Beirut, August 3, 2020
I have been running away from my past for more than 40 years now. My past is stained by the Lebanese Civil War of ‘75 and tonight it finally caught up on me. In what follows, I have done my best to write down the events and give you enough context to understand what is going on.
It was 1977. It had been two years already since this war began and no end was in sight. Funnily enough, my brother Karim and I were elated when it started. I was 12 and he was 10 when our parents sat us down and explained how we wouldn’t be able to finish the school year because a war had started. Something about Palestinians, Christians and Muslims not getting along. Honestly, our ears stopped listening once we heard the good news! No school, no need to wear that scratchy green polyester uniform, and no Arabic grammar classes with that bitch Mrs. Nouhad was enough to plaster a smile on our innocent faces. We didn’t know any better.
Our innocence disappeared the day we heard our uncle had been shot dead by a sniper while crossing the East/West Beirut demarcation line. He was bringing milk for his six month old daughter.
I’ve been in therapy and those once blacked out memories have been showing their ugly faces again. I had done my best to bury them in the deepest pits of my psyche and triple locked the fucking door. I wanted a normal, boring life. I would have formatted my brain to leave all of this behind if I could. I have learned rather quickly that no matter where you move, you take yourself with you. A past like mine sticks to you like flies to a rotting corpse. It weighs on your shoulders and breathes down your neck and I’m just exhausted from carrying around that weight for the past thirty something years. That’s partly why I’m writing this down.
We began surviving instead of living. We discovered hidden talents we did not know we had. Karim had a knack for spotting snipers, “I won’t be like Khalo (uncle). I’ll double and triple and quadruple check for snipers.” he used to say. My father could build generators using car batteries and sold them to our whole neighborhood to provide some relief as we would go for days without electricity when the situation got too heated. My mother was able to guess where a bomb had fallen based on the sound and the time it took to hit a target. I didn’t really have a talent, I spent most of my days burying my face in books.
We had become really close to our neighbors. The ones living in the apartment beneath us were a family of three, a young widow with her mother and her son, Rayan. Her husband died when their old house was bombed. Rayan had a crush on me, I knew it. He would bring me necklaces he made with white threads and jasmine flowers. My mother would tell me to ignore him. He was Muslim and we were Christian. I don’t recall my parents discussing such things before the war broke out or my mother even being religious. I didn’t quite understand what she meant anyway, I just knew it was something bad.
It was sad, I loved his green eyes and dimpled smile. The neighbors on the floor above us were “the good neighbors” according to my parents. They were Christian, of course. I was terrified of their father, a tall brute of a man with a thick scar on his left eyebrow. He always smelled of iron when he would return home. “It’s dried blood, not iron.” my father clarified when I brought it up. He was a commander in one of the many militias of the time. Their three children were nice enough, and their mother, Carole, would read the Bible with my mom after their daily coffee meeting in our kitchen. I overheard her telling my mom that dozens of people and bodies were going missing. Even her husband had no idea where they were going. “Nothing makes sense during times of war” replied my mother and left it at that.
When the situation got really heated, all three families would go hide in the basement of the building which served as a bunker. Ours was nauseating. It was small, humid, filthy and smelled stale. I’ve seen more rats and cockroaches there than anywhere else. The only good thing about it was the fact it softened the sound of the bombs and screams.
We’d hide there, mom, dad, Karim, and I. We were usually joined by Carole and her kids, of course her husband would never join as he would be busy contributing to the ever rising death tolls. Rayan and his family would join us too, though our families rarely interacted. We were like sardines in a can, with each family occupying one area of the basement. We had some candles to at least be able to see each other’s faces and we would eat stale bread with SPAM or canned tuna while we were underground until a ceasefire was announced.
I would do my best to hide my brief glances at Rayan. I didn’t want my mother to notice.
One day, Karim walked home from the store. I knew from his stare that he was up to no good.
“Layla, do you promise not to tell mom and dad? There’s something I want to show you.”
I was hesitant but curious.
