Every time the April 13, 1975 remembrance comes back, I have a deep fear. I have an increased conviction that the first bullet that was shot on that day struck the very heart of the Lebanese laboratory. It assassinated its spirit, splattered the components, and drove the wise men to retirement. I'm afraid of those who made that day, pushed for it, or facilitated its passage. I'm afraid of those who climbed its ropes, those who climbed the pyramids of corpses, and those who polished their image with fountains of blood. I'm afraid. I've turned into a sworn expert in fear – from the perpetrators and those who applauded them; from those who slaughtered and who were slaughtered. I'm especially afraid of those who were born after that date and did not read into its woes. I'm afraid of those who follow the war on TV as if it were unavoidable and a way of life. The fire is barely extinguished before it flares up again. A funeral is barely forgotten before another one comes along. It is a deep bloody misunderstanding in a region that is not parsimonious with pouring oil on fires. April 13, 1975. The Prime Minister at the time was Rashid al Solh. He was having lunch at Jean Obeid's house in Ballouneh along with other guests. The first bullet surprised them on April 13, 1075. It didn't occur to any of them that the bullet struck the heart, that the war was there to stay, and that it would blow a new candle today and boast about the blooming of its youth on the soil of the murdered homeland. It didn't occur to anyone that the doors to hell were really opened, that the war would spread and replicate, and that it would kill two Presidents of the Republic, Bashir Gemayel and Rene Moawad, and two Prime Ministers, Rashid Karame and Rafic Hariri. It would also assassinate long lists of politicians and clergymen and a sea of citizens. There is no need to count the citizens. We just call them martyrs and leave them in the sea of bereaved mothers, widows, and orphans. George Hawi was present at that lunch. He was 37 years old. He would go into the war, carrying the dream of change, and the long season of assassinations would devour him. Mohsen Ibrahim (40 years old), who had just come from Aden, was also present. He would launch with Hawi the call for resistance against the Israeli occupation that violated the soil of Beirut. He would also launch the option of silence later on. On that day, Walid Jumblatt was 26 years old. He would go into the war later on, carrying his father's dead body. He would make alliances and enemies. He would fight and make truces. His story with war is a long and thorny one, and it is not time to write it down yet. Nabih Berri was 37 years old. He would come from Imam Moussa Sadr's cloak. His sect would later witness the birth of an exceptional star in its history, Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah, who was 15 years old when the first bullet of Lebanon's long war was shot. Michel Aoun was in his forties. He was in Saida when he heard about the events of Ain el Remmaneh. At the beginning of the following year, he would go back to the leadership headquarters in Beirut in a military helicopter from which he saw the Damour village burning. Aoun would then enter into the war. Two of its wars carry his signature. He would know the taste of exile and then of leadership, but the presidential palace would remain for other generals. Samir Geagea was a medical student at the American University of Beirut. He was 23 years old. The war summoned him, so he entered into it as a great fighter striking and receiving painful blows. He knew the taste of prison then of leadership. He became skilled at living on the edge of danger. Elie Hobeika was 19 years old. He was a small bank employee. He was swimming on that day – the day the war summoned him. He went to it and went far. His name was linked to the pains of its seasons and its toughest practices. On 24.2.2002, I heard an explosion and I saw smoke rising a few hundred meters away from my house. The war devoured him. Sleiman Frangieh was 10 years old. He would enter into the war carrying the coffins of his immediate family. He did not change his choices or terminology when the winds changed. Saad Hariri was 5 years old when the first bullet was shot. He would enter the club of poles carrying his father's coffin in a weeping city and a weeping country. He knew the taste of leadership; he tastes now the bitterness of governance. There is no more space to continue the list. Every time April 13 comes back, I feel the fear – of the years that have been lost, of the years that will be lost.
