A SLAUGHTERHOUSE OF BLOODIED CARCASSES

This is an excerpt from The Syrian.In this scene Nadia and Sonia visit the local morgue in search of Ali’s body. They want to properly prepare him for burial. 

The morgue was in the hospital’s lower level. Rather than walk through the lobby and descend two flights of stairs, Sonia and Nadia were directed to follow an outdoor walkway along the side of the building which eventually opened onto a spacious courtyard. Dozens of mourners, mostly women dressed in black, mingled about.

When Nadia pulled open the heavy steel door, she discovered more people inside the morgue’s vestibule. She and Sonia politely nudged their way through the crowd until they reached the Information desk.

“We come to identify the body of Ali Hajj,” said Sonia, “and prepare him for burial.”

The man ran his finger down one page, then another and another, until he finally found his name with a corresponding number. “It isn’t pleasant in there,” he said. “Are you sure you want to go inside? We can prepare his body.”

Nadia watched Sonia shake her head furiously at the suggestion, which made her wonder how she could doubt a woman who would do such a kind thing?

“We’ll do it ourselves,” Sonia said.

“As you wish,” and the man jotted down Ali’s identification number on a piece of paper. “Follow me.”

The stench of decomposing bodies in the hot, windowless room was a cross between rotten eggs and stinking Brie. Nadia felt the urge to vomit. While she swallowed hard to keep from gagging, she opened her purse, grabbed a wad of Kleenex and pressed it over her nose. It took her eyes a long minute to adjust to the dimness. She and Sonia followed the man down row after row of what looked like a slaughterhouse of bloodied carcasses. So many children, thought Nadia. My heart aches for their parents. It was tragic enough that they had to bury their young but to have to come here to identify what was left of them was beyond imagining.

When she saw the charred bodies, she realized that Israel was using white phosphorus bombs again. She’d seen photos of victims from the ’82 bombing of Beirut where the bodies burned like human torches. Eventually, the fire burned down, leaving charred, unidentifiable remains.

A young Muslim couple stood nearby, clinging to each other. They were there to try to identify one such corpse, laid out on a sheet-draped table. Another woman clutched a bouquet of white lilies in her hands. Their sweet fragrance lingered in the suffocating air. She searched for her young daughter. When she saw the upper torso of a child who lay headless in front of her, in a red polka-dot dress, she began to sob. Another twelve little bodies, a macabre patchwork of severed limbs, were placed on yet another table, awaiting identification.

They followed the man past dozens of corpses. Is there no end to the number of bodies here?

The man read Nadia’s mind. He shrugged and said, ”I know. What can I do?”

Eventually the man stopped and pointed to a body. “Is this Ali Hajj?” he asked.

Sonia nodded.

“You have thirty minutes to prepare him for burial. You’re welcome to stay. Given the circumstances both a priest and an imam will perform the funeral service.”

A Christian woman brought Sonia a sponge, fresh water, three sheets and three pieces of rope so she could wash and prepare the body according to Islamic tradition. When she finished cleaning the body, Sonia bent over and kissed him. Nadia then helped her wrap him in three sheets, tying them closed at the top, the middle, and at the base of his feet. The task completed, Sonia let Nadia take her arm and lead her back to the foyer to join the other mourners. As she turned to look one last time at Ali, she saw two young men lift his body. They would carry him outside and place him alongside the others.

The mourners moved to the burial site. As the older women began the ritual ululating and young parents openly sobbed, the Greek Orthodox priest and the imam chanted in unison, asking God to forgive the sins of the deceased and ease their transition into heaven where they would reside and be preserved from the fires of Hell. Voices choking, Sonia and Nadia repeated the prayers along with the other mourners.

“I wish Ali were alive to take a photo of this scene,” whispered Sonia. “Look at us—Christians and Muslims mourning together, sharing the tragedy of war and death, and then burying our loved ones together.”

“You did the right thing, Sonia. May he rest in peace.”

“I’ll have to tell his mother when I get back to Beirut that we gave her son a proper burial.”

As Nadia turned to leave, she froze. She saw him. He was standing near the main door. He looked around. She knew he could only be looking for one person, her.

This is an excerpt from The Syrian, a political thriller. The book is available for purchase here.

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INTERVIEW WITH A DEMINER IN SOUTH LEBANON

This is an excerpt from Tragedy in South Lebanon. A cluster bomb is a canister designed to open in mid-air and disperse smaller submunitions referred to as bomblets. Each cluster bomb contains extreme explosive power and metal fragmentation, making them likely to kill or at least cause multiple injuries. Those bomblets that do not explode on impact must be diffused. This is the job of the deminer.. 

“I am a medic by profession and I volunteer with the Red Cross whenever there is a crisis, like the 2006 summer war with Israel. I have also been trained as a deminer and that is what I am currently doing full-time.

When our team of deminers enters a village for the first time, we try to meet with the mayor. He gives us the demographics—number of people who normally live there, location of buildings, roads and anything else that might make our job a little easier. The mayor has usually had time to survey the damage too and can give us an indication of the approximate location of the bombs. Our team always includes a medic and his ambulance. They keep their distance from the work site, approximately 150 meters, in case of accident, but they are there to assist in case we need emergency care.

Whether it is a field or a house covered with bomblets, we cordon off the area with barbed wire. One member of our team enters the field to determine what kinds of bombs are on the ground. If it is a large bomb and too fragile to move, it is detonated where it lies. Once the determination is made, we don our gear, turn on our detector machines and enter the field, working one baby step at a time. We work in teams of three but if the area is large, we might be five, sometimes more.

