Postcards from the Middle East by Chris Naylor

Author:Chris Naylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lion Hudson
Published: 2015-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

How I Got a Gun

1999

Aammiq, the Bekaa, Lebanon

It was our fourth year in the valley and not only had we got used to the village but it had got used to us. Everybody knew who we were, if not by name, then certainly by our most commonly used title – ajaanib, the foreigners. We were no longer a source of endless curiosity and gossip, but simply one of the village families. Admittedly, we were a rather tiny one; the Shoukers came in their scores, the Mais family numbered hundreds, and we were five. But we were a village family.

If our family identity had been accepted, so too had Susanna and the children because they did pretty normal things such as going to school, working hard in the house, visiting neighbours, and generally keeping up with communal expectations. In fact, Susanna was working hard at home and in the village. She added to the usual heavy load of the Middle Eastern mum by working as an unpaid consultant at the children’s school, helping to bring in more effective early years’ teaching. She was also working in the project, keeping the accounts and giving endless advice and help to our latest volunteers and team members. Our neighbours would have been horrified if they knew how much Susanna was working, but at least they were reassured that she was doing “normal things”.

The same could not be said of me. My endless days down the marsh, coming back covered in mud or dust, depending on the season, were a puzzle. Because I had been a science teacher at the local high school – and the administration told everyone that I had a degree from Cambridge University, so I was “Doctor Chris” (the first true, the second not) – the village had greater expectations from me than I was delivering. It was bad enough that I spent my time in the swamps working with shepherds, but what added serious insult was that my Arabic was starting to sound like the Bedouin I spent so much time with.

Despite the obvious disappointment I was to many, we were woven into the fabric of the village, a few white threads in a multicoloured cloth. Along with acceptance came responsibilities well described by the hugely important word in village life, waajibat – obligations. Many of these obligations were delightful; some were tedious; a few, deeply sad. Funerals would definitely be in the latter category. Actually, the majority we attended were not that sad for me personally, as frequently we hardly knew the deceased. That didn’t matter; if we had a connection, I would have to go. The connection in question could be quite tenuous – father of my barber, cousin of our greengrocer, and mother of an ex-colleague at the Zahle school being examples that come to mind. Obligation this strong meant two things – the numbers attending funerals were huge, and I went to a lot of them.

Particularly if summer temperatures reached 40 degrees C, funerals would

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