Aarbot Qozhayat:

“You don’t have enough cash for the bus, Sir? Malesh--not a problem, get on anyway.” This haphazard, yet compassionate “system” is what best characterizes Lebanon. There is no such thing as a final, “No, you can’t”; you just need to state your case, change the question or ask someone else. Luckily, with the help of a few Lebanese, I managed to navigate the maze of streets and crowds and found a signless area of the neighborhood in Beirut designated the “bus stop”. Without asking locals, one would never find public transportation to Northern Lebanon.

THE JOURNEY: Smashed between two Lebanese army soldiers in the front of the bus, sweating bullets, the journey North to Bcharre took two hours more than expected; the traffic in Beirut on Fridays is unbearable as everyone is traveling to their villages to enjoy fresh air and nature. After a 3 hour journey, Mihled, my surrogate brother from the Aarbot Qozhayat, picked me up in his car and we arrived to the quaint two mile stretch that make up our mountainside village.

UPON ARRIVAL: My eyes were greeted by the fertility of the land. You name it and it grows in this land: apple, pear, plum, apricot, fig, lemon, almond, and walnut trees create shade under which the children play games and old men smoke their cigarettes and hashish until sunset; grape vines overtake window sills and garage ceilings, making houses appear to be extensions of nature itself, offering families plump green grapes as they walk through the door; backyards consist of multiple plots filled with thriving corn and tomato plants, holding up cucumber and green bean vines that snake up their stalks; strawberry, rasberry and blackberry bushes are raided by small, stained hands and tiny birds, angering the farmer who did not rise early enough to reap his harvest. The air smells like zhattar spice and I can hear running water from almost anywhere in the village. It rushes down in falls or come up at roadside springs.

MY "FAMILY": Mesmerization was interrupted by screams and clapping hands of the villagers awaiting my arrival. My surrogate family in the village (Mihled’s parents and his 5 brothers and sisters) greeted me in their home as if I were their long lost daughter. It had been two years since my first visit to the Aarbot in search of my grandfather’s baptismal certificate and documented family name. I grew very close with the family throughout this emotional process of discovering my roots and now, reunited, we were ready to celebrate.

Marina, the mother, is the best cook I know. Like all the villagers, every ingredient she uses comes from the land beside her. The milk is freshly squeezed from the goats, the eggs are gathered from the chickens that morning, and she even dries her own peppers and grinds them into hot pepper flakes to prepare the spicier Lebanese dishes. When I arrived, the table was covered with food, the Arak glasses were filled with the deceivingly harmless liquid and the music was blasting on their terrace overlooking the deep gorge that is the Holy valley.

"LODGING":George and Mihled arranged for me to sleep in St. Anthony’s Monastery, a group of monks’ residence that is built into the Mountainside and nearly inaccessible, it is so hidden. This Monastery and other cave hermitages were used by various religious communities fleeing persecution in the early centuries of this era. Today, the monks live off of the land completely and even invite all members and visitors of the church to a beautiful Sunday morning brunch in their dining quarters. This was also the site of Lebanon’s first printing press dating from 1871, imported in the 16th century

CULTURE OF THE VILLAGE: Besides that the Holy Valley is a primeval paradise, what makes the village so special, is it’s inhabitants. The village still embodies small community values: raising children with family and friends, taking care of the elders’ well being, and sharing one’s harvest with neighbors. One common phrase that is said every time as a welcome and goodbye greeting to all, is, “Baddak she?” Do you need/want anything?

Generosity is so ingrained in the culture that I was very unsuccessful refusing the constant invitations to dine, drink coffee, and take bags of freshly picked fruits and vegetables home to Beirut with me. In the US, I am usually able to win these types of confrontations with my stubborn nature. Here, I am weak compared to the insistence of the villagers.

CULTURAL LESSON: In fact, so determined was I to win at least one of these generosity battles that I trampled a cultural norm without realizing it’s implications. George and I went to eat in one of Ehden’s (a big village about 3 miles North of Aarbot Qozhayat) restaurants. When he ordered the bill, I snatched it out of the waiter’s hands before George could get to it. As I would in the US, I paid the sum and handed it back to the waiter. When I looked at George to ask him if he was ready to go, he looked very angry. He then went over to the waiter and sternly said to him, “Next time I ask you for the bill, you give it to me.” The waiter looked down at his feet and apologized.

Walking out the restaurant, not realizing I had stirred up trouble, I told George the meal was nothing compared to all he and his family had done for me. He looked at me with a serious expression and said, “You are in not in America anymore. Here, women do not pay anything...EVER. You really embarrassed me and my family back there.” Of course, once I explained my pure intention, he forgave me, but I felt very bad: one, for the lack of consideration I had for the cultural norm, but also because I so badly wanted to give back to him all that he had given me and I had failed to do so in a way that he could appreciate. This incident led me to find a new way to show appreciation without public display: gifts! I bought a big tray of baklava and other sweets to their home as a gesture of appreciation.

REACHING ROOT: This visit put to rest a deep yearning and internal seeking I've had nagging my heart strings for years. Leaving the village on Sunday afternoon, I realized the reality of my roots in the Aarbot Qozhayat: currently, there may not be any members of the Hunnah Egnatus family left, but without a doubt, my soul resides in this warm, agricultural village. However, I know that my calling is not to live here for an extended period of time, but rather, as is the nature of soul, this tranquil refuge will always live in my heart and I will retreat to it when I need a reminder of my own essence and the simplicity of my ancestors. My roots are firmly planted and from here, I will be able to stretch my limbs as tall and mighty as life permits.