{"id":27990,"date":"2023-09-03T12:36:39","date_gmt":"2023-09-03T10:36:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/?p=27990"},"modified":"2023-09-03T15:28:01","modified_gmt":"2023-09-03T13:28:01","slug":"sadness-in-my-heart-a-story-by-hilal-chouman","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldsite\/sadness-in-my-heart-a-story-by-hilal-chouman\/","title":{"rendered":"“Sadness in My Heart”\u2014a story by Hilal Chouman"},"content":{"rendered":"
A photo of four fighters from the Lebanese Civil War begins a son\u2019s journey of discovery, in a new translation excerpted from Hilal Chouman\u2019s novel of the same name: Sadness in My Heart.<\/em><\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hilal Chouman<\/h4>\n

Translated from the Arabic by Nashwa Nasreldin<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I heard a faint tapping at the door then the knocks grew louder. Someone was calling out, using my first name: \u201cMr. Youssef! Mr. Youssef!\u201d I opened my eyes and my head immediately began to throb. I discovered that I was in the hotel bed, naked, and that a young man was asleep nearby, fully clothed, covering his face with a pillow. The hotel phone was resting on the floor, its receiver detached. Slowly, I nudged the pillow aside and found Jean\u2019s face.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The rapping on the door continued and I was able to distinguish the voice. A hotel worker was calling out my name and talking to someone. In my unsteady state, finding a pair of shorts was an effort. I swayed as I attempted to walk, then promptly fell to the floor. I managed to locate the shorts, close to the spot where I landed, so I slipped them on laying down. Then I tried to get up again, leaning on the edges of the bed and the other furniture, and against the walls, until I reached the door. Keeping the chain attached, I cracked the door open, and the faces of the housekeeping employee and Jameel appeared.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSorry to wake you this way, Mr. Youssef, but you have a meeting with His Excellency, the minister,\u201d Jameel says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat time is it?\u201d I asked, rubbing my head. \u201cI had a lot to drink last night and I don\u2019t feel well. Let\u2019s postpone the meeting.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe minister\u2019s traveling this week. Today\u2019s your only chance to meet him if you don\u2019t want to wait. And\u2026\u201d Jameel added. \u201cIt\u2019s the minister, and he specifically asked to see you. I\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m just doing my job.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay \u2026 give me ten minutes at least, to shower. I\u2019ll come down after that,\u201d I acquiesced, closing the door.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Rushing to the bathroom, I washed my face twice before I was overcome by the urge to vomit. I threw up into the toilet bowl in bursts. Then I stepped straight into the shower, still swaying. I stood under the shower stream for fifteen minutes, maybe more. After that, I got dressed, pulled out my father\u2019s notebook and tucked it into my jacket pocket. As for the photo of his friends and the will documents, I arranged those in a folder. Glancing at Jean, I could see that he was sleeping deeply, just as I\u2019d left him, unaware of what had gone on in his presence. I left him a note under the telephone set, which I had picked up from the floor and returned to its place by the bed.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I went down, I found Jameel waiting for me in his car at the hotel entrance. He immediately climbed out and walked around to open the door for me and guide me in.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou need a coffee, and something to eat,\u201d Jameel said, eyeing me through the rearview mirror. \u201cYou can\u2019t meet the minister like that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI just need a few more minutes\u2019 sleep,\u201d I replied, wriggling to try and lie down sideways on my seat.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The slamming of brakes, and what sounded like Jameel cussing at a driver in front, woke me for a second time.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Mr. Youssef.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d I said, heaving myself back up and looking out of the window.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Without waiting for me to respond, he continued: \u201cI\u2019ll take you to a place where you can have breakfast.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

A few minutes later, the car stopped by the seaside promenade and a security officer opened the door for me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHere we are,\u201d Jameel said. \u201cGo and grab a seat inside. Get yourself some breakfast and a coffee. I\u2019ll wait for you here. You have half an hour.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll come with me,\u201d I insisted.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t leave the car. Security precautions.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPark over there, at the front,\u201d I said, getting out of the car. \u201cKeep the keys and ask those guys to keep an eye on it. I won\u2019t go in until you\u2019ve come out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I walked over to the coffee shop entrance and waited. Jameel parked and stopped to talk to the young men, pointing at the car. After handing them some cash, he caught me up. From the way Jameel was greeted, it seemed that the waiter knew him. We were led to a table at the far side of the beach, right by the seafront.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
Pedestrians and cars cross the Barbir Museum checkpoint on the Green Line, 1989 (courtesy Rare Historical Photos).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n


