Three Poems and Essay
Beirut Raining, Then and Now
鈥�Les Libanais n鈥檕nt plus de larmes
French newspaper
Ah鈥擝eirut, they say,
is like a bride in a white flowing dress
running along the Corniche鈥�
dodging death mid-air鈥�
her dark hair flying in the seawind.
It鈥檚 the scent of violets
returning and returning
like her scattered children
who ran away and left their shoes behind鈥�
It鈥檚 a mirror inside a mirror,
our lost ones peering back
over their shoulders, waiting for us
the way the sea waits for us
before we plunge into it鈥�
into that dreamy underwater world,
into that breathless current
that will, at last, hold us steadfastly.
Ah鈥擝eirut– jewel of the Mediterranean,
the Corniche, moonshell of the sea
where the bread peddler labors
in the sun riding his bicycle鈥�
loaves hanging from his handle bars,
where young men in sweats
turn their backs to the seawind,
cell phones pressed to their ears,
sweet talking their girlfriends
while waves crash into the seawall
and collapse into themselves,
where a young boy stood,
leaning over the railing
imagining another world,
not counting the cost of leaving.
Where an old man, fish on a wire
glinting in the winter sun,
heads home through the broken
city streets鈥� where during daily ceasefires
venders sold cigarettes and valium,
the gorgeous call to prayer undulating
in the air around us, where during
the lunacy of war, cars were stolen
daily to be recovered in a flash
at the infamous Stolen Car Lot鈥�
for a hefty price, of course.
Where the victim thanked the dealer
for the privilege of buying back his car,
and offering him another fist full of cash,
a reward for the miracle of
what he left untouched in the trunk,
where the dealer, skilled in chicanery,
refused (but then accepted, of course) so that
in this charade, both saved face. All the while
sorties from the south were streaking the skies,
diving low over the city shattering windows
in the glow of phosphorus, Peace for Galilee
they called it. F15s, Phantoms, Kfirs鈥�
You know the rest because, as we say,
whenever clouds gather in the Arab world,
it rains in Beirut, then and now.
It鈥檚 a dark singing rain falling
through the trees from the Great River to
the Beqaa to the ruins of Mt Hermon
above the clouds, that forsaken sanctuary of
temple and stone, lions made from
the bedrock of the mountain.
It鈥檚 a dark, incendiary rain coming
from every direction, south and east
to the sea to the heart. Ah 鈥搒tricken Beirut,
trial by fire, trial by grace,
no matter what lifts you up, still you fall
when the rains come alive with fire.
And still we carry on, sing these songs for
the lost ones, our collective lamentation,
a bottomless dirge and still 听
our ritual incantation:
khalas kafa, wallah kafa鈥�鈥�
all the while marveling at the smoky
beauty of Beirut in the dark singing rain
that never fails to bring us to our knees.
Notes:
In Arabic, Khalas: stop; 听wallah: by God; kafa: enough.
Les Libanais n鈥檕nt plus de larmes: the Lebanese have no more tears.
The image of Beirut as a bride from Zena el Khoury鈥檚, Beirut, I Love You.
The stolen car lot anecdote from Beirut Fragments: A War Memoir, by Jean Said Makdisi.
Operation Eternal Darkness
In Beirut, it鈥檚 called Black Wednesday,
April 8, 2026, and my brother鈥檚 birthday,
though he did not live to see it this year.
Also, it was the International Day of Pink.
People worldwide wore pink
to stand against discrimination and hate.
Yet, on that day, also the seventh day of Passover
when traditionally the Song of the Sea is sung
for redemption, the IDF launched
Operation Eternal Darkness, instead,
bombing Beirut using massive munitions,
using white phosphorus burning people to the bone鈥�
and scorching the land for generations to come.
All this after a declared ceasefire.
50 IDF fighter jets from the south launched
160 missiles and hit 100 targets in our ancient city
inhabited steadily for more than 5,000 years鈥�
all in ten minutes.
听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听No warning. Just raining down
death on 360 souls, 1000 injured and still counting.
Charred bodies were found in vehicles
at busy city intersections like the Corniche al-Mazzraa.
How are we to understand this鈥�
Operation Eternal Darkness leveled on civilians
by those who themselves suffered
eternal darkness and vowed never again鈥�
for anyone.
听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 My mother used to say, This from our cousins?
We are from the same bloodline: Abraham, Sarah and Hagar.
