“Lebanon Debate” – Ronnie Alpha
My house is within a kiss’s reach of Harissa. The Virgin exchanges kisses of her motherhood with me every day. Yesterday morning, a man in his fifties stopped me holding a small picture of Mary in his hand. He asked me about the way to the big statue, to that bright woman overlooking Lebanon from the top of the mountain as if she were the last remaining piece of tranquility in this East. I spoiled him. He thanked me and left. Also today, a woman who came with two children stopped me. I asked the same question. I raised my hand toward the hill and explained the way to her, then I remained standing and watched the car slowly ascend, as if it were entering a prayer, not a road.
Only then did I notice a small irony that gently hurt me: I, the one who points people to Harissa, have not been there for a long time. I am the one who explains to the visitors how to get to the Virgin in order to pray. I reach her and pray through her from my narrow room, from my bed, from the fatigue of the days, and from that silence that descends on the heart when a person feels that he is besieged by what others do not see.
I see a holy woman. Not because the statues said so, nor because the mountains raised them above the cities, but because the sadness in their faces resembles the sadness of mothers who wait for their children at the gates of war.
I see her looking at Lebanon like someone guarding a sick child at night. She does not sleep, nor does she turn her face from the devastation, as if she knows that this country, no matter how much its sects quarrel and how many hearts its people are broken, still needs a hug more than it needs speeches.
I see a holy woman because she does not ask those standing under her statue: Who are you with? Rather, she asks them in motherly silence:
How tired are you?
There have been campaigns launched against me for a while. I do not know how faith in this country became the subject of daily trials. It is as if people want the believer to present his heart on the table so that they can examine it, or to shout his faith in the squares so that they can be convinced. They forget that true faith often occurs in the dark, in that moment when a person closes the door on himself and sits alone in the face of his fear. There, only he knows whether he really believes or not.
They say many things about me. Some of them accuse me because I do not resemble the image they painted of a good Christian. Some of them get angry because I do not use my faith as a sword in politics, nor as a sectarian barricade, nor as a crossing ticket to the approval of this or that group. But I learned long ago that Christ was not employed by the tribes, and that Mary did not appear over the mountains to count the political identities of those who visited her.
In Lebanon, faith sometimes becomes a battlefield. Crosses are raised as are flags, and in some speeches churches turn into psychological trenches. But when I think carefully, I don’t see it all. I see a holy woman looking at a tired sea, at cities that have long slept under fear, and at mothers waiting for their children as she waited for her son under the cross.
This country really needs intercession. Not because she is poor in religion, but because she is poor in mercy. Politics here slowly ate people’s souls. It made everyone suspicious of everyone. Even faith itself needs someone to defend it from among the fanatical believers. This is a painful paradox; Love turns into a tool of cruelty, and the name of God turns into an excuse for ostracism.
I remember now those who passed by me to ask the way. They were strangers, but there was a simple certainty in their faces that we lack. They knew they were going to a place that was like a mother. And inside me, I was asking for something else: for the Virgin to intercede for me, not because I am without sins, but because I am tired of the mistrust that haunts a person when he tries to remain honest in this East.
And maybe, I thought for a moment, the evidence would be a blessing, too. Isn’t the one who guides the thirsty to the spring a small partner in the water? Doesn’t the one who raises his hand toward the road participate, even if just a little, in arriving?
That’s why I no longer blame myself so much for not having visited Harissa yet. There are visits that happen with the heart before the feet. There is a prayer that may begin in a narrow room and reach the sky faster than entire caravans. I do not know how blessings are distributed above, but I know that Mary, who saw her Son accused, insulted and left alone, understands well those who are misunderstood on earth.
Perhaps what reassures me most is that the Virgin does not ask those coming to her about their political opinions, their alignments, or the number of people they like on screens. She, like all real mothers, looks first at the tiredness in the eyes.
And I’m tired, ma’am. Tired of the noise, of hearts that judge more than they love, and of a country whose people are forced every day to defend their intentions. Therefore, if the guide is as valuable as the visitor, then mention me to your son. It is enough for me to pass a day under the shadow of your mercy, even from afar.
