A Good Land

A Good Land
Nada Awar Jarrar

Small truths, white lies; the many shades of friendship, all impacted by the harsh legacy of war…The old neighbourhood block in Beirut was home to an ever- changing population as the fighting intensified and lessened. But three people were almost always there. The older Polish woman, Margo, refugee from her past, her country and family after another war, spinning her tales of freedom fighters, itinerant peoples, despair and courage. And Lebanese born and bred Layla, only recently returned from Australia after fleeing the earlier civil war to teach her students again. Palestinian Kamal; refugee, writer and lecturer, whose cherished faith in a free, tolerant, democratic Lebanon has been shattered by difficulties of living there now. Among their friends are older politicians, university friends often visiting from lucrative posts in Europe or the USA, and local political activists.The retaliation raids by Israel and the political aftermath further shatter their community: some flee to the mountains, many leave the country. Some like Layla try to identify more deeply what it is that holds her to this place, why she cannot leave.Nada Awar Jarrar has written a powerful and moving novel, full of character and insight, of joy and tears, which makes us understand how people can stand such daily fear of violence and can continue to have faith in the country of their heart.

NADA AWAR JARRAR

A Good Land

For my mother, with all my love

And for Marianne, I will always miss you

Table of Contents

Part One - Layla (#u581c8b86-dd0d-5a1b-8fab-1c014a5ff4dd)

Chapter One (#u62834823-a7a8-59f6-9c0c-b0dad70d78a8)

Part Two - Fouad (#u613f509a-15a0-51c5-989b-234218dc82df)

Chapter Two (#u8e4d9563-42e6-5b71-b37e-995040afe816)

Part Three - Kamal (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Four - Prague (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Five - War (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Six - Hope (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Nada Awar Jarrar (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

‘For the meaning of life differs from man to man, from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.’

Viktor Frankl

PART ONE Layla (#u47676401-14ae-5ad4-b09b-2f4c54bc7e1d)

Chapter One (#u47676401-14ae-5ad4-b09b-2f4c54bc7e1d)

Beirut is the city of dreams, at once magnificent and fragile, filled with instances of grace, ephemeral pockets of loveliness that can overwhelm even courageous hearts. There is colour here and brilliance, the hum of movement and its attending sounds; there are buried sorrows and there is transcending joy; and everywhere, flowing through the intricate, complex layers that are people and places, breathes unrestrained life.

Yet the city no longer possesses an obvious beauty. Very little of the lush greenness I knew when I was growing up and which once defined our many neighbourhoods remains. Beirut is invariably overcrowded with people and construction that is haphazard and garish, and areas that once hummed with life lack character and a real sense of community. What is it then that makes us love it so?

I live between the east and west of the city in a yellowed building tucked away at the end of an alleyway that begins on a bustling main road. The building has no elevator. Instead, the tenants have to struggle up a long stairway that wraps itself round the exterior walls of some of the floors and plunges into the building’s interior on others.

My second-floor apartment shares a wall with the outside stairwell which is often noisy, in the early mornings when other tenants are rushing off to work or school and late at night when some of them venture home again. And although it is part of a more recent addition to the building, the flat has uneven floors in places so that, walking through it, I can feel myself leaning towards uncertainty, teetering on the brink.

There is enough room in the kitchen for a table where I have most of my meals, sitting on one of the two chairs. Afterwards, standing at the sink, I look through the window out onto the alley as I do the washing up, a plate and utensils, a glass and a pot or pan, daydreaming into the future. And at night, lying in the windowless, small bedroom at the back of the apartment, I fall asleep sheltered by layers of comfort, my bed and the sheets and blankets that touch my skin, and the walls around me that enclose a deep, undisturbed darkness.

The neighbourhood is heavily populated, older buildings crowded in by newer and higher construction and pavements that are either narrow or totally non-existent. Small shops that sell all kinds of wares line the streets and the constant flow of traffic on the main road adds to the noise level and the impression of overcrowding. Stepping out into the street every morning, I am quickly enveloped by the energy that surrounds me and filled with hope, with the sense that wherever I turn, something is certain to happen.

I walk past a shop that sells tyres and spare parts for cars, a butcher’s, and a dry-cleaner’s that also doubles up as a telephone and fax centre. I turn onto the main road where cars jostle their way up the one-way street, almost nudging each other as they move in fits and spurts, their horns blaring. On one corner, inches away from oncoming traffic, a man sells fruits and vegetables from a large wooden cart, and beyond that there is a flower shop with fresh as well as artificial flowers in plastic vases placed outside its front window.

At a tiny corner café minutes from home, I order my usual cup of coffee and stand at a counter overlooking the street, sipping it slowly. Most days, I am the only woman there and the men on either side of me move away as soon as I arrive, their gazes averted. It is their way of giving me room and making me more comfortable, I know, but it is a kindness I cannot acknowledge since it might be considered too forward of me to thank them outright. Instead, I remain silent and look out onto the street, gathering my thoughts about me and observing the many passers-by.

In returning to Lebanon after long years away, I envisioned exactly this life for myself: moments quietly accumulating with me in the midst of a sea of people and activity, separate in some ways but linked nonetheless to the steady, relentless movement that fills the day.

I am on the stairwell when I hear the thud, feel it move from my belly down into my feet, the tips of my toes tingling with fear. I have heard this sound before and it is not, I know, the echo of a slamming door somewhere in the building, nor the din of heavy machinery from the construction site down the road.

Within seconds, neighbours come out onto the outside landing to investigate.

‘What was that?’ someone asks.

‘I’m not sure,’ I reply, my heart beating fast.

‘Sounded like a car bomb to me,’ another neighbour says. ‘God knows we heard enough of them during the war to know.’

‘Look, there’s smoke rising over there!’

We turn in the direction of the sea to see a black cloud forming.

‘It’s coming from the Corniche,’ I murmur with dismay.

A neighbour from the flat next door puts her hand on my arm.

‘Were you on your way to work, Layla?’ she asks.

I nod.

‘Maybe it’s best you don’t go out today. Until we find out what’s going on, that is.’

She is still in dressing gown and slippers and looks pale without her usual make-up.

‘Reminds me of the American embassy bombing in 1982,’ she continues, shaking her head. ‘That’s exactly where the smoke came from then.’