听
Oh, yes, it and the rest of the on-going destruction,
was condemned by 30 nation states on the record
at the UN, not to mention Amnesty International
and the ICC, not to mention the constant cry of
war crimes and international arrest warrants issued.
But we are still counting more dead every day,
3700 in three months, so far. The aggressors claim
self-defense, targeted attacks, the same verbiage from
colonizers who dispossessed a whole indigenous people.
Oh, yes, I think鈥攖argeted attacks鈥�
the same claim for the 73,000 killed in Gaza,
the 170,000 injured to finish off Hamas
by the very same regime that supported it for decades,
funneling cash transfers to them through Qatar.
All the while the episodes of killing they call
mowing the grass continued. Targeted killing鈥�
they say, but we know it is collective punishment
and a blatant land grab: 听Operation Greater Israel,
they are not shy about saying so.
听
We may seem blind now here in the West,
but some of us are wearing pink every day.
We do what little we can while bearing witness
even as we remember our beautiful
Beirut Garden of Forgiveness鈥�Hadiqat As-Samah,
a public peace garden, just steps from Martyr鈥檚 Square,
where we walked with reverence,
knowing the white jasmine planted there,
symbolizing respect, humility and enduring love,
will bloom every spring
whether we live hereafter to see it or not.
The SS France and the Ruthless Furnace of this World
for my father鈥檚 sister
鈥淗e first heard of the fate of his family in March of last year when a cablegram announcing the death of seven of them reached him the day he returned from a year鈥檚 service in uniform.鈥�
The North Adams Evening Transcript, April 17, 1920
The Versailles of the Atlantic, they called her,
听 听 floating luxury liner, all gold leaf and
burning crystal light, turned into a hospital ship
听 听 in those days after the war.
The shudder and roll of the vessel, the sea collapsing
听 听 around her, a vestibule of diving fish
in the current far from Le Havre鈥�
听 听 barely noticeable, I鈥檓 sure, high above
the waterline. But below, how the heaving
听 听 must have sickened them, the bereaved,
the war-ravished, Melvina, called Mouna
听 听 after her mother (meaning wish or desire),
among them, all having fled鈥擥reater Syria,
听 听 that world鈥攁 flooded river of cemeteries.
听 听 She and her family, all nine of them,
fled death in the high villages,
听 听 the river Adonis flowing blood-red
mixed with iron ore in the melting snow.
听 听 No dying god then in the arms of another.
Rather the revenge of the Ottomans,
听 听 losing the war, sanctioned the Mountain
and blockaded the seaports.
听 听 This and the Great Famine,
a plague of locusts straight out of Exodus,
听 听 crushed the Levant.
After tens of thousands perished there,
听 听 they walked nine days, hungry and
barefoot, from Beirut to Damascus,
听 听 chaotic city of influenza and enemy troops,
and where she was stolen, a child
听 听 swept up one night while sleeping in her bed.
Ten days later, when she overheard
听 听 the slave trader鈥檚 plan to sell her,
she cut off all her hair
听 听 and during the distraction of ablutions,
escaped into the desert dressed as a boy鈥�
听 听 Finally, she wandered into the dust and
squalor of Wady Oran.听 Hiding there
听 听 from the soldiers of god, marauding
bands on horseback, others in motor convoys,
听 听 she curled up inside a wheat sack
in the back of a supply wagon,
听 听 that airless place between death and survival.
It rambled on to Tripoli and finally Beirut
听 听 where, at last, the Red Cross found her.
Then her long passage out of that world,
听 听 the cavalcade of violence,
began: Beirut to Egypt, Egypt to France鈥�
听 听 France to New York.
After the ship arrived, the stewards said
听 听 when she heard nearly all in her family
were gone, some buried, some not,
听 听 they found her asleep on the floor
below deck, rinsed in her own tears.
听 听 She had drawn a circle,
a crude mother-image, I鈥檓 sure,
听 听 and fell asleep inside it.
She said all her life, vacillating between
听 听 this world and that one,
between one self and the other,
听 听 that she still longed for the high village,
her father鈥檚 orange and lemon groves,
听 听 mornings with her mother by the fire鈥�
her brothers and sisters鈥�
听 听 the hardship and the abundance of it all.
In the end, when I last saw her,
听 听 an old woman, long widowed,
we sat together in her cold North Adams kitchen
听 听 before dawn. She had fired up
the cast iron stove, opened the oven door to
听 听 a rushing wall of heat
and using a handmade bread board,
听 听 deftly slid the flattened rounds on to
a heavy iron slab inside, the custom one
听 听 her Harry, she said, had made for her.
