The text below first appeared in similar form in the Yukon News, Aug. 25 2006
The Colour of Lebanon
I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow
Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
Do you know for you I bleed myself dry
For you I bleed myself dry
– Coldplay, "Yellow"
Cairo, 23 August 2006. On my final day in Lebanon, I traveled throughout the south, to the places where four fifths of the homes are destroyed and the rest are damaged.
"I’ve never seen it so yellow before," said Samer Karam, my Lebanese companion.
I assumed he meant the colour of the land. The plants were yellow-brown, their twigs shriveled and brittle for lack of water, and the earth was dry and dusty. This seems normal for a country in the Middle East – until you see Israel.
Maroun er Ras was a village on mountain. Now it is breadcrumbs. An almighty palm ground it into the hilltop. The border is less than a kilometer away, where brown and yellow meet green. Where plants grow, and water flows, is Israel.
The contrasting colours made the border appear as though nature – not people – separated these lands. As though the lines on maps and razor-wire fences only ratified and enforced Divine will. But the transition was too abrupt to be natural. Irrigated, pruned, geometric orchards stood within fifty feet of fallow Lebanon, with only a dirt track and metal between them. It was a gash, like where old forest meets clear-cut.
From across the border my eye caught the sun’s glint from the surface of a stream or an unshattered pane of glass. It was too calm; too many flies landed everywhere on me. Through the shimmering air Israel looked like a desert mirage of the sweet, luscious gardens of light described in the Qur’an. Like those gardens – the promise of Allah to one who chooses martyrdom – there was only one way for the people whose homes lay ruined in Maroun er Ras to reach the verdant place: Through death.
I saw only two buildings in a usable state in Maroun er Ras: a UN observation point, and the town mosque.
The UN was pock-marked from shells or shrapnel and a large chunk was missing from the corner of the building, as though a giant had taken a bite out of it. A threadbare flag of white flew above the forlorn observation tower. I could not tell if the UN blue had been bleached out by the sun – if so, a sign that the facilities were abandoned since long before – or if the frightened peacekeepers had raised a flag of surrender in a bid to save themselves during the fighting.
The mosque was standing also. Perhaps it was left undisturbed to prove the West’s sincerity in claiming that "terrorists", not Islam, were the target in this war. While the villagers would surely appreciate the necessity of destroying their homes in order to flush out Hizballah, they might be angered by the wanton, unnecessary leveling of their place of worship.
If only someone were left in Maroun er Ras to witness this gesture. But where would they live now – the mosque?
We met only one man in the village. His name was Aisa. He was with a male relative who spoke no English. He was inspecting a pile of rubble. Was your home damaged?
"This is my home," he said, pointing at the rubble. I asked if I could take a picture of him next to his home, and he agreed. The photo shows him smiling slightly through drawn lips, looking sideways at the camera out of the corners of his eyes – a still polite, but weary, skeptical and sad man. His complexion looked unhealthy, perhaps a little yellow.
I wondered which of these two symbols of the forces that will shape the future of the area – the UN and the mosque – would prevail. The UN’s observation tower, bristling with communication antennae and satellite dishes, looked like the bridge of a battered battle ship, a 21st century Noah’s Ark run aground on a mountaintop. Perhaps inside was a perfect microcosm of humanity, tinted blue: Two exemplars of every human variety, saved from the deluge to repopulate the earth. But they would not come out when we approached. The mosque, on the other hand, was built low to the ground, of humble, solid stone, like the people of Maroun er Ras.
Samer was referring, however, not to the earth, but to the thousands of yellow Hizballah flags and banners that have been strung from every arch-way and telephone pole still standing in South Lebanon. They are the shroud that has been draped on the country’s shattered and bloody body.
Yellow is not always a bad colour. Yellow ribbons were used in America in the 1980s by those waiting for the return of loved ones kidnapped in the Iran hostage crisis. Since then, the yellow ribbon has taken on a more general significance and is displayed in the US by those who await the return of family who serve in the armed forces.
But Hizballah did not choose its shade wisely. It is not a soft, warm, golden yellow like you might see in a Van Gogh. There is something shrill and aggressive to it. The symbolism of this yellow comports too well with the Western image of the "terrorist".
