registered shock. “My intentions are completely honorable,” he said softly, hesitantly.
“I don’t give a damn,” I replied. I pulled my sisters along and left him standing bewildered. “Don’t you have work to do?” I yelled back. “Like manning some checkpoint or shooting at people instead of lurking about and harassing decent girls?”
On July 4, Kameel Chamoun, a Christian leader and former Lebanese president, called for the withdrawal of Syrians from Lebanese soil. Prime Minister Hoss, a Muslim, rejected that demand. The Syrians kept shelling.
On July 5, the soldier showed up at our door in army fatigues, his rifle slung across his shoulder. He politely asked to speak to our father. When my stepmother, who had answered the door, asked him what for, he said that there had been some misunderstanding. He had come to ensure that our family understood that his intentions were honorable and that had his mother not been so far away, she would have arrived with him to our door. He intended to ask for my sister’s hand in marriage. My stepmother inadvertently laughed. She then realized he was serious. She told him in no uncertain terms that Rana was much too young, that the family had many pressing things to worry about, not the least of which was an internecine war, and in any case, she was not sure he would be a very appropriate husband for her daughter.
On July 6, the Lebanese president, Elias Sarkis, threatened to resign, saying that the Syrians were carrying out operations without his consent or cooperation. Israeli planes began flying low over Beirut, their sonic booms rattling windows, their presence warning the Syrians off further bloodshed.
The Syrians heeded the warnings. They stopped shelling on July 7, after over four hundred Lebanese Christian civilians had been killed. Rana, celebrating the relative calm, walked out of the house to visit a school friend. The soldier did not approach. He shot her from across the street. She died instantly. He placed the butt of his rifle on the ground, put the other end in his mouth, and fired.
My stepmother cried on hearing the news. My father did not. My stepmother watched my father and dried her tears. She wanted to appear strong. At the burial the following day, even with the coffin in the room, she sat regally in her chair, her eyes moist but not flowing. The wailers, whose main purpose was to ensure that every female family member cried enough, failed.
The official condolences, on July 9, occurred at Dar el-Taifeh, the main Druze building in the city. Our house could not hold the number of people that showed up. My stepmother, my father’s daughters from his first marriage—Amal, Lamia, and I—and my half-sister Majida, sat in one of the large halls. Around us were our aunts, cousins, and other relatives. In the other room, which we could barely see because of the size of the halls, sat the men. My father insisted that my half-brother, Ramzi, all of eight-years-old, stay with him. Men and women entered both halls, offered their condolences and then split up. Every time someone came in, we stood up. We spent the entire morning on our feet.
My best friend, Dina, showed up, crossing from East Beirut. When she stood in front of me, I broke down. “May you be compensated with your health,” she said formally, tears flowing down her face. She hesitated, slowing the line of people. “I’m so sorry,” she added. She moved on to my sisters and stepmother on my right.
When she sat in the far corner of the hall, I left my seat and joined her. We held hands silently and watched as relatives and friends streamed in.
“I’m leaving,” she said suddenly. “I’m going to Boston. I can’t take this anymore. I don’t think I’m ever coming back here.”
“When are you guys leaving?”
“It’s just me,” she said. “They don’t want to leave Lebanon yet. They think things will improve.”
“They’re going to let you leave by yourself?”
She looked
“I don’t give a damn,” I replied. I pulled my sisters along and left him standing bewildered. “Don’t you have work to do?” I yelled back. “Like manning some checkpoint or shooting at people instead of lurking about and harassing decent girls?”
On July 4, Kameel Chamoun, a Christian leader and former Lebanese president, called for the withdrawal of Syrians from Lebanese soil. Prime Minister Hoss, a Muslim, rejected that demand. The Syrians kept shelling.
On July 5, the soldier showed up at our door in army fatigues, his rifle slung across his shoulder. He politely asked to speak to our father. When my stepmother, who had answered the door, asked him what for, he said that there had been some misunderstanding. He had come to ensure that our family understood that his intentions were honorable and that had his mother not been so far away, she would have arrived with him to our door. He intended to ask for my sister’s hand in marriage. My stepmother inadvertently laughed. She then realized he was serious. She told him in no uncertain terms that Rana was much too young, that the family had many pressing things to worry about, not the least of which was an internecine war, and in any case, she was not sure he would be a very appropriate husband for her daughter.
On July 6, the Lebanese president, Elias Sarkis, threatened to resign, saying that the Syrians were carrying out operations without his consent or cooperation. Israeli planes began flying low over Beirut, their sonic booms rattling windows, their presence warning the Syrians off further bloodshed.
The Syrians heeded the warnings. They stopped shelling on July 7, after over four hundred Lebanese Christian civilians had been killed. Rana, celebrating the relative calm, walked out of the house to visit a school friend. The soldier did not approach. He shot her from across the street. She died instantly. He placed the butt of his rifle on the ground, put the other end in his mouth, and fired.
My stepmother cried on hearing the news. My father did not. My stepmother watched my father and dried her tears. She wanted to appear strong. At the burial the following day, even with the coffin in the room, she sat regally in her chair, her eyes moist but not flowing. The wailers, whose main purpose was to ensure that every female family member cried enough, failed.
The official condolences, on July 9, occurred at Dar el-Taifeh, the main Druze building in the city. Our house could not hold the number of people that showed up. My stepmother, my father’s daughters from his first marriage—Amal, Lamia, and I—and my half-sister Majida, sat in one of the large halls. Around us were our aunts, cousins, and other relatives. In the other room, which we could barely see because of the size of the halls, sat the men. My father insisted that my half-brother, Ramzi, all of eight-years-old, stay with him. Men and women entered both halls, offered their condolences and then split up. Every time someone came in, we stood up. We spent the entire morning on our feet.
My best friend, Dina, showed up, crossing from East Beirut. When she stood in front of me, I broke down. “May you be compensated with your health,” she said formally, tears flowing down her face. She hesitated, slowing the line of people. “I’m so sorry,” she added. She moved on to my sisters and stepmother on my right.
When she sat in the far corner of the hall, I left my seat and joined her. We held hands silently and watched as relatives and friends streamed in.
“I’m leaving,” she said suddenly. “I’m going to Boston. I can’t take this anymore. I don’t think I’m ever coming back here.”
“When are you guys leaving?”
“It’s just me,” she said. “They don’t want to leave Lebanon yet. They think things will improve.”
“They’re going to let you leave by yourself?”
She looked
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