\n\u201cI ordered you a <\/span>kn\u00e9f\u00e9<\/span><\/i>. It\u2019ll help you get rid of the hangover,\u201d Jameel said, pouring the coffee into my cup and handing it to me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDo you always come here?\u201d I asked him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI used to,\u201d he replied, then stared silently at the sea. <\/span>He didn\u2019t seem to want to talk, so I focused on drinking my coffee. The waiter returned and placed a dish in front of me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo good!\u201d I said, in English, once I\u2019d tasted the <\/span>kn\u00e9f\u00e9<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Suddenly ravenous, I wolfed down half of the food on my plate. Then I slowed down, deciding to press Jameel into opening up to me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTell me, Jameel, what did you do during the civil war?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat everyone else did.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI mean, how did you live? How did you protect yourself and your family?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy wife died in the war, and I\u2019m the one who raised my children. After that, I made sure they left the country to study abroad.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, I didn\u2019t mean \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJudging wars, Mr. Youssef, is easy. You can say that war is evil, and assume that you would find a way to be neutral in the face of its atrocities. But that\u2019s not how it works.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut didn\u2019t you think this through during the war?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn the early days, maybe. Then, like any system in life, the details consume you until you end up following a daily routine that someone else has forced on you, and it becomes a struggle just to survive. In times of war, societies are pushed to the edge. In times of war, everything becomes personal. Whatever the reasons behind war, sometimes it\u2019s impossible to escape it. And you might be forced to play a part in it. War is an extremely radical experience \u2014 it relegates everything that came before it to the ash heap of history, and it seeks to establish a new order, either by repudiating the former order, or endorsing the regime\u2019s unspoken acts. In war, societies are reshaped. Don\u2019t get me wrong, peacetime also comes with its own set of characteristics. This road we drove along wasn\u2019t like this ten years ago. Those towers that devour the road opposite the Corniche tell another tale of the way societies are remodeled.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou seem to have a very thorough personal perspective on war, so much so that it sounds like \u2026 you might have taken part in it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOf course, I took part. Just like everyone else. I was a member of a party, then a fighter. If you go down to any street right now in Beirut and walk among the people, you\u2019ll come across former fighters. It\u2019s inevitable. The war ended and everyone returned to their bases, safe, or dead, while others were promoted.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPromoted, like the minister?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cForgive me if I don\u2019t answer that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, so what happened to you afterwards?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI wasn\u2019t a member of a party anymore, but I\u2019m still political.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSince I decided to come here, I\u2019ve tried to do some research. I read, and the more I read, the more complicated it gets. What I still can\u2019t understand is how societies descend into civil war in the first place.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIn war, there\u2019s no such thing as a good person or a bad person.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI remember my father, a few years ago, weeping at a news broadcast of demonstrations in the center of the capital.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe all wept.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDid you go down to those protests?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI watched them on TV. But I know people who walked for more than an hour just to reach the square. People like us, Mr. Youssef, grow older, and can no longer endure hope. Each time we build our hopes up we invest in a project that\u2019s doomed to failure. So \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo \u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, I prefer to watch Netflix and to take care of my cat. Come on \u2026 we need to leave or we\u2019ll be late for His Excellency, the minister.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As he stood up, he turned to me. \u201cDon\u2019t ask these questions to His Excellency,\u201d he cautioned. \u201cAnd don\u2019t repeat anything we said.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
A Lebanese civil war photo shows the overgrown demarcation line in downtown Beirut in 1990 (Rare Historical Photos).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n


\nWe entered a broad courtyard of a house whose architectural design distinguished it from the buildings that surrounded it. The car stopped near a large wooden door, with security guards gathered in front. Before I stepped out of the car, I couldn\u2019t help but offer an observation that Beirut was full of security guards. Jameel responded with a glare to shut me up.<\/span><\/p>\n

I waited alone in a large salon on the ground floor. A number of waiters and staff kept coming up to me, asking if I wanted a drink. They informed me that the minister would be a few minutes late. I kept my father\u2019s blue notebook in the pocket of my jacket and began to flick through the photos and the rest of the documents in the folder.<\/span><\/p>\n

The minister entered with two escorts, so I stood up, placing the folder on the couch near me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning,\u201d the minister said, as he shook my hand.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning,\u201d I replied.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLeave us on our own,\u201d the minister gestured to his escorts, who withdrew and closed the door behind them.<\/span><\/p>\n

