Elias Khoury - Gate of the Sun

Abu George lived alone, cooked alone, and listened to the radio alone. He’d look at us with sleepy eyes. He was short and chubby with a broad brow and a round white face full of wrinkles. He never spoke with us about politics; he’d tell us about his son, who’d emigrated to Canada, and his daughter, Mary, who lived in Paris. He said he couldn’t abandon the house because it held memories of his wife, who’d died there as a young woman, and that he also hated the idea of emigrating to Europe: “Better the tares of your village than the Crusaders’ wheat,” he’d say. Then he’d watch us rushing up to the roof in our khakis and weighed down with arms and he’d say, “My my, what fine tares!”

Abu George didn’t object to our squatting in the third story of his building, where Ali assembled a Doshka cannon. When he invited us down for coffee, he seemed pleased to study our arms and say: “My my, what fine tares!”

I’m certain that the man didn’t like us or, if like isn’t the appropriate word here, didn’t think much of us, and that was his right, not to mention the fact that we hardly inspired admiration. Now, in fact, I’d say we inspired pity — the way we’d talk, set up ambushes, build bunkers, shoot, and drop dead.

In al-Burjawi, our wounded dropped by the dozen. It was unthinkable to turn the street into a second front: Anyone who occupies al-Burjawi has to get all the way to al-Nasira in the center of al-Ashrafiyyeh or withdraw . We stayed on, however, so we could die. It wasn’t our decision, as you know; we were just troops, potential martyrs.

One day, after Ali had finished his morning coffee with Abu George, he thanked him and was already climbing the stairs to the third floor when he heard Abu George say, as he had dozens of times before, “My my, what fine tares!”

“So we’re tares, you son of a bitch?” Ali yelled.

Without warning, he started beating Abu George savagely. Ali must have been harassed that day — or maybe even terrorized — I could see fire in his eyes. He was beating the life out of him. Abu George was doubled over, shielding his head with his hands and moaning as Ali kicked him.

“Spy, traitor, where’s your communications setup?” Ali shouted at the top of his lungs, panting and swinging punches.

This had nothing to do with Abu George, the man was innocent, far from a spy. It’s true that he wasn’t enthusiastic about our cause or our war, and it’s true that a tinge of contempt could be detected in his gaze, but he was neutral.

Ali, on the other hand. .

Ali was a monster. What caused his eruption was never clear; it was as though there were a monster inside him, as though the war had become a spirit that possessed him. We were afraid he’d kill the man. It wasn’t just a beating, it was murder. Ali was killing Abu George with his bare hands, his feet, his brown, full face and his curly hair. He devoured him.

We feared for Abu George. We all feared for him.

“And what did you do?” you’ll ask me.

Nothing, I’ll tell you. We froze and looked on and didn’t say a word. We waited for Ali to finish, we saw that Abu George had come out of it alive, we finally opened our mouths.

We weren’t petrified because we were afraid of Ali. No, we stood and watched as though we, too, had become like Ali, as though we were watching a wrestling match.

All the others said they’d been afraid for Abu George, but I was more afraid for Ali. I could see that he’d turned into another man, a man I didn’t know, a monster.

History, dear Abu Salem, extracts from our inner selves people we don’t know, people whose presence we don’t dare acknowledge. In China I found myself in history and felt capable of doing anything; I wasn’t afraid of myself or for myself because I couldn’t see. When you’re surrounded by mirrors on every side, you lose your ability to see, and the monster of history makes you its prey.

Abu George survived.

Ali suddenly calmed down and left. Abu George slowly began to pull himself together, as if he were gathering his scattered limbs. He managed to get up, took a few things: a pair of trousers, a shirt, some underwear, and left muttering a few incomprehensible words under his breath. I think he was cursing in Aramaic, a language usually used for prayer.

In China we opened the book of history and learned the art of war and the art of seizing an opportunity. Our Chinese trainer told us that the central idea in a war of the people is to exploit advantage: to withdraw when victory is impossible, to attack in large numbers, to concentrate our forces and wipe out the enemy. To guarantee victory in a battle, we have to be greater in number and better armed than our enemy.

By exploiting advantage, we can delude our enemy into thinking we are capable of permanent victory.

He’d use the word victory , and we’d hear it and feel victorious, as though words could cast magic spells — for words are either magic or they should be thrown into the wastebasket. Revolution is the same thing — a magic word with magic powers.

We started discussing things we knew by heart, fighting as though we’d fought before and dying as though we were mimicking our own deaths.

God, what times!

I speak of those times as though they were over, but actually that’s both true and false. We’re “caught,” as Major Mamdouh used to say. We’re caught and have no alternatives. We get out of one tight place only to crawl into another. “All that’s wrought is caught,” as they say. That’s how history works: When you have no alternatives, you get caught and twist in the breeze in spite of yourself.

I sit before you with Major Mamdouh’s words resonating in my ears. I’m stuck here, so are you, and so is Dr. Amjad, and everyone else. And Mamdouh? I believe he got out of his tight spot because he managed to get a visa for Paris. But what became of him? Did he become a millionaire and live an easy life? Of course not. Mamdouh got to France, married for the sake of getting married (as he said in the only letter he sent his mother), and died of a heart attack. No soul knows in what land it shall die .

We were talking about history and I don’t want to upset you with Major Mamdouh’s tragic end — even though it wasn’t a tragedy — tragedy calls for tears while Mamdouh’s death made me laugh. Imagine, a man who spent all his time searching for a way out of the trap and then, when he gets out, dies! Mamdouh died in ’81, so one year before the Israeli incursion into Lebanon — a year before his appointment with death. If Mamdouh had remained stuck with us in Beirut, he would have died in ’82 as thousands did, but he postponed his appointment.

I go back to China to say that history bewitched me during those two weeks of intensive military training. I discovered how it was possible to open the book of history, enter it, and be the reader and the read at the same time. This is the illusion that revolution creates for us. It makes us believe we’re both the individual and the mirror, and it leads to terrible things.

I’d fallen under the spell, until the day the doctor said I was unfit to continue training and told me to pack my bags to go back to my country. But instead of taking me back to Beirut, they took me to another camp and pronounced me a doctor.

I won’t bother you with the ins and outs of Chinese medicine, which I never learned — I remember almost nothing of it, particularly not the names of herbs, which our teacher knew only in Chinese. But I discovered the human body. I discovered the existence of an interconnecting natural logic with a precise regime that controls our bodies. Through the body I discovered the soul of things, the links between our bodies and nature, and the limitlessness of man.