The moment I step onto the field I am only concentrated on where my foot goes and what the detector is telling me. Nothing else matters. The hardest part of my job is the psychological stress. It goes without saying that a deminer must be physically fit but he must also be mentally sound. I know myself that no matter what may have happened earlier in the morning, when I arrive at my job and I enter a room that I assume is full of bomblets I cannot afford to think of anything except finding those bombs. Even if my child is ill or I have had a fight with my neighbor, I cannot bring these stresses to my job.

I remember one day when I thought I would lose it. My team and I were called urgently to come to a village. A woman had returned to her home. I don’t know what she could have been thinking. She surely must have known her village was covered with cluster bombs yet she walked inside her house and began picking up things that had fallen on the floor. She must have suddenly realized that she was in a room full of bombs because she panicked and started screaming over and over, “There are bombs here. I’m going to die.” Fortunately for her someone heard her and called us. By the time I reached her front door she as in a state of sheer hysteria. I could not calm her down and wasn’t even sure how I was going to get her out of the house safely since. I slapped her face. I didn’t know what else to do. No hard but just enough to bring he to her senses. I am not sure who was more startled, the lady or me, but it worked and I was able to lead her outside to safety.

So while I try not to focus on dying or whether or not I will see my family again, and only think about finding the bombs, my days are enormously stressful. The company I work for thinks it will take upwards of ten years of hard work to rid South Lebanon of the bomblets left by the 2006 Israeli-Hezbollah war. I pray I will stay alive and well, both physically and mentally, so I can continue this important work.”

Human Rights Watch asked Israel to provide information to the UN Mine Action Coordination Center on the location of its cluster munition attacks and the specific weapons used. They asked that Israel also provide technical, financial and material assistance to facilitate the marking and clearing of cluster duds and other explosive remnants of war. Israel never responded to this request.

This book is available for purchase here.

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MY FIRST TURKEY

In this excerpt from A Beirut Heart: One Woman’s War I am a new cook, intent on impressing Michel. On my first attempt I fail miserably.

i had a romantic notion of what life would be like with Michel, but I failed to recognize that an essential component of this relationship was that one of us needed to know how to cook, and it had to be me.

Before we moved to Boston fifty years ago where Michel was to begin his medical residency in Internal Medicine at the Lahey Clinic, I had rarely set foot in a kitchen. This was my mother’s domain and I lacked even the most basic cooking skills. Turkey seemed like an easy thing to prepare, so it was one of the first things I tried. One Friday evening before we left for a party I got out a small turkey that I had bought on sale at the supermarket. I went into the kitchen early Saturday morning−despite a very late evening−still wearing my white fur slippers. Somehow I got the idea that long, slow cooking at a low oven temperature would result in a succulent bird. I wanted the turkey ready to put in the oven by late morning so Michel and I could have the afternoon free to do something fun. As I was taking the plastic wrap off the bird I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the stove. My hair stuck up in all angles like a rooster. I kept looking at myself, at the muscles on my forearms working as I tore the packing off and rinsed the bird.

“Look at you, Cathy,” I said. “You’re a chef and your first turkey is going to be great.”

For some reason I thought I knew how to cook stuffing. I sautéed some onions in vegetable oil, burning them only slightly; then I poured the stuffing mix on top. It got very stiff until I consulted the instructions: ‘add water.’ When I thought I had poured in enough liquid I stuffed it all inside the bird and closed it up with toothpicks. I put the bird in the oven at 300 degrees just before Michel and I left for a stroll along the Charles River.

When we returned I made mashed potatoes, defrosted peas and opened a can of cranberry sauce. When I thought it was time I pulled out a perfectly browned bird from the oven, transferred it to a serving platter and proudly set it on the table. It was not until I had already put the cooking pan to soak that I realized I had forgotten to save the juices. Fortunately, I had a can of ready-made gravy in the kitchen cabinet.

Blood spurted forth as I cut deeply into the turkey, spotting my dress and the white tablecloth. Michel flung himself back just in time to avoid blotches on his dress shirt. The bird was cooked to a depth of about one inch; the rest was raw. Michel sat quietly with his eyes lowered and his hands in his lap. I searched the surface of the bird to find cooked bits to put on his plate but found no more than a few thin slices. I filled his otherwise empty plate with a mound of mashed potatoes and lots of peas, smothering it all with the canned gravy.

“You’ll like the stuffing,” I said, turning the bird on its side. More blood gushed out, followed by a sac full of inner organs I had neglected to remove before stuffing the bird. Michel stood up, threw his napkin on the table, walked to the bathroom and locked the door.

The minute I heard the key turn I scooped up the bleeding turkey, took it to the kitchen and threw it in the garbage bin. When he came out of the bathroom I was sitting on the coach.

“Would you like to take a starving lady to dinner?” I asked sheepishly.

The next morning I went out and bought Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. There I was, the eager, aspiring young cook paging through the recipes, learning about such things as blanching, braising, deglazing and sautéing. The old me, the one who brought up feeling insecure, the one who failed other challenges, might have said, “Here’s something else I’m not good at−I can’t even cook.” But my life was changing and instead of accepting that first failure I was determined to become a great cook.

One evening, much to Michel’s delight I tried one of Julia’s recipes with scallops. She called these round silky mouthfuls that felt like wet tongues Coquilles St. Jacques. After simmering gently in white wine the scallops were delicately spooned into a velvety blend of cream and egg yolks, returned to their shells, sprinkled with grated Swiss cheese and briefly placed under the broiler. A glass of Sauvignon Blanc, at Julia’s suggestion, to accompany my scallops transformed Michel’s mood into a romantic one. I could think of no better motivation to become an excellent chef.

This book is available for purchase.

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