In minutes, they puffed up paper-thin,
听 听 hollow and steaming inside.
Straight out of the fire,
听 听 she served them to me like that,
small dishes of yogurt cheese
听 听 and olives on the side.
Eat, honey, eat, she said to me, watching
听 听 closely and smoking a cigarette.
Finally, in her strong, raspy voice, she said,
听
When your father first saw me,
听 听 he hoisted my leather satchel up
over his shoulder and walked weeping
听 听 to the rails of the ship
to heave it overboard into the harbor.
听 听 He held on to me as we watched it sink
below the surface鈥攁s if that life
听 听 might so easily vanish like that.
Truth is鈥攈e never got over it鈥�
听 that鈥檚 why he died young.
听
Then all at once, she got up from the table,
听 听 opened the heavy oven door,
and facing the blue flame, began again.
Note: 鈥淭he Ruthless Furnace of this World鈥澨� comes from Jack Gilbert鈥檚 鈥淎 Brief for Defense.鈥�
Olive Trees and a Hunter鈥檚 Moon
Haas Mroue was my friend, but seemed more like a brother to me. The last time I saw him was for one day in February 2007. He had been living half-time in Port Townsend, Washington, and half time in London, where his mother resided. I had been living for decades in Hawai驶i, so there was always the distance, but we managed to navigate it. 听He called me one day that February to say he was flying out to see me the following day. He had booked a one-night stay in a Waik墨k墨 hotel. That he would fly over five thousand miles round trip for a one-night stay was extraordinary, but that was Haas, extraordinary. I was thrilled. The next morning, I made a batch of gazpacho for him for the evening then drove to the airport to pick him up. We decided to go to the Kahala Hotel near Diamond Head. We sat all afternoon there at the outdoor bar area fronting the ocean. 听He was delighted to introduce me to mojitos while we talked story鈥攁bout writing, his teaching at Berkeley in the Poets for the People series, about travel, food (he loved to cook) and Lebanon, the civil war (1975鈥�1990) during which he had grown up. And, he talked again about his father鈥檚 death six months before he was born, all the things that haunted him and inspired his writing. He flew back home the following day. He would be going to London, then to Beirut on a year鈥檚 sabbatical and wanted to see me before leaving.
Though we didn鈥檛 know it then, it was fitting that our last hours together were spent at the Kahala Hotel as our first visit together had been there nearly fifteen years before. Haas had come to Honolulu to do a reading from his collection of poems, Beirut Seizures, and I had been in the audience that night. 听After his powerful reading of war poems, we had an easy and meaningful conversation. There was an immediate recognition of all we had in common being Lebanese: the language (he spoke Arabic, English, and French, as many in Lebanon do), and especially certain idiosyncratic Lebanese customs. We were both foodies who loved to entertain friends. Lebanese hospitality is legendary. Then there was our love of poetry, so we decided to meet at the Kahala Hotel for lunch the next day.
That was the beginning of a deep and abiding friendship that included writing letters, sharing poems and stories constantly and having long phone conversations about poetry and Lebanon, my family鈥檚 tragic history there and his experience of growing up during the Lebanese civil war. He returned to Hawai驶i later to teach a class at the University of Hawai驶i M膩noa on travel writing and to give another reading from his new book. Having traveled the world, he had more than twenty travel books to his credit in addition to collections of poems, short stories, and plays.听 He had studied the craft both at the Sorbonne in Paris and at UCLA. 听He was an incredibly kind and generous person, as when he arranged an invitation from UC Berkeley for me to do a reading from my book of poems and conduct a poetry session with his graduate class. His students openly displayed their warmest affection and respect for him. We had a fabulous time at Berkeley together.
I can say that after many visits, as a house guest he was exceptional. He would often bring me a box of Lebanese specialty items, including the exotic pomegranate syrup. He took over the kitchen to show me how to make Fattoush, a wonderful Lebanese salad using the specialty ingredients that he brought with him.听 And another time he insisted on making another fine dinner of Kibi and Lebanese rice pilaf along with a yogurt cucumber and mint salad for my brother who had flown in from California for a short visit.听 One summer, we spent long weekends at a friend鈥檚 house on the beach at Rocky Point, on O’ahu鈥檚 north shore. 听I would often find Haas out on the sprawling white beach around sunrise. He would be working out the plot progression of a new screenplay.听 Those quiet times on the beach, in the water, were marvelous.