The minister sat down, and for a few seconds silence prevailed, before he glanced at his watch: \u201cI can spend 15 minutes with you. You should make the most of them because I\u2019m traveling this week. Have you buried your father?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI scattered one set of his ashes and there are six more left for other locations.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t change … Your father is an old comrade. I remember how, once, right before he emigrated, or maybe after, I can\u2019t remember, he called me and said something about death and ashes. It was a very moving conversation. I thought he only said that because he was feeling emotional at that particular time. But it looks like he went through with his old promise.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know what to say. Had my father told him, years ago, that he would want to be cremated? I decided to break the silence by pulling out the photograph and offering it to him. He stared at it briefly then sighed and began to speak, without waiting for me to comment.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey told me about this photo. Your father took it of us during the war. I didn\u2019t know that he kept it with him. He used to love cameras and photography, but he never showed the photos to anyone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan I ask what happened to the people in the photograph?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cListen, I will tell you in brief, but I won\u2019t discuss this subject again \u2026 Myself \u2014 Elie Nassar \u2014 Sami Boutros, George Karam, and your father, four comrades who went their separate ways. Sami committed suicide; he fell into a chronic depression after his son was killed in the war and his other son kidnapped. One day, we woke up to the news that he\u2019d thrown himself off a balcony. And he wasn\u2019t the only one. Your father didn\u2019t tell you anything about him, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I shook my head. I didn\u2019t feel there was room for me to ask questions. It seemed that the entire matter had sprung up out of nowhere and that I hadn\u2019t known my father at all. The minister continued to talk, as if I was invisible. He asked questions and answered them himself, digressed, and explained whatever he wanted to explain. It seemed that he\u2019d come to this meeting determined to share his story.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe he didn\u2019t tell you because he didn\u2019t want you to know,\u201d he added. \u201cYour father often behaved oddly.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\n

Life before the meeting with the minister was very different to that which followed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had entered with a hangover, and emerged with a civil war headache. What I had tried to avoid, had occurred. What I had tried to ignore, was not only revealed; it could no longer be hidden. I sat on a wooden chair at the entrance to the building and thought about what Nassar had said. Everything he had disclosed made sense, and would be corroborated by my father\u2019s diligent tracking of Lebanese news, as well as information he received from Lebanon, and the Lebanese friends who visited him in Berlin.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nassar said they were four: him, Sami, George, and my father \u2014 friends, of weapons, marching and war. And according to him, they were defending the country\u2019s identity and survival in the face of the other project.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe came out of the war defeated. We should have stopped denying it and admit to our defeat, so we could return. We wasted time convincing ourselves that we hadn\u2019t been defeated and that the others would soon fail, that the people would demand our return. But none of that happened. We didn\u2019t read the political conditions accurately, nor fall in with the regime. Sami felt that he\u2019d lost his two sons for nothing, so he became depressed and committed suicide. George decided to switch alliances, and to ride the wave of the times and \u2026 I don\u2019t want to talk about him now because he\u2019s in a dishonorable state. As for your father and I, we ended up in voluntary exile at the right time. Me in Paris, and him in Berlin. We kept talking, even though your father didn\u2019t say much about his life. I found out through acquaintances who used to visit him that he got married, had a son, and divorced. He wasn\u2019t aware of how much I knew about him. I didn\u2019t embarrass him by asking anything personal. I contented myself with generic questions and he would usually respond.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Then our phone calls cut off until whatever happened, happened, in 2005. Hariri\u2019s assassination was the fatal blow to the regime that exiled us, and represented the downfall of the regime that we had all been waiting for. Fourteen years of oppression, exile, and anticipation that was only ended by the regime itself, through rampant arrogance. Events sometimes catch you by surprise; they occur randomly, in a way you may never have expected, and produce results that can be organized and presented. I called your father; I told him that it was a good opportunity, the chance we\u2019d been waiting for, I relayed the reassurances we received, and I begged him to return, like we did. We would begin where we left off. We would erase the years of defeat and anticipation. He refused. He didn\u2019t oppose us returning, but wouldn\u2019t join us. I couldn\u2019t understand why he took this decision, and I\u2019d never known him to be inconsistent.<\/span><\/p>\n

During the war, your father was the \u201cdifferent\u201d one of the lot, and he\u2019d always be several steps ahead of the rest of us. So I put it down to that. When I began to help build the political movement, I called him several times. His responses were dry and I sensed that he didn\u2019t want me to discuss anything with him or to consult him in such matters. I respected this about him. Then I became occupied with the general responsibilities that I had taken on, so I stopped calling. I didn\u2019t know that he\u2019d died until they told me that you were arriving at the airport. He died quietly, without any of his friends knowing. Clearly, he wanted to deny us any chance of commemorating his death, and to disappear, silently. That was true to form. Even thinking about this is moving. The time we spent together passes before my eyes in a flash. Can I ask you if he left anything else behind, other than this photo?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I presented him with the map of where the ashes would be scattered, which he took from me and scrutinized.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDid he leave anything else?\u201d Nassar persisted.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNothing,\u201d I said, deciding not to tell him about the notebook in my pocket.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In this newly translated novel excerpt from Hilal Chouman, the son of a civil war fighter learns about his father from a Lebanese minister.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":447,"featured_media":28053,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2656,15,2956],"tags":[323,2958,1028,1032,2959],"coauthors":[2960,2562],"class_list":["post-27990","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-books","category-featured-excerpt","category-tmr-34-a-day-in-the-life","tag-beirut","tag-fighters","tag-lebanese-civil-war","tag-lebanon","tag-photographs","entry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n"Sadness in My Heart"\u2014a story by Hilal Chouman - The Markaz Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"In this newly translated novel excerpt from Hilal Chouman, the son of a civil war fighter learns about his 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