The Cannon, A Tribute to Faraya

Krikor Kradjian

Translated and abridged by Vahe H. Apelian 

Snow Covered Village of Faraya, Lebanon

Faraya is a village in the mountainous region of Lebanon. It is about 40 km north of Beirut and is situated at an elevation some 2000 meter, 6600 feet, above the Mediterranean Sea level. Its inhabitants are predominantly Maronite Christians.

The name stands for “The land of fruits and vegetables” in Phoenician due to its fertile soil. The winters are harsh with an abundant snow. The steep slopes of the mountains around the village  make Faraya the best-known ski resort in Lebanon.

In early 1970’s, shortly after my graduation from the School of Pharmacy of the American University of Lebanon, I applied to the Ministry of Health and was issued a permit to operate the first pharmacy in Faraya. The Faraya pharmacy was more than a health service establishment. It was a drugstore, a clinic, a club and a gathering place for all ages and ranks. 

On the terrace, in front of the pharmacy, four football world championships were watched by enthusiastic teenagers on the blurry screen of the television in black and white.

The elderly met and discussed matters of the village. Intellectuals found it a common ground to sit on the terrace and discuss a wide range of topics from politics to history to literature. And at the end of the day, teenagers, youngsters and sport loving people impatiently waited for the closing hour of the store to head to the basketball court of the village to have a friendly match. In fact, the pharmacy team won the championship cup in the summer of 1986.

 Decades later I retain fond memories of the village and the villagers who welcomed me in their midst. Here is a memorable incident, one out of so many that i witnessed in my 15 years of stay in Faraya.

*****

The Cannon

In a corner of the church’s courtyard of the village Faraya stands a rusting metal mass with a long barrel which has remained neglected for many years. Kids, youngsters approach it with interest and apprehension. Their curiosity takes better hold of them, and they touch it, examine it,  and some even attempt to lift it but to avail. The rusting metal piece is too heavy for them. The older generation of the village cast a glance at it, shake their heads in desperation and move on. The metal mass with a barrel rekindles in them memories of by gone days. They simply ignore " the village cannon" 

It was the beginning of the civil war in the country. Citizens of different religious denominations and political persuasions started arming themselves with an unusual enthusiasm for the possible military confrontations looming ahead. Defensive measures were taken everywhere. The entrances of the buildings were barricaded with sand filled sacs. Similar barricades were being placed at strategic points along the streets and intersections. Young men and women took turn keeping watch against unwelcomed intruders. 

Military exercises were also being conducted and armed units were being formed without regard to age or gender. First aid instructions were being taught to the people. Military hardware and gear had become abundantly available to the public. Pistols, machine guns, different kinds of bullets, hand grenades were sold openly, along the streets, on stands or in booths, along  with household utensils for everyday use, such as cups, dishes, tobacco, canned food, and so forth. 

Wearing military fatigue became fashionable. People did away with their everyday attire and started wearing the green and grey camouflaged clothing. Even parents  started having their young children wear military style clothing. The kids in turn started mimicking the grown-ups with military like marches and salutes and engaged in mock battles.

With the collapse of the government the army fragmented. The military high command having broken apart lost its authority and credibility. The army units and the soldiers having been left without a commanding officer drifted apart and vacillated whether to join a warring faction or not. Some of whom, driven to  return home and join their families, had their and their unit’s military hardware for sale, whether gun, ammunition, machine guns and even artillery.

The  old combatants with wrinkled faces and thick mustaches carrying their Second World War vintages guns made their presence known as well. They too started manning the barricades ready to protect their turf. 

The defensive lines were drawn on sand, district after district, neighborhood after neighborhood.

The main topic of conversation among the people was about violence, vengeance, and retaliation. The combats were spreading like a wildfire. The hunting guns, pistols were soon replaced by the available sophisticated deadlier weapons causing and leaving behind much destruction. Civilians, on the other hand, were desperately moving from one neighborhood to another they deemed safer. The city was on fire, figuratively and literally.

The smoke from buildings on fire covered parts of the city leaving streaks of black trails against the blue sky. Even the sun seemed to have lost its radiance and at times remained hidden behind the black smoke. 