Later our time together would come to include my travel to San Diego to visit his friends and my family, to Marin County鈥攁 writer鈥檚 retreat that was really an excuse to tour wineries and have wonderful dinners together at the vineyard鈥檚 edge. Later, it included a trip to Paris, the South of France, and Monaco. Haas was writing an updated version of his fourth edition of Frommer鈥檚 Memorable Walks in Paris, and we did them all together. This included evaluating the dining experience in various restaurants. What a way for me to see Paris for the first time! 听We stayed in a hole-in-the-wall hotel near the Pont d鈥� l鈥橝lma near where the golden flame for Princess Diana was erected, but we also enjoyed our complimentary rooms at the Plaza Athene, where we had sumptuous meals. Among many outings, we had lunch one day at the Closerie des Lilas, where Hemingway wrote most of The Sun Also Rises. Haas knew the City of Lights like the back of his hand.听
Then we flew to Nice to visit his auntie in her villa in the hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. 听We drove the Cote d鈥橝zur, had the best fish cassoulet and pear sorbet one night in San Tropez. We marveled at the midnight moon over the peninsula at St. Jean Cap Ferrat. After a day at the beach, La Plage Tahiti, we enjoyed a wonderful meal in the mountains of Ramatuelle, sitting near a grove of lit up olive trees that quivered in the wind and reminded us of how the olive branch is a symbol of peace. That had been a night of peace and friendship we both treasured. The meal ended with fresh figs and a Rose wine. But Haas always carried the weight of the war, his childhood trauma, with him wherever he went. You could feel it. 听In a way, we had that in common as my Christian family had suffered sectarian violence in Lebanon and eventually died there during the first world war, a transgenerational trauma, I have come to believe, that flows in the veins. Still, he had always urged me to visit Beirut. It鈥檚 good now, he would say, you have to go.听
Eventually, we planned a trip to Lebanon together for the summer of 2006. Haas had said that after the end of the long war it was undergoing a massive renaissance, so many young people returning, the outdoor caf茅s were crowded and the energy in the city was electric.听 I bought my ticket, and we were ready to leave in days. But then the July war between Israel and Hezbollah broke out. 听Thirty-three days of carpet bombing destroyed everything as far as Jounieh, 20 kilometers north of Beirut. I had been emailing Haas鈥檚 cousin, Lena, during the bombing campaign that had nearly reached her village, Beit Meri, above Beirut. She said in one message to me, you must have been born under a lucky star not to be here now.听 I was heartbroken that my first trip to Beirut where my father had been born, where my mother鈥檚 people had lived, was cancelled. And, I was heartbroken for Lebanon again suffering more destruction. Haas was devastated to know that Lebanon was under fire again.
He died suddenly in Beirut while on sabbatical the following year. It was during the month of October when a huge Hunter鈥檚 moon was glowing orange in the night sky, a signal to prepare for winter. And, it was not so long after our last visit in Hawai驶i.听 He had been fixing dinner for friends in his mother鈥檚 flat in Hamra and was having a glass of wine on his balcony when his heart gave out.听 He was forty-one years old. I have always felt that he was a later casualty of the civil war. As Etel Adnan says of his poems, 鈥渢he old order and the new have created a brotherhood of disasters.鈥� The loss was immense.听 I flew to Port Townsend for a memorial that was being held for him there.听 The following day, I walked out on the dock in front of his home with glorious views of the Straits of San Juan de Fuca, and I remembered how often he had said he loved this landscape, the quiet, peaceful place that it was for him finally.
