Casting my vote in the ballots of beino, my hometown in Akkar. I only make it this far up north on rare special occasions, mostly funerals. No home there, a withering identity, no acquaintances, just a scattering of  the remains of a family. No attachment. But get a load of this: I love going there.

First, there`s the sinewy road downhill, reminiscent of travels across Provence or Andalusia. You`re cocooned in neat rows of orchards on one side (best in March, when they flower) and a majestic semi-circle of blue-green mountains on the other (best all the time, for the changing hues with the luminous sun or the snow capped tips).

Then you have the grand homes, each with its own established flower garden in the front and trees in the back, heavy with fruit. A welcome change of scenery, albeit unexpected, after the sorry rows and rows of that region`s impoverished villages.

And the food. Anyone with remotely alert taste buds would give it all the gourmet stars.

Until recently there were no hotels. And no restaurants or coffee shops. Instead, a lone community club where one would meet for a chat, a drink, and a game of cards or backgammon. And at night, dark silence would fall, punctuated only by calls from the rooster and later the birds and the donkey of the grounds` keeper.

The first bite of mrakkad (a traditional yeast-free biscuit, lovingly baked by all my great aunts) whisks me, Proust-like, to other times. To that one childhood summer, or part of, spent there. I would play with the big black freshwater pump by the kitchen. Or run after the music ice-cream van, the best part of every afternoon. Or help out with the baking in the red hot stone oven, the tannour, enthralled by the incandescent flames from within the menacing hole.

Caravans of slow swaying camels would unload heavy bags of grain from the Akkar valley. Those September days are indescribably happy. For days on end, domestics sit round a low table and sift the tons of wheat in preparation for the winter months ahead. They, in the process, imprint my childmind with illusions of grandeur and sublime importance.


Modernism crept slowly. First, there was but one road to get there, now there are many. This in a funny way put the place on the map. Eager unknown neighbors felt they should come and visit. In their cars, making a lot of noise. So road humps had to be installed for safety. Add to this neatly arranged road signs and directions- for places you know by heart.

Everybody now invites city friends to come on Sundays, especially in the summer. Homes open up with sumptuous meals laid out. Groceries bulge with a variety of manufactured bread and bottled water and imported ice-cream cones. You no longer need to stack up on grain for the winter. You may even enjoy a full meal at the commercial eatery, boasting pride of place on prime location. There, the nights awake to public parties with visiting celebrities singing the hours away. And someone even thought of opening a petrol station nearby.

The village had to endure a constant stream of remarks. They fall into three broad categories: snide, sympathetic, and a combination of these two. I personally favor the last of the three. For whatever practical advantages these changes might have seemed to afford, they are outweighed by one universal fact: anything can be retrieved, except lost time.

And why should one try to retrieve lost time? In most cases, it is past time. After all, we keep going because something would be wrong if we just stop. Let the pragmatism of this citizen of the world lift the atmospheric gloom of nostalgia and selective memory.

You end up with a standing invitation to come gorge on all my great aunts` mrakkad.

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Nahla Atiyah, WFA`s vice president, is adviser on corporate affairs, could be reached at: asnahlaseesit@yahoo.com

Written By: tbitar
Date Posted: 9/20/2005
Number of Views: 465