A Legacy of Dreams and Guns

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

-Kahlil Gibran

Palestine twitches on the small white mat, struggles to raise her head, and failing, falls back again; she cries, then stops. Some slice of light has caught her attention. The nurse in bright pink carries a bird cage to the mat, and for a moment Palestine is pleased by two jumpy canaries--one black, one yellow. Now she rolls back and forth. Her legs, still bowed, kick out spasmodically. You cannot tell if she hears the music in the nursery or the murmurs of the other babies, stacked up in their double-decker box cribs. She acknowledges no one. But everyone knows Palestine--if not by her blue "Space Patrol" sleep suit, then by the dark brown bruise on her right heel and, of course, by the circumstance of her birth.

For want of a standard term, the doctor on the case called the delivery a "Caesarean section by explosion." It occurred last July in Beirut, during an Israeli air raid on the Fakhani Street P.L.O. offices, when Palestine's mother, nine months pregnant, rushed from her apartment house in an effort to escape the bombs. No one is certain what happened next, but when the bombing stopped, Mrs. Halaby was found dead in the rubble. Three meters away, still enveloped in the placenta, lay her new little girl.

Only a remarkable twist, like the birth of Palestine, distinguishes one explosion from another in Beirut. For the past seven years the city has known the unremitting violence of the Palestinians, Phalangists, Syrians and Israelis; the high period was a full-scale civil war in 1975-76, which blotted out up to 60,000 lives, roughly the same number that the U.S. lost during 14 years in Viet Nam. For the past few years destruction has been confined to Israeli reprisals against the P.L.O.; sporadic clashes of the Syrians, Phalangists and Palestinians; and the ordinary run of street bombings and assassinations. As the Hachette guidebook on Lebanon observes, the city of Beirut is "overflowing with activity and variety."

The odd thing is that either the Lebanese are the most durable people in the world, or they have achieved a nirvana of terror that allows them an unearthly jauntiness. The sight of a new bank in Beirut is as common as a bashed-in Mercedes. You cannot tell if a hole in the ground is the work of a bomb or a construction team. The distinguishing sound of Beirut is the car horn--not the Beethoven or Roadrunner horn, but the I-am-going-to-kill-you horn. The most popular Beirut outfits are fatigues and berets, signifying the forces of the Syrians, the Palestinians and occasionally the Lebanese themselves.

This is the place that will make up Palestine's official home, but in her mind her true home is likely to lie elsewhere. That mind is not entirely her property even now, any more than is her story, which is told in leaflets distributed by the P.L.O. as part of its public relations. A postcard showing Palestine in a respirator bears a printed message in French that may be mailed to friends and allies. It refers to "Technologic Israelienne"and swears that Palestine "est determinee a continuer la marche vers la liberte." Whether or not the baby has such determination at the moment, she will probably have it in four or five years. By then she may be an instrument of determination herself, her very name a beacon to other Palestinian children who are raised in this country to inherit their parents' dreams and enemies.

The Institute of Tel Zaatar was founded to provide foster families and education for the 313 children who lost their parents in the Tel Zaatar massacre of 1976. A year before that, 27 Palestinian residents of the Tel Zaatar camp were slaughtered by Christian Phalangists as they returned by bus from a rally celebrating a terrorist attack on Qiryat Shemona. In 1976 the Phalangists used 75-mm and 155-mm howitzers for a seven-week siege of the camp in which 3,000 died. Tel Zaatar was demolished.

The orphanage is a large, serene house with a facade of balconies. There are 160 children in it now, not all of them victims of Tel Zaatar. Like children elsewhere, they have rebounded quickly from their tragedies. A small boy whose mother was killed while bringing him water from a well refused at first to take water from anyone, fearing that it augured death. But after a few weeks in the home he overcame his phobia. A boy of two, who was in his father's arms when the man was shot, made no sound during his first six months in the home; now he is prattling like his peers.

Jamila, Boutros and Mona have been at the home since it opened. Now 16, 16 and 17, respectively, they are considered elders, and have assumed the responsibilities of parents to the younger ones. They are sitting on a bed in a "family room"--all beds and dressers. Jamila, though in pigtails and sneakers, looks older than the other two. Her parents were killed in an Israeli shelling of Tyre. Boutros' father was killed when the Phalangists raided his poultry farm. Mona's father was killed after Tel Zaatar was destroyed:

"I was with my entire family, which divided into two groups, my mother taking shelter in one building, my father, my brother, my sister and I hiding in another. But the Phalangists found us and started to shoot again. I fainted. I did not know what was happening until I awoke the next day and found my father, and everyone, all dead in the room with me."

Jamila observes that by losing their parents they have lost their childhood as well. Like the girls in Belfast, these three have had to grow up quickly. Asked if they believe that they have gained anything by such experiences, Boutros replies, "Power." His face seems amiable for the answer. What he means by power is something specific: "To regain our homeland." At that all three talk at once: "First we were driven from Palestine in 1948"; "The Israelis tried to exterminate us." "It's not their land. It's our land," says Jamila. Her voice is urgent. As the questions continue, she notices that her American visitor is sitting in an uncomfortable position. Without a word she rises and slips a pillow behind his back.

