— Impossible, I shout. We’re against looting. We’re here to protect the people, not to loot.
— What’s impossible is to stop them, Talal retorts, yelling at them to go away, firing a few shots in the air.
But they won’t go away. What’s this? What is this? Shapes and colors of all sorts bending over. This isn’t looting. This is folklore. This is a ’eid. This is Revolution. All revolutions are like this. Beautiful and terrifying and …
In the throes of our surprise and amid everyone’s shouting to try to stop them, their numbers grew. They scuttled away from our shouting and firing only to come back. Then khaki began to mingle with the other colors. What’s this comrades? Whole groups of them were streaming in. They’d found out that the position had fallen. And had come to fight and loot and live.
— What do they want?
— That’s the sea for you. What’s the difference between people and the sea? What’s the difference between the sea and the fish?
The sea wasn’t the only surprise. As it spreads, war gets to be full of surprises. And after the fall of Maslakh and Qarantina* to the Fascists, the war itself became one big surprise. Vast numbers of fighters and militiamen, with their weapons, their boots, their clothes, filling the streets of Wadi Abu Jameel in ceaseless attempts to reach the sea. Practically speaking, coordination wasn’t possible. Joint and disjointed forces** from all over the country coming here to fight. The commander going from position to position, trying to coordinate — not an easy task. And we, fighting from position to position, from wall to wall, dust filling the air.
Butros comes running from the church. Panting, he tells us: some of the pews have been taken. A whole lot of them came and covered the walls with their slogans. The two priests are very upset (by the way I forgot to mention that the two priests stayed in the church and struck up a firm friendship with Talal).
— What shall we do?
— Nothing. Protect the church and the two monks. Then there were shouts and explosions everywhere. Fighters shooting and looting. Competing with the children for the small items. A new group arrived, fighting savagely in the middle of the street. Looking for war, amid the cries and the cold.
Seeing them darting about in the middle of the street, screaming, I didn’t understand. I watched them. Rage trickled through their fingers and their teeth. They got to the music shop and broke down the door. Seizing trumpets, drums and cymbals, the musical procession set off down the middle of France Street, full of percussion, shouting, and gunfire. Another martyr. The streets made way for them and the war opened its doors to their tears.
I reached the church and went on watching them from the window. Butros was sitting in a corner all by himself, humming his Latin melody. I sat down beside him and heard the footsteps of the two priests upstairs going up to the window and watching.
My voice began to rise, Butros beside me correcting the rhythm of the funerary chant I sang. SCENE THREE
The two Capuchins are still here. Father Marcel, about 80, and his companion whose name I couldn’t remember and whose age I couldn’t tell, for old age seeped through his fingers like water. They stayed in their room above the church, not mixing with the comrades. I knew that they viewed us with extreme suspicion and alarm. We doubted their motives for staying and they feared us and our intentions. That’s why I was surprised when the commander asked me to go out and buy them some food — milk, cheese, canned things, meat, coffee. … I went, bought the stuff, and on my way back got hold of a bottle of French wine through a friend. I told myself we’d celebrate with the two priests. They were delighted with the present but objected to the cheese.
— We want French cheese.
— That’s not possible, Father. All the shops are closed or ransacked. I nevertheless went and bought them some vile French cheese which used to be sold everywhere — that same cheese my mother would force me to eat though I could never see that it had any taste. We went up to their room, Butros, Talal and I. They were eating.
— Why don’t you taste the wine?
— I’m waiting for you, Father Marcel answered me. We’re going to celebrate together with this wine. We went back down the stairs. Father Marcel was aghast; he trembled with dismay and grief.
— What’s all this? What is it? This is a barbaric war.
— All wars are like this, Father. It’s nothing.
— No, no. Not all wars are like this. I’ve been in a war too. I was an officer in the French army during the First World War. That war wasn’t like this. We respected places of worship and we didn’t harm civilians.
— But this is a civil war. It’s the civilians who’re fighting.
We were walking side by side. Father Marcel bending down silently, fearfully, over the statues strewn on the ground. Picking up bits of debris, muttering words I couldn’t make out, prayers, or curses, or a mixture of both. Look, Father Marcel said. The church is a ship. Look at the architecture: a church is built like a ship. The church is a ship floating above the world. It is in the world but not of it. I’m not sad. This is a barbaric war, and the winds are blowing against our ship and it has been wrecked. But we’ll rebuild it.
— I’m afraid the ship might sink, Father, Butros said maliciously.
— No, no. The ship can’t sink in the world. It is in it and not of it. It might be wrecked, that’s possible. But it can’t sink.
I turned to Father Marcel and saw his face extend across the surface of his white hair as he beheld the shipwreck and its sorrows. This is a man full of memories. These last few moments of his have become memories. Poor Father Marcel.
— But Father, this religious concept about the church, it is common both to you and to the Eastern Christians?
— Naturally, my son. Its an old concept. It was established long before the schisms and the religious wars. The church is a ship and the world a rough sea. No two people disagree over that.
— Then, what is the difference? Talal asked.
— That’s a very complicated story. But I can tell you that, in principle, the difference has to do with the fundamental view of the relationship between religion and life. We are practical, rational people. For us, religion regulates the relationship between God and life, it is rational and organized, it orders things. But Eastern Christians, now they’re mystics. In the past, they didn’t understand the relationship between religion and the state and now they’ve become a cover for Communism and atheism.
Father Marcel resumed his tour. He was bowed with grief. His face blended with the church’s empty space, empty but for the debris and the remnants of the altar. As he walked, the sound of his footsteps striking the floor grew louder, and straw and the bits and pieces of shells flew about the bottom of his brown robe. The thin sun, tinted by the church’s stained glass, reflected its colors on the undulating robe.
Lets go up now, Father Marcel said. Let’s drink to my friendship for the fedayeen.
Father Marcel opened the bottle of wine like a professional soldier. He filled the glasses and drank to our new friendship. He was happy as a child with the wine but he drank like a soldier.
— Why did you do this to the church? This is no ordinary church. Its a cathedral. Do you know what a cathedral is?
I shrugged my shoulders.
— A cathedral is the central church. The big church. Everyone’s church. And yet you went and destroyed it.