For yellow is the colour of phlegm and jaundice. In the Middle Ages it was hung above areas with the plague. And again today, where the flag hangs there is – in the eyes of Israel and the West – a terrorist "plague."
"Terrorists", according to our imagination, are cowardly and dangerous. They are "yellow bellied". To Western eyes, the indecipherable Arabic writing and outline of a Kalashnikov on the Hizballah flag makes it look like it belongs to the family of geometric warning labels set to yellow backgrounds. Biohazard, nuclear waste, Hizballah: Danger.
Yellow is treachery also. The ecclesiastical colour ascribed to Judas was yellow, and his garment is often portrayed that colour, for example in paintings of the Last Supper by Giotto Bondone, Juan Juanes and Philippe de Champaigne.
Ironically, in Nazi Germany the Star of David insignia identifying Jews – the supposed betrayers of Christ – was yellow.
Many Lebanese will say that it is Israel who is cowardly, relying almost entirely on its unassailable air force to destroy Lebanon’s economy, while never engaging with Hizballah’s fighters on the ground. In the West we know that it is the "terrorists" who are cowardly and treasonous. They could be defeated if they would face us in open, fair combat. But in their weakness they employ deceit, which leads to their frightening, shadowy, suicidal dangerousness.
The irony that yellow is the colour of the suicide prevention "Ribbon Campaign" in North America could not have been lost on Hizballah.
But after visiting the south, only two images of yellow remained in my mind.
In French the expression "rire jaune" means mirthless laughter. It is the laughter of one who has reason to be angry or offended, but out of fear, politeness or caution forces himself to laugh.
The yellow of the rire jaune comes from the concentration, in the face, of yellow bile. Those who used to study the humours called sufferers of the yellow bile choleric and described them as irascible and bad tempered, but also charismatic, and inclined toward political or military leadership.
I thought also of the Coldplay song Yellow: "And it was all yellow. Your skin, Oh yeah your skin and bones, Turn into something beautiful. Do you know for you I bleed myself dry? For you I bleed myself dry."
I visited the south of Lebanon, and it was all yellow. It was bled dry. But can skin and bone really turn into something beautiful?
The Colour of Lebanon
I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow
Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
Do you know for you I bleed myself dry
For you I bleed myself dry
– Coldplay, "Yellow"
Cairo, 23 August 2006. On my final day in Lebanon, I traveled throughout the south, to the places where four fifths of the homes are destroyed and the rest are damaged.
"I’ve never seen it so yellow before," said Samer Karam, my Lebanese companion.
I assumed he meant the colour of the land. The plants were yellow-brown, their twigs shriveled and brittle for lack of water, and the earth was dry and dusty. This seems normal for a country in the Middle East – until you see Israel.
Maroun er Ras was a village on mountain. Now it is breadcrumbs. An almighty palm ground it into the hilltop. The border is less than a kilometer away, where brown and yellow meet green. Where plants grow, and water flows, is Israel.
The contrasting colours made the border appear as though nature – not people – separated these lands. As though the lines on maps and razor-wire fences only ratified and enforced Divine will. But the transition was too abrupt to be natural. Irrigated, pruned, geometric orchards stood within fifty feet of fallow Lebanon, with only a dirt track and metal between them. It was a gash, like where old forest meets clear-cut.
From across the border my eye caught the sun’s glint from the surface of a stream or an unshattered pane of glass. It was too calm; too many flies landed everywhere on me. Through the shimmering air Israel looked like a desert mirage of the sweet, luscious gardens of light described in the Qur’an. Like those gardens – the promise of Allah to one who chooses martyrdom – there was only one way for the people whose homes lay ruined in Maroun er Ras to reach the verdant place: Through death.
I saw only two buildings in a usable state in Maroun er Ras: a UN observation point, and the town mosque.
The UN was pock-marked from shells or shrapnel and a large chunk was missing from the corner of the building, as though a giant had taken a bite out of it. A threadbare flag of white flew above the forlorn observation tower. I could not tell if the UN blue had been bleached out by the sun – if so, a sign that the facilities were abandoned since long before – or if the frightened peacekeepers had raised a flag of surrender in a bid to save themselves during the fighting.