Whom do they most admire in the world? "Beside our great chairman, Arafat," says Boutros, "there are Ho Chi Minh and Castro." For Jamila it is Lenin: "Because he made a new world for his people. He made them like themselves and work together." The question of the future is raised, and the three of them talk of Palestine's certain glory. Jamila offers something more: "I would put an end to the use of all nuclear weapons."

"Do you all plan to marry and have children of your own?"

"You mean in the future?" They laugh. Mona blushes. Boutros jumps in: "When I was very young, my parents told me about their leaving Palestine. I will teach my children to be strong and to depend on themselves, as I depend on myself. I will teach them to love all those who love the Palestinians."

Much of this nationalistic fervor arises from what the children have seen firsthand as well as what they have been taught--as Nabil pointed out in the West Bank--so it is not fair to regard them solely as their elders' tools. Also their indoctrination may be indirect. The normal conversation of parents will influence children in any circumstance, and it would be a lot to ask of Palestinian parents that they display a political evenhandedness they do not feel. It may even be that for children like those in the Tel Zaatar home, this single-mindedness is not all that harmful. If there can be a benign side to indoctrination, it is that it offers a purpose; and when one's family is destroyed, any purpose, however limited, may be spiritually useful.

But the intensity of the indoctrination does not necessarily destroy one's charitable impulses either. At this stage, at least, the children are still gentler than their masters would prefer--even when their masters happen to be in the military. Samer's father is a lieutenant colonel in the P.L.O.; he controls the joint Palestinian-Lebanese forces in the region of Tyre. At the moment, Colonel Azmi controls his forces from a grass hut on stilts standing over an area bombed out by Israel last summer. The hut is furnished with red leather chairs and a Swedish-modern desk, behind which Colonel Azmi, 40, smokes Winstons and makes pronouncements:

"We are ready. We will not stop our struggle. We are not fascists. Our power is our arms. Kissinger caused this trouble. We are not Communists. Begin is a Nazi. We never intend to kill children. Till the last child we will struggle to regain our homeland." The colonel looks up. "Ah, Samer."

His son enters the hut. Samer is four years old, about 3 1/2 ft. high, and dressed in matching black-and-white checked shirt and pants and polished black laced shoes. He strides regimentally toward the Swedish-modern desk and stands before his father.

"They are so young," explains the colonel. "But they are so proud." Then to Samer: "Who is Sadat?"

"Sadat sold Palestine to Israel," says the boy, rapid-fire.

"Who is Jimmy Carter?"

"Carter supported Israel."

"Who are you?" asks his father with mock severity.

"I am from Palestine--from Hebron!"

"What is Israel?"

"The real name for Israel is Palestine."

The colonel invites his visitor to ask questions of his son.

"Samer, have you thought of what you would like to do when you grow up?"

"I want to marry." The colonel's men who have been sitting solemnly around the hut explode with laughter. The boy blushes with shame and confusion. His father consoles him with a gesture of the hand. Asked if he would like to live in a world that does not need soldiers, Samer says, "Yes, I would love that." At his father's signal he exits.

"Colonel, would you send Samer into war?"

"I don't want him to suffer. But he would give his blood to regain his homeland. If I am killed, my son will carry my gun."

The legatee system in which guns are passed to the children may find its pinnacle in Ahmed, a leader in a P.L.O. youth group, the ashbals, and in the Boy Scouts. Just 15, he has already made speeches for the P.L.O. in Cyprus, Egypt, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Bulgaria, Cuba and Moscow. The P.L.O. youth organization to which Ahmed belongs trains guerrillas from the ages of eight to 16, when they may graduate to the rank of full commando. The reason that Ahmed participates in both groups, explains Mahmoud Labadi, the head of P.L.O. press relations iri Beirut, is that "he is so active, he doesn't want to let anything get past him." Labadi raises a hint of a smile to let Ahmed know that he is teasing him. Ahmed smiles back broadly. His red beret rests precariously on a cushion of burgeoning hair. His eyes look both inquisitive and pained. His mustache is coming along.

Ahmed is sitting at the far end of a couch in a room at the P.L.O. press office on Wafik Al Tibi Street. On quiet days, that office's routine is to pass out public relations material, like the postcard of Baby Palestine, and display Israeli weapons recovered from attacks: a rocket with Hebrew lettering, the contents of a cluster bomb lying in a helmet like a nest of brown eggs. This is not a quiet day. Twenty-four hours earlier, Wafik Al Tibi Street was almost totally obliterated by a car bomb filled with 100 kilos of TNT and 80 liters of gasoline. Eighty-three people were killed and 200 wounded. Labadi avoided the explosion only by uncharacteristically arriving late to work. Now he tries to catch up at his desk in the one room of the office that is not overwhelmed by the noise of the cleanup. From time to time he looks up to see if Ahmed needs a clarification in translation. On the whole, Ahmed's English is excellent.

"In 1970, when I was a child, the war began. Our family was thrown out of our house. We lived in a school for many days. Then we lived some place else. Once the war began, every place was dangerous. No place seemed safer than another." Still, Ahmed says that he was not afraid, even at so young an age, because "I figured out that a man may only die once."

