<\/em>French newspaper<\/p>\r\n
Ah\u2014Beirut, they say,
is like a bride in a white flowing dress
running along the Corniche\u2014<\/p>\r\n
dodging death mid-air\u2014
her dark hair flying in the seawind.
It\u2019s the scent of violets<\/p>\r\n
returning and returning
like her scattered children
who ran away and left their shoes behind\u2014<\/p>\r\n
It\u2019s a mirror inside a mirror,
our lost ones peering back
over their shoulders, waiting for us<\/p>\r\n
the way the sea waits for us
before we plunge into it\u2014
into that dreamy underwater world,<\/p>\r\n
into that breathless current
that will, at last, hold us steadfastly.
Ah\u2014Beirut– jewel of the Mediterranean,<\/p>\r\n
the Corniche, moonshell of the sea
where the bread peddler labors
in the sun riding his bicycle\u2014<\/p>\r\n
loaves hanging from his handle bars,
where young men in sweats
turn their backs to the seawind,<\/p>\r\n
cell phones pressed to their ears,
sweet talking their girlfriends
while waves crash into the seawall<\/p>\r\n
and collapse into themselves,
where a young boy stood,
leaning over the railing<\/p>\r\n
imagining another world,
not counting the cost of leaving.
Where an old man, fish on a wire<\/p>\r\n
glinting in the winter sun,
heads home through the broken
city streets\u2014 where during daily ceasefires<\/p>\r\n
venders sold cigarettes and valium,
the gorgeous call to prayer undulating
in the air around us, where during<\/p>\r\n
the lunacy of war, cars were stolen
daily to be recovered in a flash
at the infamous Stolen Car Lot\u2014<\/p>\r\n
for a hefty price, of course.
Where the victim thanked the dealer
for the privilege of buying back his car,<\/p>\r\n
and offering him another fist full of cash,
a reward for the miracle of
what he left untouched in the trunk,<\/p>\r\n
where the dealer, skilled in chicanery,
refused (but then accepted, of course) so that
in this charade, both saved face. All the while<\/p>\r\n
sorties from the south were streaking the skies,
diving low over the city shattering windows
in the glow of phosphorus, Peace for Galilee<\/p>\r\n
they called it. F15s, Phantoms, Kfirs\u2014
You know the rest because, as we say,
whenever clouds gather in the Arab world,<\/p>\r\n
it rains in Beirut, then and now.
It\u2019s a dark singing rain falling
through the trees from the Great River to<\/p>\r\n
the Beqaa to the ruins of Mt Hermon
above the clouds, that forsaken sanctuary of
temple and stone, lions made from<\/p>\r\n
the bedrock of the mountain.
It\u2019s a dark, incendiary rain coming
from every direction, south and east<\/p>\r\n
to the sea to the heart. Ah \u2013stricken Beirut,
trial by fire, trial by grace,
no matter what lifts you up, still you fall<\/p>\r\n
when the rains come alive with fire.
And still we carry on, sing these songs for
the lost ones, our collective lamentation,<\/p>\r\n
a bottomless dirge and still \u00a0 all the while marveling at the smoky Notes:<\/em> <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n In Beirut, it\u2019s called Black Wednesday,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n April 8, 2026, and my brother\u2019s birthday,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n though he did not live to see it this year.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Also, it was the International Day of Pink.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n People worldwide wore pink<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n to stand against discrimination and hate.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Yet, on that day, also the seventh day of Passover<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n when traditionally the Song of the Sea is sung<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n for redemption, the IDF launched<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Operation Eternal Darkness, instead,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n bombing Beirut using massive munitions,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n using white phosphorus burning people to the bone\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and scorching the land for generations to come.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n All this after <\/em>a declared ceasefire.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n 50 IDF fighter jets from the south launched<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n 160 missiles and hit 100 targets in our ancient city<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n inhabited steadily for more than 5,000 years\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n all in ten minutes.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0No warning. Just raining down<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n death on 360 souls, 1000 injured and still counting.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Charred bodies were found in vehicles<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n at busy city intersections like the Corniche al-Mazzraa.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n How are we to understand this\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Operation Eternal Darkness leveled on civilians<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n by those who themselves suffered<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n eternal darkness and vowed never again\u2014<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n for anyone.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 My mother used to say, This from our cousins<\/em>?<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n We are from the same bloodline: Abraham, Sarah and Hagar.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Oh, yes, it and the rest of the on-going destruction,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n was condemned by 30 nation states on the record<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n at the UN, not to mention Amnesty International<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and the ICC, not to mention the constant cry of<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n war crimes and international arrest warrants issued.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n But we are still counting more dead every day,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n 3700 in three months, so far. The aggressors claim<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n self-defense, targeted attacks, the same verbiage from<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n colonizers who dispossessed a whole indigenous people.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Oh, yes, I think\u2014targeted attacks\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n the same claim for the 73,000 killed in Gaza,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n the 170,000 injured to finish off Hamas<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n by the very same regime that supported it for decades,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n funneling cash transfers to them through Qatar.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n All the while the episodes of killing they call<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n mowing the grass <\/em>continued. Targeted killing\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n they say, but we know it is collective punishment<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and a blatant land grab: \u00a0Operation Greater Israel,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n they are not shy about saying so.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n We may seem blind now here in the West,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n but some of us are wearing pink every day.