The downtown commercial hub of the city, where the big banks were located, was being looted by the warring factions and was being vandalized by its combatants. The one-time Paris of the East, Beirut, had entered a dark tunnel with no exit in sight.

It was inevitable that the city would be splintered among the warring factions, and so it became. Beirut was divided into two halves. Visiting family members, or even going to work became riskier by the day. Instead of the established routes, people were using inner roads they had never used before making their necessary trips  much longer and time consuming. The city had lost its peace. 

The bridges that connected the sectarian patchwork of its society were irreparably damaged.

*****

Far away from the city, at the slope of the mountain on a high elevation, for the villagers of Faraya the deadly turmoil in the city appeared a  distant happening that would not reach them. It was unlikely, they believed, that they would be caught in the frenzy of the Civil War raging along the Mediterranean Sea cost. Even though the news reaching them were very concerning, the villagers did not change even an iota from their daily routine.

The village life, in Faraya as well, was very much in harmony with the unfolding of the seasons. The villagers were engaged in horticulture during spring and the summer. During fall and especially during winter, they remained engaged in their household chores and duties. They warmed themselves around their wood burning or oil drip stoves. 

On rare occasions when the sun appeared warming the air, the villagers would be outdoor resting on the boulders along the streets, or squatting soaking the sun rays while chatting and speculating about the coming season, about tending their trees, about irrigating their orchards. 

When all such conversations would run their course, they would gossip about women the most common being the policeman’s attractive wife. And when the sun would start setting behind the mayor's house, they knew that spring was imminent.

Having accepted me in their midst, I became privy of their unending stories told in the dead winter around the hot stoves.  

There was a solemnity in the process of telling and hearing the stories, often times over and over again but never missing the beat. The men would replenish their pipes, the women would continue attending to the stove while also doing their cooking over it. The story tellers, who over the years had honed their story telling art to a perfection, would wait for their turn to tell their stories. Even the silver screen could not have offered better images to the audience. Although the stories had to do with village life happenings, adventurous villagers and so forth, it had become hard to know whether they were true at one time or were simply myths that perpetuated year after year, generation after generation. In any event they were told with a firm conviction attesting to their truth and were accepted as such.

Popular among the stories were doings of Abu Azar, who was endearingly called “the fox”. 

Abu Azar was adventurous, cunning, and conniving. He tended to steal newly picked up fruits in wooden boxes in untended orchards, waiting to be sent to the market. He had his innovative ways to steal carpets hanging from the balconies soaking the sun rays. Using spiders attached to strings he would pull a carpet down. 

It was told that one day, during a courteous visit, while the lady of the house was busy preparing the coffee, Abu Azar saw an alarm clock on the table and hid it in this baggy pants. While the two were sipping the coffee, the alarm went on perplexing the lady of the house as to its source, as " the guest" hurriedly left the house with the alarm still ringing in his baggy pants.

The villagers seating around the stoves and telling stories would not be surprised when the aged and committed bachelor Charles joined them. He was nicknamed as " Martinos" for he never took off his old vintage Martin brand French rifle from his shoulder. 

It might have been in his possession since the French colonial time.  Whenever he entered the warm room, he solemnly removed the rifle from his shoulder, placed it against a wall, assuring everyone that it was unloaded. All would look hearing him tell the news from the outside world while waiting until his frozen mustaches would start dripping water as it thawed. He was the undisputed expert on the nature of the snow. He would authoritatively tell whether the snow was of the softer kind “much like cotton” or the harder type, “much like wheat grain” snow that took longer to melti. For all present around the hot stove, whether it was the soft kind, or the hard kind, snow was considered a blessing from the sky.

The villagers, young and old knew Charle’s ongoing complaint that had become commonplace:

- “Where are the braves of the village? Should there be an attack on the village who is there to protect it, besides I ?” He would say with  a rebuke, making sure that people noticed his World War Two vintage, French "Martin" rifle he carried. Even in nights when it was snowing heavily, the rifle hanging on his shoulder he would go around guarding the village. His silhouette, tall and stiff would look like an old leafless tree against a white background. He would visit particularly the houses where the girls he fancied once had settled. It mattered not to him they had all gotten married, had children or even grandchildren. All he had to show was his chivalry and recall nostalgic memories.

