Alhawiat

ANTOINETTE, Al Qaa, Lebanon.

Antoinette's story seems to echo the ones of Amalia and Farah; stories that take place at the Syrian border of Lebanon, in the Christian village of Qaa. Stories of women whose lives were shattered by a sudden grief. Stories in which men's lives are taken away. And yet, no burden is ever the same.

If, unlike Amalia and Farah, Antoinette’s husband still stands by her sides while she tells us her story, her son, in contrary, isn't here anymore.

A soldier of the Lebanese Forces, Samer died in December 2013 in Saïda during his service, after throwing himself on a terrorist attacking the military checkpoint. He might have lost his life in the explosion, but he also saved several persons from a certain death, erecting himself to the rank of national hero, martyred for Lebanon.

In this story, it wasn't Daesh that perpetrated the attack, but proponents of Ahmad Al-Assir. This sunni cheikh established his own extremist party in the context of a longtime struggle against the Hezbollah’s presence in Lebanon. It escalated that year in a series of offensives against military checkpoints in the neighbouring of Saïda.

ANTOINETTE

" All I had was two questions, that I kept repeating to myself: How, and why ?

I couldn’t understand anything that was going on around me. People were trying to console me, to calm me down, forcing me to get some sleep so I could receive even more people's condolences on the next day.

But me, all I could think about was: What will I do when my son’s coffin will be here ?

In Arabic, we say “fida”. It means “sacrifice”. My son sacrificed himself for the country.

On the funeral day, everyone wanted to see the corpse of my deceased son, the one who martyred himself for Lebanon. And I’ve allowed them to do so, I told them “Come, come and see him one last time ! Come and honour the martyr that sacrificed himself to save his friends, his comrades that don’t even share the same religion”.

Because it didn't matter if the other soldiers were Muslim or Christian, Samer still went in there and saved them."

Antoinette holding a picture of Samer © Chloe Sharrock

The suffering seems to temporarily trail off in contact of the notions of martyr and patriotism, omnipresent in Antoinette’s discourse. Justifying one’s death by giving it a bigger purpose allows grieving women to accept less painfully their fate, in a country where political and confessionnal instability almost trivialises aleatory suicide-attacks.

Saïda and it’s surroundings notably are the scene of regular confrontations and tensions, and the epicentre of one of the most conservative sunni community of the country. The Palestinian camp Ein El-Hilweh, the largest in Lebanon, became these last years a genuine powder keg for jihadists from various extremist groups such as ISIS or Jabbat Al-Nosra. The camp also became a refuge for cheikh Al-Assir after the attacks of 2013, and, in August 2017, it became once again the scene of a violent conflict when one of his famous proponent, singer Fadel Shaker, hid in the camp to escape the battle of Ersaal and Qaa.

" Samer was so loved and respected for what he did, for being a martyr, that you couldn’t even see the floor on the day of the funerals, because of the countless people that came from all over the country.

And I told them all: "I am his mother, but I will step away from the coffin to make room for you". The other women from the neighbourhood wanted me to stand beside my son, but me, I wanted people to see him, so they wouldn’t forget what he did for them.

And to Antoinette to add, attesting once for all of the huge pride that Samer's death created: "Thanks to him, people have more respect for me and for my family. Wherever I go, I hear people say “Here is the mother of the Martyr Samer Rizk”."

In societies where being a mother is everything, becoming a full-part social status highly reinforced by the patriarcal scheme of the region, loosing one's child is a burden heavier than we might imagine. Worsten by the seemingly peaceful context of the country - "I couldn't believe it, we weren't even at war ..." - Antoinette's incomprehension and feeling of injustice echoes with the words of Amalia or Farah, ending up in a similar discourse where faith and pride meet and seem to, here as well, heal the pain, at least in appearances.

But how does a mother overcome the pain of burying her own child ?

If the word “widow” comes to specify the particular situation and pain of a woman that lost her husband, there is no equivalent for a mother that loses her child. It is so against-nature that the pain can only be expressed through vague words, through which Antoinette reminds us that this particular burden is different from any other: “It was such a strange feeling, that pain that a mother feels when she loses a child. It’s just dreadful”.