“Yes, I promise. What is it?”. I asked.
“I’ll push you in front of the nearest sniper if you break my trust.” Karim threatened while giggling.
“Come on, I said I promise!!!” I snapped back.
He opened his jacket to reveal his treasure.
A hand grenade. He had brought home a hand grenade.
“I found it next to the Phalangists’ club. It’s brand new, look. It says ‘Made in the USA’, that’s America.” he clarified.
I stared at it. It scared me. The green matched Rayan’s eyes.
“Why the hell did you pocket it, Karim? They could’ve killed you if they saw you! Are you insane?”. My voice came out shakier than I anticipated.
“Khalas (enough), Layla. I’m a grown-ass boy, I know what I’m doing. Besides, it’s your birthday and I didn’t have money to buy you a gift. Consider this your birthday present.”
I didn’t want it. I also did not want to make him sad so I extended my open hand. It felt wrong to even hold it.
“Hide it well, you don’t want mom to find it,” he advised me. I accepted. I hid it in my old boots, she wouldn’t search in those.
“Thank you, Karim. Don’t do it again”. I hoped he could sense my uneasiness in my tone. That night, we celebrated my birthday in the bunker, for the second year in a row. I’m sure the vermin in there enjoyed the cake crumbs as much as us humans did.
A few weeks passed with several visits to the basement, lulled to sleep by the shower of missiles. Our days were marked by the deaths of our acquaintances. “No, Samir died on Thursday, it was Hussein who died on Friday” I heard my mother tell Carole. She was still wearing black to mourn her brother.
During one of those nights, I laid a blanket on the floor of one of the corners of the basement, trying to get away from the neighbors’ kids who kept whispering jokes to each other. After a while, everyone drifted to sleep.
In that brief moment of silence, I noticed a sound coming from the ground. Running feet. A lot of them. I stayed up listening to the sounds below until I eventually drifted to sleep. We woke up to a ceasefire and gladly raced up the stairs home.
The loud clanking of the dishes my mother was washing could not drown out the running noise of feet my head was filled with. I must have imagined them, there was no other logical explanation. There is nothing under the basement but dirt, dirt and more dirt with some rocks here and there I told myself. No one was under us. The memory kept ruminating in my mind though. That same night, my father walked home with a bag of bread under his arm. He announced he heard there was a new skirmish between two militias and we had twenty minutes to go down.
I grabbed a few books, my blanket and thick socks. Within ten minutes we were all ready and walking down the small stairs which lead to the basement. Everyone else was already settled in their own corner. Rayan’s face was dimly illuminated by the yellow light of our candles, I could see the flame dancing in his eyes. I quickly diverted my gaze while I tried to suppress the butterflies in my stomach.
I arranged my little corner, the same as I always did, and put my head down on my pillow to read my book. Against my will, my mind abandoned the tale I was trying to read, as the sound of the footsteps below grabbed my attention. This time around, they were walking. No, they were marching. I finally slept after an hour of listening to this.
We stayed there for three nights in a row. I’d close my eyes and remove myself mentally from there. I’d go back to the past, our days spent on the sandy beaches down south with the ardent rays of the sun toasting our skin to a golden shade of brown. My therapist called it dissociating. Whatever the fuck it was, it kept me going. On my third day, I glued my ear to the concrete floor of the basement. My curiosity was eating at me, I needed to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Not only were there sounds of feet marching, but I could also hear a soft humming and growls.
On the fourth day, we were finally able to go home. The light creeping from the windows on the stairs stung our eyes and it took our pupils a moment to adjust to the brightness. “We’re turning into bats down there.” muttered my father.
Things were calm for a while. Us neighborhood kids begged our parents to let us go outside and play. During such times, we’d play in the street in front of our house. Sometimes we would venture into the courtyard of the abandoned building next to ours. A bomb had partially destroyed it and it was unstable. Of course us kids couldn’t give two shits about safety, we were used to playing with empty cartridges and had seen our fair share of decomposing bodies on the streets. Danger was part of our daily routine, like brushing our teeth and praying before eating dinner.
