N.'s house in Kfar Roummane, which is now nothing more than a bitter and painful memory. (Credit: Gilles Khoury/L'Orient-Le Jour)
The 1960s and the early 1970s. Throughout her childhood, every time her parents announced they would spend the weekend at their house in Kfar Roummane, near Nabatieh, N. would throw a tantrum. She had to be dragged to the car, strapped into the back seat, and her parents would listen to her cry for the two-hour ride. For the only child that she was, this old house lost in the South felt like a punishment. There were no children. Only adults dressed strangely, who seemed to come from another era. While her father, the local MP, welcomed villagers from morning to night — each coming with a request, a problem or a complaint — her mother made sure that everyone was comfortable with something to drink and eat.N.’s only consolation was Zeinab. Zeinab, the cook who had come to the family even before she was born. Every morning, she would...
The 1960s and the early 1970s. Throughout her childhood, every time her parents announced they would spend the weekend at their house in Kfar Roummane, near Nabatieh, N. would throw a tantrum. She had to be dragged to the car, strapped into the back seat, and her parents would listen to her cry for the two-hour ride. For the only child that she was, this old house lost in the South felt like a punishment. There were no children. Only adults dressed strangely, who seemed to come from another era. While her father, the local MP, welcomed villagers from morning to night — each coming with a request, a problem or a complaint — her mother made sure that everyone was comfortable with something to drink and eat.N.’s only consolation was Zeinab. Zeinab, the cook who had come to the family even before she was born. Every morning, she...
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