interview: the poet and the war

The Poet and the War - November 19, 2006
Interviewer: Mahmoud Zeidan

Context: Zibquin village, 4 km from the borders, survived a massacre in the last Israeli war on Lebanon, where 16 people were killed and 260 houses out of 335 were razed to earth.

I was walking in the village’s main road, and then stopped at a wreck of building to take some photos. Suddenly, a brand new Mercedes Benz parked on the side of the road, and a man in his late 50’s asked, “Who are you?” I came to him, and asked, “Why? What do you want?” He replied with another question, “Are you journalists?” I thought him the sort of those security obsessed men who stop for the sight of any foreigners in their villages. “Somehow”, I answered.

Then he dispersed my worries when he told me that the heap we were standing on used to be his three floor building. Mr. Ali Bzei’a and his wife got out of their car and stood with me. For the first moment I felt embarrassed as how to start or even what to ask. I usually go to find people in order to interview, but those people found me. I was with an American friend going to do a photography workshop in the village, and we never thought of doing any interviews.

Mrs. Bzei’a was the first to start after I introduced my American friend, “This is exactly what America wants.” I had to defend my friend and clarify that not all people are alike. As if she hadn’t liked to start a discussion with me, she started her story: “I always come here to look for my gold. I search in the rubble but in vain.” Then she went on describing the house that she and her husband had been building over 30 years. Mr. Bzei’a asked his wife mockingly to go and search for her gold, while he, in a very eloquent Arabic, went on describing his greater loss. Mr. Bzei’a is a poet. He lost a library that contained 4000 books including 4 poetry books that he composed.

I felt a mixture of sadness and pride when I saw this disaster, Mr. Bzei’a explained. He added, “I had nostalgic feelings to my memories that are deeply rooted in my heart as I saw my house and library burnt.

Mrs. Bzei’a was practicing her routine ritual that she got used to doing since she returned to the village in hope to find some gold. Mr. Bzei’a need not need to hunt for his lost treasure; he could easily pick from the rubble some books to show me, even copies of his own books of poetry that were scattered over an area of 100m as he described their lost.

He said with grief that he couldn’t save a paper of his library. Then he exclaimed, “But I have great faith that men’s determination never dies. And as I built this house and host my memories in its corners, I will rebuild it better than it was, with stones resembling the honor and grandeur of southerners.

Then Mr. Bzei’a looked around to a remaining part of tree trunk and added, “See this tree! It was 30 years old. It is called Shobrok. It grows in deep valleys and on river banks. I used to sit under its shade in the company of friends and neighbors, socializing, reciting poetry, drinking tea, and smoking hubble-bubble. The whole village will miss it; they will miss the gatherings.”

I felt the great loss of Mr. Bzei’a and only then could understand how hard war is on poets. I saw people lamenting their killed beloved, others their bombed houses; and some others their killed animals. All these could be compensated for or a least acknowledged, but who would think of books, trees and their shade, sociability, broken memories and happiness that a poet loses?

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