rugged, deserted paths.

Come with me to one of the villages of the ancient Metn... Brummana, that gentle town grown up in the lap of aged pine forests. In Brummana, as in every village, there are stories, tales, and scenes. The shadow of the past has not receded from that patch of my country; it still hangs here and there over houses upon which time has dined and supped, and over gaunt, pallid huts... and who knows — perhaps they were the palaces of yesterday!!

The pictures and tales of the past are tended and minded by none but the old folk, who, if they could, would stop the wheel of time so that we might live forever the life of yesterday — rich in its restful simplicity, in its stability — as they describe it, naturally!

I came upon Abu Salim sitting at the doorway of his house, which exceeds him in age and years. I greeted him with a Lebanese greeting, which he returned with a hospitable, welcoming smile. Abu Salim wished to talk with me, to empty out the memories and tales the past had stored in his pouch before he should take final leave of his house, his field, and his vineyard... I stood listening as he spoke in a Lebanese Brummana dialect unmarred by polish or refinement, and knew him for a Druze, sounding the heavy qaf without twist or softening!.. Abu Salim told me of the beautiful life of the past, which has no equal.. of his ceaseless struggle to win the blessed morsel of bread.. of the townsfolk's love for one another.. of the heroism of his forefathers and their renown — one of them had been among the valiant soldiers of Ibrahim Pasha.. another had subdued lions and tamed them with a single one of his piercing glances.. and another had killed "the hyena" with one blow of his thick stick, which he had brought back with him from the land of "Argentina." Abu Salim also told me of the generosity and openhandedness of our forefathers, of their piety and their tolerance — except where the guarding of honor was concerned — and then he said: "Tfouh.. on these days, and a thousand tfouhs!! Days when a woman has become free, loose, and straying (saving the listeners' presence!) — she raises her voice like a man, talks politics, and comes and goes without leave or license!"

And in the thick of this onslaught a woman's voice rose from inside the house: "Oh, come now!! You forgot, Abu Salim.. you forgot to tell her about Umm Salim, about her toiling and moiling... washing here, baking here, drudging away over yonder to help you bear the times?! What ails you, you ingrate?!"

And through the darkness of the room I glimpsed the shadow of a woman whom infirmity had overtaken before her husband, confining her to bed most of her days — one of the unknown women-soldiers of our mountain!..

★

And Brummana keeps pace with the current of progress and prosperity, for the movement of building and construction there goes forward apace. As for the hotels, they are very many, crouching on nearly every hilltop or the slope of some pretty knoll. Most of their guests are our Iraqi brethren, people of good cheer and song. At the "Pine Palace Hotel" I came upon an Iraqi boy singing, and I interrupted to ask him his favorite song. He answered at once: "'Ammi ya bayya' al-ward" — "Uncle, O seller of roses." And when I mentioned to him the song "Ya 'awazil falfilu," which has become more widespread than "Kulluna lil-watan lil-'ula lil-'alam," he laughed and said with brimming wit:

"We love roses, not pepper!" And in Brummana there is an elite of the people of learning and letters — an elite whose work and bent oblige it to live an aristocratic, half-secluded life.

Of that elite I came to know Dr. Constantine Zurayk, vice-president of the American University of Beirut. The most delightful thing about him is that he comes up specially from Beirut every day at noon to eat the rich, delicious food prepared for him by his daughter Ilham. And the cherished cook is not yet past her thirteenth year. Do you see how times have turned and changed, so that children now feed their fathers?

As for Dr. Jibrail Jabbour, head of the Arabic department at the University, he knows neither boredom nor weariness in his work, for he is writing a book on the life of the Bedouin in the desert of Syria — not in the forests of Brummana, of course.. And don't ask about his colleague Dr. Anis Frayha, of whom we hear much and whom we rarely see. This time he is busy with something other than writing — wonder of wonders — for he is supervising the building of his house, or rather his edifice, on a lovely spot in Brummana. Who says literature builds no houses?!

As for Dr. Kamal al-Yaziji, he is one of those who suit the word to the occasion and dress every situation in its proper garb. He appears to live that life which vacation imposes on every man, whereby what was his work in winter becomes a hobby and a pastime, not a duty and an unavoidable routine. Thus in those few months he has ample scope for savoring the beauty of living nature!

Among Brummana's constant summer residents is the educator Mrs. Wadad Cortas — but the summer of the likes of Mrs. Cortas is as their winter... work and constant work, whether at home or in society..

I searched for woman in Brummana and found her a poor, industrious mother, toiling and laboring to earn her bread. Then I found her a tender nun, sheltering orphans, educating the village children, and giving to the needy with her right hand without her left hand knowing it — a nun living with her companions in the convent of Mar Mansour, which was formerly a splendid palace of Emir Mansour al-Lamai, one of the rulers of the Metn. And I found her, too, a gracious, hospitable, cultivated lady of the salon. Thus I made the acquaintance of Mrs. Salma Rizk, manager of the "Park Hotel," the oldest and most beautiful of the hotels of Lebanon. All the people of Brummana remember the admiration of the former King of Greece for that lady's personality, her intelligence, and her fine management, when he visited Brummana and stayed as a guest of the Rizk family at the "Park Hotel." Today she is president of an organized charitable

association which will hold, in the middle of this month, a charity bazaar whose proceeds are earmarked for works of piety and benevolence.

And I found woman in Brummana sharing man's labors and his problems. Circumstance led me to a meeting with Mrs. Angele Abi Samra, manager of the beautiful Pine Palace Hotel. From her conversation I gathered that she is a capable lady who has lived a life of struggle, work, and service. It is enough, in my eyes, that she is both mother and father to her children.

As for politics, Mrs. Angele has made happy forays into it... She was the right hand of her late uncle Emile Lahoud, and today she is counselor to her brother, the deputy Salim Lahoud.. Who can deny that it is hard, delectable work?!..

I saw much in Brummana, and the journey's end was a Bedouin fortune-teller who hurried up to me to tell me my present and my future. Among the things she said: "You are going to travel — say God willing! You are going to receive a letter — say God willing.. there are people who hate you and envy you — say God forbid.." and other such predictions, the only ones she knows, which she repeats in sundry manners into the ears of every passerby who stops her or whom she stops. Then she said: "Something is troubling you.. you are sorry about something.." That was the truest thing she told me — without her knowing it, of course — for I was sorry for how much I did not know of my country and my country's people.

In every corner of Lebanon, as in Brummana, there are scenes, tales, and lessons.. They are a part of our country and our heritage — shall we not seek them out, search for them, and come to know them?..