In the spring of 2009, I made my first visit to Lebanon with my daughter. We had been invited to show our work together at the Sharjah, UAE Biennial. Only a three-hour plane ride away, we organized a side trip to Beirut. The destruction of the 2006 war was visible everywhere as was the rebuilding Lebanon has repeatedly undertaken. The resilience of these people is remarkable. Nothing breaks their spirit. The energy of the city was still electric, vibrant, just as Haas had said.听 I was thrilled to finally walk the streets where my parents and grandparents had started out, but I was sad not to be discovering all of it with Haas. We found our ancestral village in the Chouf mountains, which Haas had visited and written to me about, and we visited Byblos, the ancient harbor full of fishing boats rocking back and forth in the March wind. Finally, we travelled south to Saida (Sidon) to visit his Aunt Ruby and Uncle Farid.听 听It was a pilgrimage in so many ways.听 We had a long visit together by the fireplace in their study, sharing memories of Haseeb. (Because he traveled so much, Haas had legally changed his name, as it caused constant racial profiling at airports.) Later that afternoon Farid drove us to a cemetery overlooking the sea, the entrance guarded by a soldier in fatigues with an automatic weapon. Haas had been buried there near a grove of olive trees in the same grave as his father. I got to say my final goodbye.听
Tragically, Gaza and Lebanon are now suffering great destruction and carnage鈥攁gain. Haas was a Lebanese Jewish-Muslim. He hated war, and wrote in one of his poems, 鈥淥nly the dead truly converse from Gaza to Auschwitz.鈥� He hated the division that causes war, as illustrated by his use of East and West in 鈥淐ivil War,鈥� one of eight short stories published by his family in 2009. The dividing line between East and West Beirut was called the Green Line because the war lasted for so many years that trees and shrubs grew up in between bomb-shattered concrete. 听East Beirut was Christian; West Beirut was Muslim. Crossing the Green Line was deadly.
You sleep until evening by nightfall the rockets from the Green Line are too strong to ignore. The power is out. Your mother sits in the living room by candlelight knitting a sweater, you wonder if it is for you. She hears you getting up, going to the bathroom, and she goes to the kitchen to get your coffee. You sit facing her in the dark living room and listen to the rockets. You sip your coffee quickly. She smiles at you. She wants you to talk to her. You feel restless. You want to be outside, on the streets. You want to hold your A.K.-47. You want to feel the wind in your hair. She doesn’t even look up when you go to your bedroom and walk out carrying your machine gun. “May God be with you,” she says under her breath as you walk out the front door.
鈥�
It starts to rain and the wind makes the rain fly. You look towards the East and wonder what is East and what is West. And with the wind in your hair and the rain in your eyes you pray for Claude and Mona and your father and the corpse behind the jeep and the cat that Bjorg killed. You pray for your country, for your city divided in two.
You are sitting on the terrace of the St. George Hotel Bar but you are falling.
Beirut is falling.
Everyone is falling.
Haas would be heartbroken now at the unspeakable loss of life everywhere in the Levant. He thought of himself as a citizen of the world. The epigraph for Beirut Seizures reads 鈥淢y feet/recognize/no border/no rule/no code/no lord/for this/is the wanderer鈥檚/heart鈥� (Francisco Alarcon).” The last time we were together that day in February he said he didn鈥檛 want to write about war anymore. He said he wanted to go out to sea for the day with the fishermen of Byblos and write about simple things like fixing fresh catch for dinner. In 鈥淏eirut Survivors Anonymous,鈥� the poem ends with the lines 鈥淲e are young / and need to shield our eyes.鈥�
When I returned to Lebanon the following year in 2010, after first stopping in London to see Haas鈥檚 Auntie Zein and his mother, Najwa, I walked along the Corniche alone, the promenade fronting the Mediterranean Sea that Haas loved so much. I recalled then Paris and the words he inscribed in my copy of Frommer鈥檚 Memorable Walks in Paris, which he had given me long before we traveled there together: 鈥淔or my dearest friend Adele鈥攊n the hope that we will, one day, walk carefree down a Paris Street together.听 Much love鈥�鈥� 听I am ever grateful that we got to do that.听 And, I know that Haas would now be longing for peace and desperately wishing for a 鈥渃arefree鈥� walk down any street for all the peoples of the Levant.
Adele Ne Jame is a first-generation Lebanese American who has lived in Hawai鈥榠 since 1969. She currently serves as Professor Emerita at Hawai’i Pacific University. She has published three books of poems, including The South Wind. She served as the poet-in-residence at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Her many awards include a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship in poetry, an Elliot Cades Award for Literature, and a Pablo Neruda Poetry Prize. Her broadsides, in collaboration with her artist daughter, Melissa Chimera, were exhibited at the Sharjah/Dubai International Biennial and at the Arab American National Museum. She also served as a Mikhail Series lecturer at the University of Toledo.
“Beirut Raining” first appeared in La Piccioletta Barca in May 2021 (issue 31). “The SS France and the Ruthless Furnace of this World” first appeared in Nimrod in 2019. “Olive Trees and a Hunter’s Moon” first appeared in Vice-Versa in 2024.