at first but which eventually became so significant that they threatened to compromise their love for each other. It was clear that, faced with difficult circumstances, their backgrounds had led them to contemplate different solutions. For Anas, staying on in Damascus was not only a demonstration of his solidarity for his country but also an act that would serve to reinforce its existence, make it somehow resistant to break-up, while Brigitte maintained that a nation was not defined by its borders but by the unity and common vision of its people.
Thinking of his predicament now, despite the anger and frustration he feels at what Brigitte has done, it is almost impossible for him to imagine a life without her, though he admits to himself that there have been moments when he has hoped for just that, when he has sensed the probable inner peace that different life decisions might have afforded him. Where and at what juncture could I have done things differently? he asks himself.
There is great release for him in art; even now, at the news of his family’s departure, his first instinct is to go to the gallery where an exhibition is to be held of his work and spend the day there, among the canvases and away from worry. He is grateful for the support of his friends but for the moment, he knows, there is only one place for him to be.
Hannah walks with Anas to the gallery in Beirut’s downtown where his exhibition will be held. On their way, they stop and sit on a bench on the Corniche, admiring the beauty of the Mediterranean, which, on this cool, sunny day, is smooth and deeply blue.
—I could never live anywhere but by the sea, Hannah says.
—This particular one, you mean?
—Probably, yes. You see how quiet and silky the water is now? Don’t be deceived by it, though.
—Huh?
—I mean, Hannah continues, during thunderstorms, the waves are massive. It’s impossible to walk here then because you’d be swept out to sea.
—Have you ever imagined living anywhere else besides Beirut? Anas asks after a pause.
—Well, we lived in Cyprus for a while during the war …
—Yes, I know. I meant now, when you can make the choice.
She sighs.
—I know many people who have the means and the opportunity are choosing to leave right now, but where would we go? Work is good here and I don’t know that we would want to start all over again anywhere else.
—You get satisfaction from your work, Hannah, but the same can’t be said for Peter.
—What do you mean?
—We were talking about it only the other day, Anas continues. He’s stuck in an administrative job he doesn’t enjoy and I think he misses being a doctor.
Hannah turns to him.
—He hasn’t said anything like that to me. Surely he would tell me if he really feels like that.
—Maybe he’s not sure how to approach it. After all, if he weren’t living here, he would be able to practise medicine.
—I didn’t ask him to come, Anas, she says impatiently. He wanted to be here.
—He wanted to be with you and you insisted on staying in Beirut.
She shakes her head and looks out over the water again.
—But that’s not what I meant to talk about, Anas says. I was asking you if things got worse and some kind of civil war breaks out again, would you be willing to leave Lebanon? It’s a possibility, you know, that our conflict will spill over into this country.
—A possibility? A war of attrition is already going on in Tripoli in the north and in the Bekaa, in the towns bordering Syria. It could all spiral out of control, I agree.
But Anas persists.
—You haven’t really answered my question, Hannah. What if you had children. Would that make you think differently?
She shrugs.
—I suppose we’d have to think about it seriously then, she replies. I suppose we would be concerned about their safety … Then something lights up in her head. Oh, you’re asking me if I approve of what Brigitte has done, aren’t you?
—Do you think she did the right thing?
Hannah realizes that she’s treading on dangerous ground here.
—I don’t think she should have made the decision on her own and then left without telling you. But I can perfectly understand her wanting to take the children somewhere safe.
She puts a hand on his arm to reassure him.
He gets up and she follows.
—What if she never gets in touch? he asks her. What will I do then?
—Why would you say that, Anas? What makes you think that? Brigitte wouldn’t do anything to deliberately hurt you. I know she wouldn’t.
He moves ahead of her and Hannah, trying to catch up, trips and almost falls over.
—Anas, please wait. What’s really going on here?
He stops and turns to her.
—The truth is, Hannah, the truth is things haven’t been going well between us for some time now. I think she’s left me for good.
They fall silent and Hannah wonders, not for the first time, how much longer they will have to endure the repercussions of years of war on their relationships, their family ties.
In 1982, as invading Israeli troops were closing in on Beirut, our family was evacuated on a ship taking Westerners out of Lebanon. My father used his connections with one of the embassies to get my mother, my brother and myself on board the ship. Throughout the journey to the island of Cyprus, the sea surging beneath us, Mother had clung to me and Sammy and cried. I was ten years old and felt a finality in that grief, a suggestion of relief that scared me. How can we possibly leave home? I wondered. Will we ever be able to return, and without Father, are we still a family? These questions, that initial dread, have never left me.
We spent, along with thousands of Lebanese like ourselves, a number of years on the island, during which we lived in a small apartment near the school that my brother and I attended. I remember that time as an interlude between real life in Lebanon before the war and life there once the conflict ended, mimicking my parents’ attitude towards this displacement as a period of anticipation regardless how long or how damaging the waiting to return might be. Whenever there was a temporary lull in the civil war and speculation mounted that the conflict was over, Father would decide we should return home and we would prepare to uproot ourselves, only to be told, days or weeks later, that it may be a little longer before we could pick up from where we had left off what seemed a lifetime ago. Even the friendships that I managed to make during this hiatus had hesitation in them; they predicted their ending even as they began, sacrificing the promise