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n We do what little we can while bearing witness<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n even as we remember our beautiful<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Beirut Garden of Forgiveness\u2014Hadiqat As-Samah<\/em>,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n a public peace garden, just steps from Martyr\u2019s Square,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n where we walked with reverence,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n knowing the white jasmine planted there,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n symbolizing respect, humility and enduring love,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n will bloom every spring<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n whether we live hereafter to see it or not.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n for my father\u2019s sister<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cHe 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\u2019s service in uniform.\u201d The Versailles of the Atlantic, they called her,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 floating luxury liner, all gold leaf and<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n burning crystal light, turned into a hospital ship<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 in those days after the war.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n The shudder and roll of the vessel, the sea collapsing<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 around her, a vestibule of diving fish<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n in the current far from Le Havre\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 barely noticeable, I\u2019m sure, high above<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n the waterline. But below, how the heaving<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 must have sickened them, the bereaved,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n the war-ravished, Melvina, called Mouna<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 after her mother (meaning wish or desire),<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n among them, all having fled\u2014Greater Syria,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 that world\u2014a flooded river of cemeteries.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 She and her family, all nine of them,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n fled death in the high villages,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 the river Adonis flowing blood-red<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n mixed with iron ore in the melting snow.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 No dying god then in the arms of another.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Rather the revenge of the Ottomans,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 losing the war, sanctioned the Mountain<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and blockaded the seaports.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 This and the Great Famine,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n a plague of locusts straight out of Exodus,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 crushed the Levant.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n After tens of thousands perished there,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 they walked nine days, hungry and<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n barefoot, from Beirut to Damascus,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 chaotic city of influenza and enemy troops,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and where she was stolen, a child<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 swept up one night while sleeping in her bed.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Ten days later, when she overheard<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 the slave trader\u2019s plan to sell her,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n she cut off all her hair<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 and during the distraction of ablutions,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n escaped into the desert dressed as a boy\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 Finally, she wandered into the dust and<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n squalor of Wady Oran.\u00a0 Hiding there<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 from the soldiers of god, marauding<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n bands on horseback, others in motor convoys,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 she curled up inside a wheat sack<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n in the back of a supply wagon,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 that airless place between death and survival.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n It rambled on to Tripoli and finally Beirut<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 where, at last, the Red Cross found her.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Then her long passage out of that world,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 the cavalcade of violence,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n began: Beirut to Egypt, Egypt to France\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 France to New York.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n After the ship arrived, the stewards said<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 when she heard nearly all in her family<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n were gone, some buried, some not,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 they found her asleep on the floor<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n below deck, rinsed in her own tears.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 She had drawn a circle,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n a crude mother-image, I\u2019m sure,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 and fell asleep inside it.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n She said all her life, vacillating between<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 this world and that one,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n between one self and the other,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 that she still longed for the high village,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n her father\u2019s orange and lemon groves,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 mornings with her mother by the fire\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n her brothers and sisters\u2014<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 the hardship and the abundance of it all.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n In the end, when I last saw her,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 an old woman, long widowed,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n we sat together in her cold North Adams kitchen<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 before dawn. She had fired up<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n the cast iron stove, opened the oven door to<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 a rushing wall of heat<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and using a handmade bread board,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 deftly slid the flattened rounds on to<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n a heavy iron slab inside, the custom one<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 her Harry, she said, had made for her.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n In minutes, they puffed up paper-thin,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 hollow and steaming inside.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Straight out of the fire,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 she served them to me like that,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n small dishes of yogurt cheese<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 and olives on the side.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Eat, honey, eat<\/em>, she said to me, watching<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 closely and smoking a cigarette.