A picture of Samer displayed in the living room © Chloe Sharrock

In the house, memories are now injected in the present through a material form and became part of the reconstruction process of Antoinette, whose mausoleum-like house helps to maintain the heroic image of her son, in a fragile attempt to find a tangible reason for his death.

In the living room, portraits of Samer as a soldier can be seen, along framed military tributes and documents. In his old room, his shirts are still hanging, waiting for him, while Antoinette drags from here and there photo-albums full of faded pictures turned to yellow that redraws his entire childhood.

Photography and objects from the past have the power to freeze time, to participate on an individual level to the construction of a common memory, a topography of the pain that is part of the country's larger History.

"What consoles us a little bit is that we have seen him. We have seen the freshness of his innocent baby-face. I’ve always considered Samer as a child, even if now that he's gone."

Shirts of Samer in his old room © Chloe Sharrock

Samer’s wife, Sintia, and their son Joseph now live with Antoinette, where they moved from Beirut after the events. If the young 5 years old boy isn’t aware of the exact circonstances of his father’s death, he’s paradoxically bathed in a multitude of symbols and situations that echo his demise.

Beyond the numerous portraits and elements anchored in the imagery field of the patriotism that adorn the house, he isn’t cloistered when we evoke the tragic events, he participates to the ceremonies paying tribute to his father, and even endorses a military outfit, Lebanese flag in hands, during national celebrations.

Antoinette’s grand son thus allows her to prolong the maternal transmission mechanism observed with her son in the past, as if Joseph was, so to speak, reviving the young boy Samer used to be.

Hence, despite the loss of her only child, Antoinette doesn’t feel less of a mother:

“ I actually feel more than ever like a mother. I mean, I am now the mother of the martyr, which is even more valuable and respectful”.

In this little corner of Lebanon, where christian communities find themselves isolated from the rest of the country, the women of Qaa all endorse a primordial role in the society. They are the ones that transmit the memories and the glory of the heroes of the past. They are the ones that heal the wounds of the soldiers, that dry the tears of the children and the weaker.

In the words of Amalia, Farah or Antoinette, we can hear the unbreakable strength of the ties uniting families shaken by a conflict. Ties that take their roots deep into faith, and grow around the larger History of their community.

And if family bonds participate to the women’s resilience, faith seems to play a similar role. Eternal refuge for souls scarred by events that can’t be justified or controlled, piety allows to turn one’s self towards a entity stronger than any life-shattering event, and heals the pain by providing soothing answers. But overall, it allows to find a place within a society where a strong, and often redeeming support prevails.

“My faith is bigger than ever. I pray more than usual. Every time I go to the church, people come and pray with me. During the holidays, I always add my son’s name on the Mass’ list. Whenever there is a funeral, I try to be there to support my community.”

Antoinette is now part of a prayer group aimed to the women of Qaa and the surroundings, in which they deploy their forces in order to help other members of their community. Reassembling about fifty women from three different generations, the group aims to consolidate social aid and provide support for all inhabitants.

“This group does various activities, and in parallel we always try to support the poorest, and sick people - both mentally and financially. We organise Masses for them, cook them meal, we help them in any way we can.”

Reuniting every Friday, the women exchange and take possession of the current difficulties of their country through the prism of a religious action. We can sense here a form of resistance, recalling the implication of the former generations of women of the village during the Syrian invasion of 1978. Antoinette recalls the tales of her mother, that saw conflicts and wars tearing appart their village, without ever teetering the faith of its inhabitants.

“During the war, women were militating alongside men. They were strong and were always praying for the men who were fighting. They were providing them with help, especially in in mountainous areas. They supported them, healed them or brought them sandwiches on the frontline. And while men were out there, it’s the women that took care of the families, the elderly and the sick.”

Researches: Diane Semerdjian

Pictures and text: Chloe Sharrock

Translation from Arabic: Kamar Mokhabir

ANTOINETTE, Al Qaa, Lebanon.

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