"How long do you think you will live?"

"No one can know. Maybe I'll die in a minute." There is an unnerving crash of debris on the balcony.

Ahmed hopes to study medicine one day, "because my people need doctors." Asked if he has a more personal impetus, he says that he loves science, and his expression shows it. "I love to see how the body works--the head, the stomach, the heart." Can he retain his politics and be a doctor too? "The first work of a doctor is not to be a political man." He is presented with a hypothetical situation: he is a doctor fighting in Israel; a wounded Israeli comes to him for help. "Are you a Palestinian or a doctor?"

"A doctor," he says, with no hesitation.

"What is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?"

"Palestinian soldiers. Because they defend our people."

"Have you ever seen something beautiful that is a bit more peaceful?"

"Yes." He smiles. "My lovely girl Jomaneh." Asked to describe this Jomaneh, he considers with only mild embarrassment. "She is not black and not white. Her eyes are green, I suppose. Her hair is long and blond."

"Is she intelligent?"

He turns to Labadi. "What should I tell him?"

"The truth."

"Yes, she is intelligent. But no girls are very intelligent. Jomaneh is more intelligent than most." Labadi smiles, but does not look up.

The saddest thing Ahmed has ever seen, he says, is the sight of children without their parents. In the Fakhani Street air raid last summer, he came upon three such children wandering dazed in the streets. He took them to his house, where they lived until a home was found for them. Yes, he does feel older than 15. "Because I do a job greater than myself."

He is asked if he believes in God; his yes is awed. Is his faith at all shaken when he sees something like the devastation of yesterday's explosion? "Do you think: How could God allow such a thing to happen?" His answer is like Elizabeth's in Belfast: "No There is no relationship between God and the people who do such things. Man does his work, God his."

"How do you see the future?"

"I do not think that war will last forever. I will work for that day." One of Labadi's assistants enters the room to curtail the interview. The funeral procession is about to begin.

Out on the street a small cannon mounted on a pickup truck shoots white clouds of disinfectant into the hot morning air. Most of the bodies were removed by midday yesterday, but in the afternoon someone discovered a detached face lying in a stairwell. Now children Linger in the doorways to watch a bulldozer push along the broken bricks. The children are kept off the street itself as huge slabs of debris are thrown down from the windows of damaged buildings--glass hitting the pavement with the crash of brief, sudden applause. A strange boy in a clay-orange T shirt skips along the sidewalk flirting with danger as the glass falls. He is bald, lost in some private game. His eyes roll back, showing only whites.

It was, they say, the worst destruction since last July's air raids. Everyone is positive that the bomb was the work of either the Syrians, the Phalangists, the Israelis, or a combination of the above. The one group to take "credit" for the act is something called the Front for the Liberation of Lebanon from Foreigners. Within the general destruction, the front could take particular credit for the murders of Sami al-Ghoush, a member of a militant Palestinian organization, and his wife, who when the bomb exploded were just pulling up in their car, having let off their ten-year-old daughter Lara at school. The front could thus also take indirect credit for the sight of Lara in the morning, standing between, and partly held up by, two girls her size, at the head of the funeral procession now about to commence. (See opening photograph.)

She has been placed at the head of the procession deliberately to symbolize the effect of the bombing, and for a while she holds her ground with courage. She wears a brownish barrette in her white-blond hair, which has been parted in the middle and drawn to the back. Her white dotted dress has short puffed sleeves and a Peter Pan collar. It is well pressed. Clearly Lara has been crying a great deal, but she is not crying now. Her eyes are hollowed with dark rings.

If the girl were a dowager, you would say of her face: how beautiful she must have looked when she was young.

Then Lara breaks down again. She covers her forehead with her right hand, as if stricken with a headache. Her companions lead her away to a metal chair in front of a store, where she rests as the procession begins to move without her. She rejoins it later at the rear, half hidden behind the lines of P.L.O. soldiers, and the antiaircraft guns, and the sound trucks blaring tinny martial music. Photographs of her father and mother are displayed in the windows of an ambulance that serves as a hearse. The red lights of the ambulance spin, the siren wails at a steady pitch, and the procession of some 800 Palestinians makes its mile-long journey through the dusty marketplace, where chickens squawk in hanging cages and children clap at the parade. Now the children. Now the women in black. Now a bagpipe band, a legacy of the years of British influence.

Ihe procession halts at a dirt clearing, where the crowd encircles a hoarse speaker: "We are following the great leader who has been killed by the enemies." Sand's coffin has been removed from the ambulance, and is borne by six soldiers in helmets. Their faces shine with sweat. The coffin is wood painted silver. At first it tilts and looks about to spill--the soldiers on one side holding it higher than the others--but immediately it is righted again and draped with the Palestinian flag. The crowd climbs mounds of earth around the speaker in order to see him better.

"He has been killed by the Phalangists and the Israelis and the CIA. Now we swear for his family: we will continue his mission. We may give up our soil, but not our weapons."

Lara is said to be near by, but no one has seen her since the march began.

"I wonder what she is thinking [to a soldier in the crowd]."

"She is thinking: get revenge."

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