A Good Land

1939 and just turned nine years old, Fouad heard of war breaking out in Europe. Tiptoeing into the living room late one night, he crawled under the dining-room table and watched his father and grandfather as they listened to the news on the radio and discussed the situation, their voices hushed and solemn. Lebanon’s position as a French mandate, baba said, means it is bound to be adversely affected by events in Europe. Jiddo sighed loudly. The French will never give us our independence now, he said. They’ll use this as an opportunity to stay on, you mark my words.

The next day mama began stocking up on food, huge bags of burghul, rice and flour, of lentils, split peas and broad beans arriving at their doorstep, Fatima the housekeeper picking them up one by one and placing them in a row beneath the pantry shelves, her back bent low and the hem of her long, cotton work dress lifting to reveal old, tired legs. She shooed Fouad away, off you go young man, not answering him at first when he asked her what all the food was for, then turning to him to say: We’re not going to go hungry this time, not if I can help it.

Like many in this country, Fatima’s family had had to go without during the Great War, his mother later explained, and she is a little anxious about the future.

‘A boy at school said we’re all going to starve,’ Fouad said. ‘Is that true, mama?’

She pulled him to her, gentle fingers smoothing back his hair, her sweet breath permeating the air around him.

‘No, habibi, of course we’re not going to starve. This war is a long way away and it has nothing to do with us.’

But things did change, after all, Fouad becoming more aware of the French soldiers who roamed the streets and manned barricades around the neighbourhood and of the bitterness people felt at their constant presence.

One afternoon, walking home from school with Marwan, he looked on in horror when a passing French officer pulled out a gun and pointed it at his brother. What did you say, you rascal, the officer shouted. Marwan grabbed his hand and pulled Fouad behind him as they ran through familiar streets, back to the safety of their home.

‘What happened?’ Fouad asked once they were standing at the front door.

Marwan grinned.

‘I just told him what I thought of him,’ he said.

‘What’s that then?’

Marwan shrugged and turned away with a look of disgust.

‘You’re such a baby, Fouad. Don’t you know anything at all?’

Two years later, the Vichy government in France finally defeated, Allied troops began to arrive in Beirut, British soldiers who spoke English with a quick, clipped accent that was difficult to understand at first until one became accustomed to it, and Australians who became known for their fondness for beer and pretty girls. More French soldiers came too with troops from their colonies in Africa.

When the YMCA set up a dormitory and canteen for the newcomers from Britain at the American University, Fouad and a few of his classmates volunteered their services, selling luncheon vouchers at the canteen on weekends as well as helping with a variety of other tasks to make the soldiers’ stay more pleasant. He would arrive on a Saturday morning, bright-eyed and full of enthusiasm, his cinema days well behind him, eager only to learn more about these men who in many ways seemed out of place here but who also promised something better for Lebanon, the autonomy he had heard spoken of so often, a future filled with opportunity.

Before long, he had made friends with a number of the soldiers who came to stay at the dormitory during their leave, was secretly pleased at having gained favour for being quick and efficient and speaking better English than the other volunteers. And during the many evening performances staged by the officers and their men at the university’s West Hall, plays and musical concerts and the like, he would stand watching from the back of the theatre and listen for the audience’s laughter, for their occasional shouts and cheers and that breathless moment when a complete hush took over the room.

At a café by the water that was crowded with Allied soldiers, Fouad sat one afternoon with jiddo and Marwan, Beirut’s lighthouse perched on a hill behind them and the Mediterranean washing over the rocks by their feet. While jiddo puffed at a nargileh, occasionally handing the pipe to Marwan who drew on it gingerly only to cough noisily afterwards, Fouad watched a group of Australian soldiers eating and drinking at a nearby table, their voices and laughter growing louder by the minute. They were tall, beefy men with fair skin that was burned red from the sun and they spoke a version of English that no one was familiar with, though it was usually easy to tell what was on their minds just by the manner in which they said it.

‘Look,’ Fouad nudged his brother. ‘There’s a French soldier from the table up there coming towards them.’

The two boys watched as the Frenchman stopped to talk to the Australians.

‘What do you suppose he’s saying?’ Fouad asked.

Moments later, he gasped as one of the Australians stood up and grabbed the French soldier by the collar.

‘There’s going to be a fight,’ Marwan shouted, getting up from his seat with Fouad following close behind.

It was not long before the whole café was plunged into chaos, men knocking each other down and a group of local boys, Fouad and Marwan among them, handing plates and bottles to the Australian soldiers which they then broke over the heads of their rivals. Fouad stepped aside for a moment and noticed the owner of the café arriving on the scene and begging the men to stop. Looking behind him, Fouad saw his grandfather smile. This is what it feels like to finally be on the winning side, he thought to himself, heat rushing through his body at the sudden realization.

Overhearing a conversation between his father and the American professor from upstairs a few days later, Fouad felt confused about the situation once again. The two men stood on the landing outside the front door. The professor, tall and thin with shoulders that stooped a little and bright-blue eyes, had one foot on the stairs and a slender hand on the balustrade. He smiled and nodded at Fouad’s father as he spoke.

‘It’s not as if the British themselves haven’t been brutal colonizers elsewhere,’ baba was saying. ‘How can anyone overlook that fact?’

A sad look came over the professor’s face.

‘It’s not unheard of for people to use the strength of one occupier in an attempt to rid themselves of another without being aware of the dangers involved,’ the professor said quietly. ‘And now that America has also joined the war, it’s likely that we’ll take a position on what’s going on in your country as well.’

Father shook his head.

‘It’s almost as if we have no real say in our own destiny,’ he sighed. ‘This is the inevitable fate of a small country, I suppose.’

Yet there were days when nothing seemed to have changed at all, when the family went about its business as usual, sitto