came along the conflict would naturally resolve itself, but the birth of his son and daughter served only to complicate matters further. Brigitte mistakenly believed that she and Anas would be exclusively in charge of their children’s upbringing; she had not reckoned on the role of the extended family in Arab culture and arguments had ensued between them as a result. It began over little things like the grandparents feeding the children sweets their mother insisted were not good for them, or ignoring her instructions about meal and bedtimes when the children stayed with them, and eventually escalated into a headlong battle over who exactly was in charge.
Disagreements became especially heated over the influence of the family over the boy, Marwan, who was generally considered more important because he would eventually carry the family name.
Anas remembers especially one Sunday lunchtime when, as was their custom, they had all gone to his parents’ house. Once lunch was over, Brigitte had asked Marwan and Rana to help with the clearing up but Anas’s mother had been horrified when she saw her grandchildren at the kitchen sink washing dishes, had ripped the apron from around Marwan’s waist and pushed him away.
Anas had been surprised to find himself taking his mother’s side even though he was aware that Brigitte would find this unforgivable.
—How could you let her do that, Anas? Brigitte had begun. Is this how you want our son to be brought up? To think of himself as superior to women and believe they should be relegated to menial tasks?
—That’s not what I want at all, Brigitte, and that’s not what my mother meant. She’s an old woman and she’s set in her ways. Why won’t you give her the benefit of the doubt?
—Your mother effectively told Marwan he was better than his sister, that it was all right for her to do the dishes but not for him. How do you think that made Rana feel? Are her feelings less important because she’s a girl?
—When have I ever acted as if Marwan was more important? You know that’s not how I feel, Brigitte, so stop accusing me like this. Haven’t you learned anything about our culture in the years you’ve lived here? Or is it just that you think your Western ways are better?
—Western or not, Brigitte said, what happened was not right and you know it.
She took a deep breath before continuing.
—What’s happened to us, Anas? Why don’t we talk like we used to? You’ve changed so much recently that I feel I can no longer get through to you.
At these words he had been conscious of a resentment towards his wife’s foreignness that he feared he might never shake off.
—Do you mean get through to me or get me to think and do what you want? he retorted. You refuse to get on with my family and you are constantly trying to turn my children into something they are not. My children are Arab and this is their culture. When are you going to accept that?
If Anas is not able to ascertain exactly how the trouble between them had started, then he is honest enough to admit to himself that his own behaviour after that Sunday had done little to minimize it. With the growing pressure of work, he began to spend less time at home, travelled a great deal, was secretly relieved at the opportunity to avoid conflict, and left Brigitte to cope on her own. But she had not coped, he realizes now; she had become more isolated than ever, until the day the war in Syria began and all she could talk about was leaving. He had tried to make her see the conflict as he then perceived it: a challenge the country would have to go through before it could move forward, a disintegration that would eventually lead to renewal. Brigitte accused him of naivety, of being unwilling to admit to himself that with the escalation of violence, the conflict was headed towards disaster, had even told him once that he was willing to endanger the lives of his own children to maintain the illusion of Syria as home. His intransigence on that point, his insistence that they remain in Damascus, had driven them even further apart. Other matters came to light for him – and no doubt for her as well – as to the extent of their differences, matters which had not been personal 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.