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SUMMER
2011
31
nearly double our height, his palm was
triple the size of our palms. Smiling face,
finely striped trousers, plaid jacket.That
was him.The President of the School.
His Jaguar was in its regular corner by the
entrance to the house. He handed us the
Diploma, chocolate cake - the American
kind, and some lemonade. Elementary
School is over. «Stop for the hours are
flying»...
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
A few years passed, six of them. A third of
my life at that time. Student activism was
in vogue. Liberation obviously had to be
led by students, that is what we believed
then, that is what I believe now. Old
farts with jobs and families seek security.
Students seek life and want it more abun-
dantly. So we started with the liberation
of our campus by occupying Rockefeller
Hall.The big man and his teachers came
to negotiate. He sat at the head of the
table, Rahhal to his right, or maybe to his
left. I do not remember now, I guess it is
not important. He said he will negoti-
ate in good faith to meet what he can of
our demands only if we promise that we
do not break into his office. We prom-
ised that we will not, but the door to his
office had already been knocked down as
someone went looking for documents that
link him to «The Embassy». We quickly
put it back together with glue and nails.
We thought we got it by him. But now
I realize that we really did not. He just
turned the other cheek and blamed it all
on the exuberance of youth. He continued
to negotiate in good faith. «Short are the
college days...»
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
Again years pass.Three of them, one sev-
enth of my life then. He and the woman
that sat at his side, opposite Rahhal,
negotiating in Sage Hall (when we, the
students, occupied Rockefeller Hall) were
now man and wife. We then had en-
tered the land of wisdom,The Medical
School. No longer were we to call him
Mr. Schuller and her Miss Mudawwar,
it was to be Tom and Nuha.They invited
Yussuf Hannun, Bassem Dbeibo and me
to their apartment on California Street by
the Beirut 7, 4 and 1 Dens. Dinner and
drinks. Man, are we getting ahead in life.
We joined in a song together to our Alma
Mater›s praise and raised a glass to IC›s
long life serving the country and the area.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
The war rages in Lebanon. Ours, and ours
alone.This business about foreigners and
outside hands is just Abu Abed talk for
local consumption (dood il khal minnoo
w fee).This time we did it all alone. We
fought on both sides of the front line. And
when we got tired we mixed the lines so
that those who fought yesterday hugged
and kissed today, and those that hugged
yesterday killed each other today. Ameri-
cans were kidnapped and held hostage.
Reagan banned all US citizens from flying
to the Lebanon. Only Tom did not heed
the warnings, did not leave, did not listen
to the State Department. He stayed with
Nuha on California Street, living his
normal day to day life. After all he was
on California Street, that is a State, and
in Beirut we have it all on a street, «shoo
babboor». However, I think he compro-
mised his principles, I think he may have
stopped playing golf in that period. But I
will not count that against him, the Golf
Club became the new front lines when
our neighbors, the Israelis, came to visit,
and heavy visitors they are!
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
Another 10 years pass, more than a quarter
of my life then. I was in my office at
AUMC minding my own business when
he walked in and asked to make him part
of my business. I took a knife to his groin,
patched him up, and here he was good to
go.This time, Yussuf and Bassem were in
his old country, he was in theirs. I was mar-
ried, so he invited me and my good looking
bride to have dinner with him and his good
looking bride, again in their apartment on
California Street. Again we raised a glass
to dear days passing and to the days gone
by. We raised a glass to the future that was
then the present, and that now is the past.
«Short are the college days»...
Do not stand at my grave bereft
I am not there. I have not left.
Another 15 years pass.That, now is more
than a quarter and less than a third of my
life.Thomas has taken an exit. He left his
outfit behind to try a new one in a differ-
ent world. He is starting again, some-
where, looking for a «Tallee Mishirfee» to
build a school on. Looking for a lady with
onyx hair and a disarming smile. Looking
for a black Jaguar, a golf course, and for a
bunch of students that will knock his of-
fice door down and tell him they did not,
and he›ll tell them he knows that they did
not.They will tell him a white lie and he
will reciprocate. A few years later he will
have a drink with them and invite them
for dinner in his new world.
Sing of the dear days passing...or maybe...
sing of the dear ones that are passing in
the days that have passed ! What is new...
nothing is new under the sun. This is life,
and death is only a part of this cycle.
Mr. Schuller...I mean Thomas, you did
well. You did well by your students. You
did well by the country that you adopted
and that adopted you. You definitely did
better than some of the country›s native
children have done.Then again there is
nothing new in this statement. «The Sun»
of IC had said that before. Indeed...there
is nothing new under the sun. «Short are
the college days»...or should I borrow
from that Arab poet and say «short is the
trip from the cradle to the grave.»
And to Nuha, our love and condolences. It
was a fine trip...with a fine companion...in
a fine country. I think the two of you lived
happily ever after. Not a bad story for the
children of IC. May you live long and tell
it again and again to those children. It will
bring a smile to their faces, and when they
get a little older it may bring a tear.
Submitted by Dr AkramTalkouk ’74
(Poem by «Do not stand at my grave and
weep» by Mary Elizabeth Frye)