The mosque was standing also. Perhaps it was left undisturbed to prove the West’s sincerity in claiming that "terrorists", not Islam, were the target in this war. While the villagers would surely appreciate the necessity of destroying their homes in order to flush out Hizballah, they might be angered by the wanton, unnecessary leveling of their place of worship.
If only someone were left in Maroun er Ras to witness this gesture. But where would they live now – the mosque?
We met only one man in the village. His name was Aisa. He was with a male relative who spoke no English. He was inspecting a pile of rubble. Was your home damaged?
"This is my home," he said, pointing at the rubble. I asked if I could take a picture of him next to his home, and he agreed. The photo shows him smiling slightly through drawn lips, looking sideways at the camera out of the corners of his eyes – a still polite, but weary, skeptical and sad man. His complexion looked unhealthy, perhaps a little yellow.
I wondered which of these two symbols of the forces that will shape the future of the area – the UN and the mosque – would prevail. The UN’s observation tower, bristling with communication antennae and satellite dishes, looked like the bridge of a battered battle ship, a 21st century Noah’s Ark run aground on a mountaintop. Perhaps inside was a perfect microcosm of humanity, tinted blue: Two exemplars of every human variety, saved from the deluge to repopulate the earth. But they would not come out when we approached. The mosque, on the other hand, was built low to the ground, of humble, solid stone, like the people of Maroun er Ras.
Samer was referring, however, not to the earth, but to the thousands of yellow Hizballah flags and banners that have been strung from every arch-way and telephone pole still standing in South Lebanon. They are the shroud that has been draped on the country’s shattered and bloody body.
Yellow is not always a bad colour. Yellow ribbons were used in America in the 1980s by those waiting for the return of loved ones kidnapped in the Iran hostage crisis. Since then, the yellow ribbon has taken on a more general significance and is displayed in the US by those who await the return of family who serve in the armed forces.
But Hizballah did not choose its shade wisely. It is not a soft, warm, golden yellow like you might see in a Van Gogh. There is something shrill and aggressive to it. The symbolism of this yellow comports too well with the Western image of the "terrorist".
For yellow is the colour of phlegm and jaundice. In the Middle Ages it was hung above areas with the plague. And again today, where the flag hangs there is – in the eyes of Israel and the West – a terrorist "plague."
"Terrorists", according to our imagination, are cowardly and dangerous. They are "yellow bellied". To Western eyes, the indecipherable Arabic writing and outline of a Kalashnikov on the Hizballah flag makes it look like it belongs to the family of geometric warning labels set to yellow backgrounds. Biohazard, nuclear waste, Hizballah: Danger.
Yellow is treachery also. The ecclesiastical colour ascribed to Judas was yellow, and his garment is often portrayed that colour, for example in paintings of the Last Supper by Giotto Bondone, Juan Juanes and Philippe de Champaigne.
Ironically, in Nazi Germany the Star of David insignia identifying Jews – the supposed betrayers of Christ – was yellow.
Many Lebanese will say that it is Israel who is cowardly, relying almost entirely on its unassailable air force to destroy Lebanon’s economy, while never engaging with Hizballah’s fighters on the ground. In the West we know that it is the "terrorists" who are cowardly and treasonous. They could be defeated if they would face us in open, fair combat. But in their weakness they employ deceit, which leads to their frightening, shadowy, suicidal dangerousness.
The irony that yellow is the colour of the suicide prevention "Ribbon Campaign" in North America could not have been lost on Hizballah.
But after visiting the south, only two images of yellow remained in my mind.
In French the expression "rire jaune" means mirthless laughter. It is the laughter of one who has reason to be angry or offended, but out of fear, politeness or caution forces himself to laugh.
The yellow of the rire jaune comes from the concentration, in the face, of yellow bile. Those who used to study the humours called sufferers of the yellow bile choleric and described them as irascible and bad tempered, but also charismatic, and inclined toward political or military leadership.
I thought also of the Coldplay song Yellow: "And it was all yellow. Your skin, Oh yeah your skin and bones, Turn into something beautiful. Do you know for you I bleed myself dry? For you I bleed myself dry."
I visited the south of Lebanon, and it was all yellow. It was bled dry. But can skin and bone really turn into something beautiful?
posted by 'tiben at 10:18 a.m.
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