It was bright outside that day. We had decided to play hide and seek. I cherished those times because we could breathe some non-stale air and run around with the neighborhood kids without my parents policing us around, including Rayan. “One, two, three, fooooour…” Karim started loudly counting and all five of us kids scattered around. Rayan and I had teamed up and ran towards the dilapidated building. Plenty of ruins meant plenty of nooks and crannies we could hide in. “Layla, over here, quick!” Rayan said. I walked over to the building’s entrance where Rayan was standing.
The last two floors of the building had blown up during a particularly heated shelling session, but a part of the first floor was still standing. I remember our ears were ringing for days after the bomb fell next to us. The shockwaves had shaken up our entire bodies and the nausea had taken hours to calm down. “Yalla, come, he’s almost done counting” Rayan said quietly, making sure no one else could hear. He was pointing at the stairs down the entrance.
I hesitated for a moment. “Ninety eight, ninety niiiiiiiiiine, oooone hundred! I’m coming!” I heard Karim say. I ducked down and went over to Rayan’s side. We walked all the way down to the bottom of the stairs on our tippy toes. At the bottom of the stairs was a big rusty red metal door. I reached out to try twisting the doorknob, but Rayan grabbed my hand and lifted up his eyebrows. He was right, it would have made a lot of noise and possibly led Karim to us. We were dimly lit by the sunlight coming in. I could see him much better than before. He was a year older than me and his beard had started growing in patches. Those damn butterflies were back the second he cracked a smile. He leaned in and stole a kiss right off my lips. I could barely look him in the eyes afterwards, but we stayed hidden there. Being with him felt safe.
We heard footsteps coming from above, Karim must be searching behind the piles of broken furniture just like I had predicted he would
“I know at least one person is hiding here, you guys aren’t a creative bunch” we heard Karim say. The little brat could be so annoying.
“Mikhail, I see your red shoe!” he exclaimed, “I knew I shouldn’t have worn these, ugh.” the kid replied.
“Sahar, I see your hair poking out from behind the tree!”, he said in a sing-song rhythm.
“Dimitri, go out I saw your hand! Either you guys SUCK at this game or I’m a pro”.
Then, we heard him walking closer to us.
“Laylaaaa, Rayan, I know you guys must be here somewhere”.
His steps got closer to us. I could feel the pearls of sweat rolling down my neck.
“Don’t tell me you walked down the stairs, it’s like you don’t even want to try to hide” he nagged, walking down the stairs.
“Oh the two of you are here, I can see your footprints in the dust, come on just come up!” he added, his voice even closer.
Suddenly he jumped right in front of us, giggling and laughing, all proud of himself.
“Karim has bionic eyes or something,” said Rayan.
“Don’t tell him that, it’s not like he needs an ego boost” I replied.
We went home.
What was behind that red door? I had to find a way to open it.I noticed it was starting to get dark outside. I hid my cross necklace in my pocket and told my mom I must have dropped it when we were outside playing. “Go try to find it before the sun sets, you have ten minutes to be back here” my mother said, clearly irritated at my carelessness. I ran out, I just wanted to check if any noise could be heard coming from the basement floor.
I reached the door and tried twisting the handle but it would not budge. There, I had my answer. I needed answers and not the half-assed “It’s the water pipes Layla, what else can it be? A cabaret for rats?” that my father had offered when I told him what I had heard. I heard the sound of bullets in the distance and ran back home.
“So, did you find it?” my mother asked.
“Find what?” I asked, my heart beating out of my chest from running all the way home.
“The cross?! What else?” she asked, her high-pitched voice ripping into my ear drums.
“Yes, mother, here it is. I’m sorry, I panicked when I heard the shootings outside” I explained.
Her face seemed to relax a little.
“It’s fine, go wash up. The dinner is on the table.”
I went to bed brainstorming about ways to unlock that door. I had picked locks before. Actually, I had picked one lock before and it was the small one on my brother’s piggy bank with a bobby pin. I’d need a gigantic bobby pin to unlock that door. An idea came to me. The hand grenade! I could throw it down the stairs and it would unlock the door. No one would bat an eye, the entire neighborhood had gotten used to the sound of explosives.
The next day, my mother needed me to go pick up some tomatoes for tonight’s fattoush. “I gave you just enough money to get Bonjus for you and your brother” she winked at me. She seemed like her old light-hearted self. I went back to my room and pulled the hand grenade out of my boots, and placed it in my satchel.
I picked the reddest and juiciest tomatoes Abou Abdo had in his store. Right before going home, I silently made my way to the dilapidated building and took the hand grenade out. In one breath, I ripped out the silver ring and threw the grenade down the stairs and ran back home. My mother looked relieved upon seeing me walk in one piece after the explosion.
Karim and I savored the orange juice while our mother finished up fixing dinner. I decided to wait until tomorrow to go check on the door. The dust should have settled by then.
My mother and Carole had gone to church together with her children, while my father and Karim had slept in the next morning. I had an hour and a half until they returned or someone noticed my absence. I walked out. Rayan was already outside with a broom in his hand cleaning up the entrance of our building. “Hey pretty girl,” he said, “where are you going?”. I felt the blood rush to my face, I hated the effect he had on me, and he was lucky as hell my mother wasn’t around to hear him. “Just going on a walk”, I answered. “You’re going on a walk?Alone? Hell no, not on my watch” he retorted, “it’s not safe outside for young girls, you’ve heard about the kidnappings… I’ll go with you, okay?”. I accepted his offer.
We walked for a couple of minutes and reached the gates.
“Let’s go in,” I told him.
“Like we did last time?” he asked with a sly smile.
“Yes, just like that.” I responded without even looking at him.
He held my hand as we walked down the stairs.
“Wow the explosion happened here last night” he pointed out. “It sounded close to us”.
“It seems so.” I replied.
The door had turned into shrapnels. We looked at each other before he took the first step in. It smelled stale. We could barely see anything.
“I’ll go get my flashlight, you stay right here, okay?” Rayan said, “I’ll be back in a minute, don’t miss me too much.” he added before awkwardly leaning in for another kiss. He smelled like jasmine.
The minute he left, I laid down on that filthy dusty floor and put my ear down. I wasn’t crazy, there was the very faint noise of people shuffling their feet! There were people down there walking around, dragging things, sighing and that occasional growl. It was much calmer than it was at night. I heard Rayan walking down the stairs and quickly got up on my feet, wiping myself clean with my hands.
“I got it, Layla,” he said while turning on the flashlight, “let’s see what’s in here”.
He swung the flashlight around, illuminating some old furniture left behind. Three big cardboard boxes were stacked up to the ceiling, there were some broken chairs and an old blue typewriter too. I walked closer and began inspecting the boxes. Rayan pulled the one at the very top and dropped it to the floor for me to take a closer look. It contained dusty Christmas decorations.
“Let’s see what’s in this one” he said, pulling down the second box. That’s when we both saw another door right behind it. Rayan pushed the last box out of the way.
Much to our surprise, the door opened when he twisted the knob. I was holding the flashlight now. In front of us was the inside of a cave with symbols carved all over the walls. It looked like an ant gallery with multiple narrow tunnels with torches illuminated the path leading to a bigger tunnel on our right hand.“It looks like the Phoenician alphabet,” I whispered.“It’s weird as hell, that’s what it is,” he remarked.
I turned the flashlight off. We could hear footsteps, growls and sighs. I took a step forward to venture in the tunnel in front of us, when Rayan held my hand and pulled me back.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “It seems dangerous. Let’s go back home.” he added.
“Yes, I’m sure. Rayan, I’ve been hearing these sounds for weeks now through the floor in the basement. I just want to know where they’re coming from. Even if it’s dangerous, didn’t you say you’d protect me?” I teasingly asked him.
