intrusive camera, wearing what appears to be a nightgown and a feather-trimmed robe de chambre. The poster was for the 1898 production of Medea, with Sarah holding a bloody knife, the supine body of a young boy at her feet.
Count Leo Nikolayevitch Tolstoy lied. I do not know if all happy families resemble each other as I do not know any content families. In Lebanon during the war, however, all unhappy families were not unhappy in their own way. They suffered because at least one family member was killed. It did not matter why a family was unhappy before; death became the overpowering reason.
For our family, it was the death of Rana.
Rana was my half-sister, my stepmother’s eldest. She was born in May 1964 and died on July 7, 1978.
I was her closest sister. Early on, she spied on me, mimicked my every gesture. I was four years older, which also meant she wore my hand-me-downs. When I walked with friends, she used to follow me, always pacing herself about ten steps behind us, not exactly a part of our group, but any passerby would recognize she was with us. She watched every soccer game I played in, always cheering on the sideline like an English supporter.
My eldest sister, Amal, and I called her Beesy , a diminutive of “pussycat” in Lebanese. When Rana was eight, a neighbor had a fight with my stepmother. Rana went to the neighbor’s door two floors below us, pulled down her underwear, crouched, and peed on the neighbor’s welcome mat, something that I would have been proud to have done at her age. She told only Amal and me about it. The neighbor complained about stray cats that came into the building.
Rana was beautiful, taking after our paternal grandmother. Our grandmother’s sour disposition rendered her unattractive. Rana, on the other hand, was sunshine incarnate. She had shimmering black hair, light skin, large hazel eyes, and full lips, more a Botticelli than a da Vinci. By the time she reached fourteen, her beauty had become a general topic of conversation. My stepmother forced her to pin a small turquoise stone inside everything she wore to keep away the evil eye. It did not work.
The year 1978 was horrific. The civil war raged on. The Syrians wanted to become the major players in Lebanon, their army spread all over the country. Palestinians ran amok in Beirut. Eleven PLO fighters landed on Israeli shores and their carjacked vehicles ended up in Tel Aviv, killing Israeli civilians. In response, Israel invaded Lebanon, killing hundreds of Lebanese civilians. Instead of fighting the Israelis, the Syrians turned their guns on the Christians of East Beirut, killing hundreds of Lebanese civilians.
On July 1, 1978, the Syrians began an intensive bombing campaign against East Beirut, and a seventeen-year-old Syrian soldier, by the name of Izzat Ghalaini, laid his eyes on Rana. She was walking from our home to Amal’s, what was once our grandfather’s apartment, two buildings down. He cracked a joke as she passed by. She laughed, an innocuous laugh that would prove to be ominous. The pimply-faced soldier was besotted. He had misinterpreted. My sister’s laugh never meant very much. She laughed easily, constantly, nothing could remove the joy in her eyes.
She arrived at Amal’s house, told the story of the homely soldier to Amal and her husband, told it as something amusing that happened on her way over. On her return home, the soldier was waiting for her with a single daisy. She crossed the street to avoid him.
On July 2, the Syrians intensified their bombing of the Christians. In West Beirut, we had no water, electricity, or phones. It was worse in East Beirut. They could not even rescue the wounded from damaged buildings. We stayed indoors the whole day.
On July 3, Rana and I walked over to Amal’s, holding the hands of our youngest sister, Majida. The soldier ran over to us. “I’ve been hoping you’d show up,” he said.
“What the hell for?” I asked.
He retreated a step, his face
Count Leo Nikolayevitch Tolstoy lied. I do not know if all happy families resemble each other as I do not know any content families. In Lebanon during the war, however, all unhappy families were not unhappy in their own way. They suffered because at least one family member was killed. It did not matter why a family was unhappy before; death became the overpowering reason.
For our family, it was the death of Rana.
Rana was my half-sister, my stepmother’s eldest. She was born in May 1964 and died on July 7, 1978.
I was her closest sister. Early on, she spied on me, mimicked my every gesture. I was four years older, which also meant she wore my hand-me-downs. When I walked with friends, she used to follow me, always pacing herself about ten steps behind us, not exactly a part of our group, but any passerby would recognize she was with us. She watched every soccer game I played in, always cheering on the sideline like an English supporter.
My eldest sister, Amal, and I called her Beesy , a diminutive of “pussycat” in Lebanese. When Rana was eight, a neighbor had a fight with my stepmother. Rana went to the neighbor’s door two floors below us, pulled down her underwear, crouched, and peed on the neighbor’s welcome mat, something that I would have been proud to have done at her age. She told only Amal and me about it. The neighbor complained about stray cats that came into the building.
Rana was beautiful, taking after our paternal grandmother. Our grandmother’s sour disposition rendered her unattractive. Rana, on the other hand, was sunshine incarnate. She had shimmering black hair, light skin, large hazel eyes, and full lips, more a Botticelli than a da Vinci. By the time she reached fourteen, her beauty had become a general topic of conversation. My stepmother forced her to pin a small turquoise stone inside everything she wore to keep away the evil eye. It did not work.
The year 1978 was horrific. The civil war raged on. The Syrians wanted to become the major players in Lebanon, their army spread all over the country. Palestinians ran amok in Beirut. Eleven PLO fighters landed on Israeli shores and their carjacked vehicles ended up in Tel Aviv, killing Israeli civilians. In response, Israel invaded Lebanon, killing hundreds of Lebanese civilians. Instead of fighting the Israelis, the Syrians turned their guns on the Christians of East Beirut, killing hundreds of Lebanese civilians.
On July 1, 1978, the Syrians began an intensive bombing campaign against East Beirut, and a seventeen-year-old Syrian soldier, by the name of Izzat Ghalaini, laid his eyes on Rana. She was walking from our home to Amal’s, what was once our grandfather’s apartment, two buildings down. He cracked a joke as she passed by. She laughed, an innocuous laugh that would prove to be ominous. The pimply-faced soldier was besotted. He had misinterpreted. My sister’s laugh never meant very much. She laughed easily, constantly, nothing could remove the joy in her eyes.
She arrived at Amal’s house, told the story of the homely soldier to Amal and her husband, told it as something amusing that happened on her way over. On her return home, the soldier was waiting for her with a single daisy. She crossed the street to avoid him.
On July 2, the Syrians intensified their bombing of the Christians. In West Beirut, we had no water, electricity, or phones. It was worse in East Beirut. They could not even rescue the wounded from damaged buildings. We stayed indoors the whole day.
On July 3, Rana and I walked over to Amal’s, holding the hands of our youngest sister, Majida. The soldier ran over to us. “I’ve been hoping you’d show up,” he said.
“What the hell for?” I asked.
He retreated a step, his face
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