During a two-year teaching post at a small Islamic school in the city of Bell, CA, Cecile Sarruf befriended the Shii’te Lebanese community from Yaroun, South Lebanon. It was here that she lived on the inside of a warm and hospitable people and it was with their personal invitation that she found herself in Lebanon in the summer of 2004. She writes about her experience in the following piece, taken from her forthcoming novel, Kitchen in Beirut.

South Beirut is a young girl's face, saddened after having been dumped by her beloved. Her skin is pock marked, bullet ridden, marred and unsightly. Although her spirit has not been completely crushed, there is a loneliness that lingers behind her empty eyes; those sorrowful windows of darkness. With an air of defiance, she attempts to sit up straight and reapply a bit of rouge, a bit of mascara. Her sadness billows in the protective rain curtains as seen from each balcony.

We are making our way into the heart of the Hezbolla area. I study the monotony of the gray high-rises. I notice two people sitting at a card table on a fifth floor balcony. The railing has been blown off, leaving them vulnerable to a fall, yet they seem strangely unperturbed. Crumbled buildings line some streets, most abandoned like a bad marriage between politics and family, rusty iron rods piercing through what used to be. These ruined streets contrast sharply with the northern parts of Beirut, where a facelift has been performed and vestiges of the West have cheerfully invaded the shorelines with eateries like Burger King, Pizza Hut and Starbucks. But here, in a barefaced ghetto, years of war have left their stubborn marks as a reminder that the past certainly becomes intertwined with the present, but points towards an uncertain future. This part of Lebanon chooses to wallow in its stubbornness, to cling to a turbulent past, lest it be forgotten. Her father's wars are not to be found on the lips of the youth today. Instead, war talk simmers just beneath the surface of politeness and gentile respect. A bomb blast will go off or an assassination will occur and the news makes its way into daily chat, for a moment.

"Did you hear?" one would say to another over coffee and cigarette.
"A bomb went off while you were away."

"Wallah?"

The buildings here have been attacked, bombarded and gutted out with fury. Yet some manage to stand tall across the blue horizon. Upon first entering the area, I had bravely taken out my camera and shot a quick photo of one such building. Hassan hissed at me as I did so. "Put that thing away." His eyes were black, darting from side to side.  "If they see a camera, you and the camera are locked up. Then you're questioned and they keep the camera. You want that?" I did what I was told, lowered the camera immediately and placed it on the floor between my feet. As we drove, I tried to adjust to the unfamiliar sight of a war-torn city. In this area, people go about their daily business as usual. Are they so wrong to do so? Surprisingly, drivers heed the rules, unlike other parts of Beirut where traffic goes as it pleases and traffic laws are improvised. There's even a noticeable difference in the air. It is thick, muggy, stagnant. Policemen, stationed at the entrance and key points, keep their watchful eyes on each vehicle that enters South Beirut.

We finally arrive at a place of business and Hassan hops out of the car. "Wait here," he tells me. He slams the door shut before I can respond. I feel trapped. My first reaction is to bolt after him. An undefined fear grips me. I have been left alone in the heart of the Hezbollah area. What if people notice me?  I don't exactly blend in with my long golden hair. And although I'm not Muslim, I feel the odd one out not wearing a hijab. What if they figure I'm an American? I survey the area. Is anyone looking at me? Nope. There's no Party of God marching about shouting out "Death to the Americans! Death to Israel!" So I gain a small measure of comfort and decide on the radio. I channel surf and fall on Melissa Etheridge's "Come to My Window". What a small world. I'm home, but not home.

I sit and wait, tap my knee and listen to music. Twenty minutes seem like an eternity and I'm beginning to wonder about my friend, really now, he knows how I feel, to leave me alone in this area. I continue to challenge some misconceptions I might have. Where are the suicide bombers? Where are the killers of Israelis? Are they hiding their politics away from the sun's light in mosques behind prayers? Do they wait until the evening to meet and plan? Or, are these people simply trying to protect what is rightly theirs? Have I been misinformed or indoctrinated by the American media and its propaganda? Maybe I have the wrong channels back home.

I watch a woman walk by and a man cross the street. Life goes on and truth seems relevant at this point. I notice that the streets here are not as busy as in downtown Beirut, where one strolls carefree amongst tourists and shops. There are no tourists in these parts. Not one Saudi or "Ninja", as my friend amusingly call the women who dress in black from head to toe. As I nervously look about, a young man passes by with a sense of purpose, not giving me the time of day. I still don't find any terrorists approaching my car. I have Jewish friends from Haifa back home. How comfortable would they be here, where I sit now? Freedom. I have it and I'm using it. Ok, if I die, I reason with myself, at least I die doing what I love; absorbing life where I please. I continue to study the city once known as the Paris of the Middle East. Everyone has a home, I surmise, and a right to their families, their future lineage. These people are no different from anywhere else, are they? My friend's tardiness pushes my limits. I lower my window and welcome a gentle breeze. The street I sit on has many a car, but where are the city dwellers? I want to return to the North where all the fun is; the clubs on Mono Street, the sands of gold in Byblos and the peace found in the Aleh Mountains.  It is eerily silent here. I can't help feeling I'm being watched.

Finally, I'm relieved at the sight of my friend nearing the car. "What took you so long?" I ask him. He's annoyed by my question, but seems as eager to leave as I am. We return the same way we came and once again, I'm tempted to whip out the camera which now sits at my feet. Suddenly, my happiness is dashed. A guard, in army fatigues, stops us with one hand. He marches towards our vehicle. My friend warns me not to say a word and he slowly rolls down his window. There's an exchange of Arabic. I become passive, invisible, silent, my heart beating wildly. The guard asks for ID. There is not one trace of humor or pleasantry in his face. His dead seriousness unnerves me. He studies our American passports, while I slowly push the camera out of sight with my toes. He looks to my friend, then the passport. He looks at me, then my passport. He does a once over to the car's interior. He studies my face carefully and I move my eyes away towards the city streets, the sky, nothing and everything. He finally waves us by and we quickly enter the ebb and flow of traffic. At least, I muse to myself, I have one photo of a desperate building struggling to stand tall; with its empty windows and pock marked facade. It is beautiful.
 

Cecile Sarruf Bio

Cecile Sarruf holds a BA and MFA in creative writing. She was born the eldest of five in Los Angeles to a Lebanese mother (an Egyptian national) and an American father. She adopted her grandmother’s surname as a way of reclaiming her Arab identity. She comes from a long-standing tradition of writers within the family, including her great–great uncle Yacoub Sarruf and her grandfather who wrote and published French poetry. Throughout her adult life, she pursued her passions: attending poetry workshops at Beyond Baroque, displaying her oil paintings in Los Angeles and Seattle, composing and recording her own Middle-Eastern flavored music which resulted in the her directing and producing her own music videos, as well as performing opera in and around Los Angeles. It was not until she entered the Master’s program at Antioch University in 2001 and while writing her thesis focused on the Arab voice in American Literature that she realized so little awaited her on the bookshelves by way of Arab authors. Aside from such classics as Naguib Mahfouz and Khalil Gibran, and some contemporary authors such as Hannan Al-Shaykh, Gina Nahai and Naomi Shihab Nye, and a few anthologies, she was left disenchanted by the paucity of contemporary Arab authors in English as contrasted with their American counterparts. This spurred her to delve deeper into her lineage and to find a recognizable face upon the page. Cecile continues to write poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction.