This story was given to me by my mother, Marian Haddad Ghiz. Nathan and Bessie Haddad traveled to Lebanon in the late 60's or early 70's. It occurred to me during the recent Haddad reunion that this event was part of my Grandmother's life and she was not from Jib Janeen. However, Nathan Haddad took her to her hometown and was with her when this took place. It still is a part of our history, I think, and a lovely story.

...Daphne Ghiz Boder

 
The Olive Tree
by Ghaleb Saleika

It was one of those calm summer evenings when a car stopped in a quiet small village surrounded by the mountains. Two men and a lady left the car and headed toward a group of children who were playing.

Approaching one of those boys the lady greeted him and asked him, "Is this the village called Binyas?"

The boy answered, "Yes it is, Madam."

Then she asked him, "Would you please show us the way to the house of Makhoul Ibrahim (Michael Abraham)? And this is your reward." Grasping some candies in her purse she offered them to the boy and his companions.

The boy looked at her saying, "There is no such house for such a man in our village. I have never heard of his name before, Madam."

At this same moment, a young man was passing by so the lady looked at him excitedly, and after greeting him she asked him, "Dear, do you know where is the house of Makhoul Ibrahim?"

He gazed at her face and went back with his memory trying to recall such a house or its owner about whom he might have heard. But he did not know more than the boy and answered her, "I am sorry, lady. I do not know this house and have never heard about its owner since I have been in this village."

Perplexed by this answer, the lady asked the young man, "Haven't you ever heard your parents or any of your relatives talking to you about Makhoul Ibrahim and his house? Haven't you ever heard about those who lived before in the village? Haven't you ever heard about properties concerning this man?"

She was asking those questions with tears running down her cheeks. She wiped them away with her handkerchief and turned to go back to her car when the young man stopped her and told her, "Lady, would you like to wait for awhile until I ask my grandfather who might know about this man and his house?"

And upon her quest about his grandfather's house, the young man pointed out a red brick house besides which was another small one. He invited them to join him and welcomed them.

The lady and her husband accepted the invitation and upon their arrival to the entrance they found the young man's grandfather sitting in the shadow of an olive tree in front of his house door. The young man called him. "Grandfather, some people are here asking for Makhoul Ibrahim's house. Is there a house for this man here?

The grandfather gazed at him, looked at the visitors, then, leaning on his cane, he approached the lady and her husband, exchanged greetings with them, and invited them to enter his house, insisting that they were the most welcomed.

The lady thanked him, and addressed him saying, "Do you know Makhoul Ibrahim's house, Sir?"

Staring at her he asked, "What do you want from his house?"

She said, "I am his daughter. I would like to see my father's house."

The old man was shaking at the impact of her words as though something had happened and replied, "Would you be Farida? Makhoul's daughter?"

She certified that she was Farida herself. "I am Makhoul Ibrahim's daughter. I am the daughter of those mountains, Sir." Repeating those words she stepped to shake hands again with the old man as if she was scared he would escape her.

The old man asked, "What do you remember from this village and from you house, Farida?"

"I don't remember much of the village," she said, "but the memory of our house still lingers in my mind. Our house with its big door, its narrow window and its chimney in which we used to play with our neighbor's children, Assaad, Kamal, and Laila. This is still engraved in my memory about our beloved house and village."

She had not finished reviving her memories when the old man started crying, mumbling these words, "Oh, what a cruel time. Pity to this emigration, to money, this unjust master."

The lady was bewildered with the old man's appearance and begged him to tell her who he was. Then he took her hand, gazed at her face and said, "I am that young boy, Assaad, and this is the olive tree that gathered us under its branches while we were children… Kamal, Laila, you and me. This is your father's house with its big door and narrow window. Come on inside to see the chimney still standing as before with hope that you might visit it some day before sunset."

"Oh my God, my God. What a coincidence!" She mumbled those words and leaned on her husband's shoulders and fainted.

Her husband carried her in his arms and laid her on a chair under the olive tree. The young man who had hurried inside the house brought some perfumes and helped her smell. At this time all those who were inside the house, women and children, ran out to find a lady who was in her sixties lying there fainted and surrounded by a man taking care of her and rubbing her nose and face with water and perfumes. They approached him, offering help until the lady came back to her consciousness and stood up, sorry for what had happened.

Then she stepped promptly towards the house kissing each of its stones. Entering inside, she gazed at each place, each angle, each wall, each window and at every other thing. She looked at Assaad and asked him, "Do you remember this stove and grilling the chestnuts in winter? Do you remember my grandmother Salma when she used to tell us the story of the bold? Do you remember the games we used to play?"

And Assaad answered, "Yes I remember everything, Farida. God, have mercy on all those bitter times. Have mercy on all those beautiful days and our playing here and there. But tell me about your father, mother, brother Chafik and what happened to them?"

She nodded her head and told him that they have all passed away. She began to cry again repeating those words, "God, have mercy on them. How long did they talk to me about those mountains and this beautiful house? How long did they talk to me about you and your parents? How much have they wished that this house would be their last place on earth?"