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Finally, in her strong, raspy voice, she said,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n When your father first saw me, <\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 he hoisted my leather satchel up<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n over his shoulder and walked weeping <\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 to the rails of the ship<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n to heave it overboard into the harbor. <\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 He held on to me as we watched it sink<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n below the surface\u2014as if that life <\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 might so easily vanish like that.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Truth is\u2014he never got over it\u2014<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 that\u2019s why he died young.<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Then all at once, she got up from the table,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0 \u00a0 opened the heavy oven door,<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n and facing the blue flame, began again.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Note: \u201cThe Ruthless Furnace of this World\u201d\u00a0 comes from Jack Gilbert\u2019s \u201cA Brief for Defense.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n 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\u02bbi, so there was always the distance, but we managed to navigate it. \u00a0He 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\u012bk\u012b 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. \u00a0He was delighted to introduce me to mojitos while we talked story\u2014about 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\u20131990) during which he had grown up. And, he talked again about his father\u2019s 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\u2019s sabbatical and wanted to see me before leaving.<\/p>\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/p>\r\n Though we didn\u2019t 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<\/em>, and I had been in the audience that night. \u00a0After 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.<\/p>\r\n \r\n\r\n<\/p>\r\n 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\u2019s tragic history there and his experience of growing up during the Lebanese civil war. He returned to Hawai\u02bbi later to teach a class at the University of Hawai\u02bbi M\u0101noa 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.\u00a0 He had studied the craft both at the Sorbonne in Paris and at UCLA. \u00a0He 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.<\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\n 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.\u00a0 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.\u00a0 One summer, we spent long weekends at a friend\u2019s house on the beach at Rocky Point, on O’ahu\u2019s north shore. \u00a0I would often find Haas out on the sprawling white beach around sunrise. He would be working out the plot progression of a new screenplay.\u00a0 Those quiet times on the beach, in the water, were marvelous.<\/p>\r\n\r\n Later our time together would come to include my travel to San Diego to visit his friends and my family, to Marin County\u2014a writer\u2019s retreat that was really an excuse to tour wineries and have wonderful dinners together at the vineyard\u2019s 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\u2019s Memorable Walks in Paris<\/em>, 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! \u00a0We stayed in a hole-in-the-wall hotel near the Pont d\u2019 l\u2019Alma 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<\/em> Rises. <\/em>Haas knew the City of Lights like the back of his hand.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Then we flew to Nice to visit his auntie in her villa in the hills overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. \u00a0We drove the Cote d\u2019Azur, 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. \u00a0In 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\u2019s good now<\/em>, he would say, you have to go<\/em>.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n 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\u00e9s were crowded and the energy in the city was electric.\u00a0 I bought my ticket, and we were ready to leave in days. But then the July war between Israel and Hezbollah broke out. \u00a0Thirty-three days of carpet bombing destroyed everything as far as Jounieh, 20 kilometers north of Beirut. I had been emailing Haas\u2019s 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<\/em>.\u00a0 I was heartbroken that my first trip to Beirut where my father had been born, where my mother\u2019s 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.<\/p>\r\n\r\n He died suddenly in Beirut while on sabbatical the following year. It was during the month of October when a huge Hunter\u2019s 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\u02bbi.\u00a0 He had been fixing dinner for friends in his mother\u2019s flat in Hamra and was having a glass of wine on his balcony when his heart gave out.\u00a0 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, \u201cthe old order and the new have created a brotherhood of disasters.\u201d The loss was immense.\u00a0 I flew to Port Townsend for a memorial that was being held for him there.\u00a0 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.<\/p>\r\n 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.\u00a0 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.\u00a0 \u00a0It was a pilgrimage in so many ways.\u00a0 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.\u00a0<\/p>\r\n Tragically, Gaza and Lebanon are now suffering great destruction and carnage\u2014again. Haas was a Lebanese Jewish-Muslim. He hated war, and wrote in one of his poems, \u201cOnly the dead truly converse from Gaza to Auschwitz.\u201d He hated the division that causes war, as illustrated by his use of East and West in \u201cCivil War,\u201d 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. \u00a0East Beirut was Christian; West Beirut was Muslim. Crossing the Green Line was deadly.<\/p>\r\n 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<\/em> reads \u201cMy feet\/recognize\/no border\/no rule\/no code\/no lord\/for this\/is the wanderer\u2019s\/heart\u2014 (Francisco Alarcon).” The last time we were together that day in February he said he didn\u2019t 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 \u201cBeirut Survivors Anonymous,\u201d the poem ends with the lines \u201cWe are young \/ and need to shield our eyes.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
our ritual incantation:
khalas kafa, wallah kafa\u2014<\/em>\u200d<\/p>\r\n
beauty of Beirut in the dark singing rain
that never fails to bring us to our knees.<\/p>\r\n
In Arabic, Khalas<\/em>: stop; \u00a0wallah: by God<\/em>; kafa<\/em>: enough.
Les Libanais n\u2019ont plus de larmes<\/em>: the Lebanese have no more tears.
The image of Beirut as a bride from Zena el Khoury\u2019s, Beirut, I Love You.
<\/em>The stolen car lot anecdote from Beirut Fragments: A War Memoir, <\/em>by Jean Said Makdisi.
<\/em><\/p>\r\nOperation Eternal Darkness<\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
The SS France and the Ruthless Furnace of this World<\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
The North Adams Evening Transcript<\/em>, April 17, 1920<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.hawaii.edu\/vice-versa\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/06\/1.-New-Country.jpg\")
<\/a>
\r\n\r\n\r\nOlive Trees and a Hunter\u2019s Moon<\/h2>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
<\/a><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
\r\n\r\n\r\nYou 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.
\u2026
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.<\/em><\/blockquote>\r\n
\r\n