“You really know which strings to pull on, don’t you?” he asked. “Come on, let’s make this quick. We’ll just see where it takes us then leave.”
“Let’s do that,” I said, holding his hand.
I noticed we were gradually going lower in the ground. It was gonna be a bitch to walk back uphill later on, I thought. It was cold, so I walked closer to Rayan. Circumstances aside, I was happy I was spending alone time with him.
“Do you smell that?” he asked.
“Blood?” I replied.
“Yes, blood. It stinks just like the bodies did outside my old house. I think something died down here and is rotting away and we’re gonna run into the damn thing.” he whined.
Maybe it really was a rat cabaret and we’d stumble upon dead rodents. The humming got louder and louder as I gripped on his hand tighter and tighter. He caressed my hand with his thumb, sending the butterflies into a frenzy. We neared the end of the tunnel which was glowing bright red. My heart pounded. At last, I would know what I was hearing all those sleepless nights. I quickened my pace, silently still.
The tunnel offered an aerial view inside what seemed like the main chamber of the cave. It ended with stairs that led to the chamber. Looking down, we observed torches all around the walls fiercely burning away. Their mysterious red glow illuminated a scene straight out of a fantasy novel. On a colossal throne of gold and onyx, sat upright a behemoth of a creature. He looked just like the drawings of the minotaur Mr. Khalil had shown us in history class. The best had the face of a bull, with long and hefty ivory horns adorned with jewels. The lights refracted through them and painted the walls of the cave with mesmerizing splashes of blue, yellow and green. His cavernous nostrils were blowing his steamy breath into the air. Its human-like body was covered in thick brown fur, and he was wearing a deep purple tunic. “The Phoenicians used Murex snails to dye fabrics purple for royalty and high priests.” I heard Mr. Khalil in my mind. His mouth was dripping with a deep red liquid. Wine? No, the wine Father Gebrayel served us at church was not this viscous.
“Blood. He has blood around his mouth.” finally whispered Rayan, as if he were reading my mind.
In front of him were people, men and women, dressed in tunics. Theirs were brown and white. Some of them were on their knees facing him with their hands to the sky, softly humming a chant. They were worshiping him. I recognized a few of their faces, I had seen them on the news countless times before. Suddenly, we heard the sound of people marching and a group of men walked in carrying mangled bodies of all ages and genders. A lanky bald man, his chest covered in jeweled necklaces stepped out from the crowd, he too was wearing purple. He began chanting slowly with his breathy voice. His words sounded ancient, lost and hauntingly beautiful. The monster stared at him with his turquoise eyes and growled gently, excited at the scene unraveling before his eyes, his saliva dripping down his maw.
“Oh Baal, Baal,” I heard him cry out with his hands up and his knees on the red floor, as his peers rushed to walk up the beast’s throne holding the still twitching bodies. There were even children in that pile. The beast grabbed them and shoveled them in his maw, growling and moaning in ecstasy, reveling with human flesh.
Rayan firmly yanked my hand. We walked up the tunnel, leaving the gory spectacle behind us. Once in the basement, Rayan looked into my eyes. “Layla,” he said.
I cut him off, “My mother must be back. I need to go home right now.” I urged him. And so, we walked out of that god forsaken place.
My mother and her friend were just walking home and saw me holding Rayan’s hand.
That night she beat me black and blue for doing so.
“I’m not raising a whore in this house” she screamed, “you’re lucky your father didn’t see you or else he would have killed you with his bare hands just like his kind is killing ours. Instead of talking to Mikhail or Dimitri, you go and hold the hand of the only Muslim dog in the neighborhood, you have tainted our honor.” the words dripped out of her mouth like a river of arsenic as her fists came down on me.
Rayan stopped approaching me after that day. He had heard it all. I’d still catch him looking at me on the stairs in our building or staring in my direction in the basement as I kept my head glued to the floor, listening to what only he and I knew. Mikhail started coming over to our place more often, at first to hang out with Karim, but soon enough he and I became close.
The years passed and I ended up marrying Mikhail in our little neighborhood church we both attended growing up. We left the country as soon as we could in our late twenties. With hard work and sacrifices, we built a new life for ourselves in the suburbs of Los Angeles. We raised three beautiful, kind, compassionate and successful children together. I never told him about my underground adventure.
We went back to my childhood home this month. Karim had stayed in Lebanon and wanted all of us present for his son’s wedding.
We landed two weeks ago. I’ll admit it, I had missed it here. I had never gone back after we had left. No matter how much my husband and I tried to blend into American society and felt at home in LA, this place was different. Our souls were anchored here.
We visited the now rebuilt capital which we had left in ruins. Our kids loved discovering their roots, the food and the culture. I wished we could have raised them here had things been different.
We took them to our childhood homes. We first went to the third floor where Mikhail lived and then to the second floor where I grew up. They took their time discovering our homes, listening to their father’s funny anecdotes and memories. Mikhail conveniently left out all the details referencing the war.
“They don’t need to carry the weight of our stolen childhoods” he had said before. I agreed.
I stepped outside for a smoke. Nasty habit, I know. I spotted someone walking in my direction, as he got closer, I could barely retain my surprise. I instantly recognized Rayan. We talked about our lives, our jobs, children and spouses. I was genuinely happy to see him again. All romantic feelings had vaporized years ago, of course.
“How long are you guys staying here?” he asked.
“We’re leaving in three days, I wish we could have stayed for longer.” I replied.
He took a long puff of his own cigarette.
“I was happy to see you, Layla.” he smiled a now wrinkly smile. The dimples were still there, partially concealed behind his now white beard. The forest green of his eyes had not faded one bit. He seemed ready to walk back home.
“Have you gone back there?” I finally asked.
“Layla… you don’t want to know, trust me.” he said with pain in his eyes.
“Rayan, tell me. I came all the way here. This shit has been haunting my nightmares for 44 fucking years. I want to know.” I pleaded.
After staring at me he threw the cigarette on the ground, smashing it with his foot and promptly lit another one. When he finally spoke, his words sent shivers down my spine.
“I did yearly check-ups actually. I went back in ‘91 for the first time. Baal was asleep, his mouth and chin wer clean. There were some humans sleeping around him. The cave seemed like it had been maintained well. The torches were lit and illuminating that monster. I’ve done some research, talked to a few people here and there. I needed answers. Our ancestors worshiped him. They worshiped Baal. The Canaanites knew how to keep the fucker happy. They had routine blood sacrifices for him. As time went on, Baal was left behind in favor of Jesus and Allah. His followers were chased away by Christians and Muslims alike for worshiping a false deity, but the ones who survived lived on and took care of their god, transmitting their religion to their offspring. However, it seems like their small sacrifices couldn’t satisfy him anymore, his appetite for human flesh and blood seemed to become greater and greater. Baal was used to being adored and worshiped by thousands of people, it had now been reduced to just a handful of loyal followers who failed at fulfilling his needs. The creature must have been parched, his thirst for blood needed to be quenched and the war did just that. It makes sense if you think about it. The war was a fucking bloodshed. It kept the fucker full. The 17000 missing people the families still search for went straight into the Baal’s gullet. In return, he granted his followers all of their needs and desires and more riches than us poor fuckers can imagine. Most of them control this fucking country; I am talking about higher ups in the government. Have you never wondered how the war criminals at the head of militias suddenly formed political parties and have been in the government ever since the war stopped? It’s not a fucking coincidence, Layla.”
I felt nauseous but he wasn’t done.
“I went down last month. They’re back. The people are back down there in huge numbers, Layla. Just like the time you and I went there.” his voice was trembling. He was visibly shaking, tears flowing down his aged face.
“They were praying. This time around, they had drums and cadavers stacked at the foot of the throne covered in flowers… They were infants, Layla. Dead babies. Offerings. They’re trying to wake Baal up.”