The winter of Faraya was particularly hard during the first year of the civil war. Even those who had lived there their entire lives attested to the harshness of that winter.  It had snowed almost nonstop from December to February. The main road, which was the umbilical cord that connected the village to the outside world remained closed. But the isolation of the village did not mean confinement for the villagers: news of the war sieved to the village. In spite of being disturbing most of the time, they didn't arouse alarm or panic. For the "Farayots" trusted their safety to the impregnable mountains Providence had granted them. They had lived like that since time immemorial.

Although the villagers had their own political affiliation among the warring factions, but they regarded themselves removed from the battlegrounds. Simply the war wasn't theirs. 

The village did not have any enemy. The villagers had their squabbles among themselves and with neighboring villagers for water, land, over irrigation, planting or harvesting. At times these squabbles could get almost out of hand. But they had always resolved the matters among themselves. As far as political siding was concerned, the villagers had their preference, but they regarded themselves far from the battlegrounds of a war they considered “not theirs.” Faraya did not have an enemy. The stand of the village to the ongoing civil war along the coast was simple and clear as daylight and was expressed in simple words:

- “ We have no enemy. Should they not bother us, we will not bother them too.”

However, foreseeing the possibility of a conflict and in an effort to prevent it from happening in the village, young men set a barricade at the entrance of the village and started checking the identity of those who entered the village, even if they were fellow villagers they knew well, creating a comical scene.

– “Hello  moukhtar (village representative), please let's see your id.”

Although it was laughable to ask fellow resident villagers to identify themselves, but people accepted the check points with a supportive understanding. After all, it meant that the young generation had the best interest of the village in mind and were keen to assure its security. 

In time the check point became a gathering place where young men would congregate, warming themselves around a fire while endlessly analyzing the evolving situation well into the morning.

*****

Snow Covred Faraya

It was a spring afternoon. The snow covering the mountains was thawing feeding the streams with a refreshing cold-water and heralding to the villagers the change of season. The torrential water flowing over the colossal waterfall covered the area with a fine mist and a thunderous roar. 

The newly flowered fruit trees, and the green grass soaked the sun rays avariciously. 

The villagers were enjoying the spring warmth seating under the greening grape vines in their yards hosting their neighbors with coffee, chatting, and gossiping.

The village priest was preparing his after-mass evening sermon pacing while rehearsing his customary evening sermon: “Yes, dear people, we are living in uncertain times. Our salvage will be our mutual love. Love thy neighbor as you love yourselves.” 

The school children were doing their homework reading or rehearsing poems in a musical rhyme.

Suddenly an ominous whistling sound overtook the village and was immediately followed with an explosion. The sound of the explosion appeared to come from orchards on the outskirts of the village where residences were sparse. The mountains around the village echoed the sound of the explosion. The villagers, stunned at the blast, gazed as the fume coming from the orchards went up in a column and then steady got spread in the sky. 

Each villager dealt with the explosion in his/her own way trying to find a logical explanation or a cause. For some it was a stray bomb that had fallen on the orchards away from the village. Others thought it was some kind of a joke by a fun-loving compatriot. 

But when, a few minutes later, another explosion came about, it dawned on all that the village was under attack. This time around the bomb had exploded in a populated part of the village, alarming the villagers. Even though the second explosion did not sound as strong as the first, but the damage it had caused was grave. The members of two families enjoying their afternoon coffee had become the unfortunate casualties. Right after the explosion people arrived at the scene and found a heart-wrenching scene. Pieces of torn apart bodies were scattered all around among the wreck. Seven members from two families were killed and few others were injured. The human toll was too heavy for the small village. The injured were rushed to nearby hospitals amidst cries for God’s help. 

Faraya was under attack.

That evening all lights in the village were put off, to conceal the targeted village to the remote assailants.

The village went pitch dark. People felt safer that way. 

In a few days Faraya was transformed. Defensive measures were taken. A military order came into the village. The villagers moved from first floor, where they mostly lived, into the ground level they used for storage. 

Sandbags were piled in front of house entrances.

People came out armed out of their homes. 

Rifles, that would have been qualified as museum artifacts were taken out of storages, checked and oiled and were made ready for usage after decades of idle existence.

Preliminary examination revealed that the rockets were fired from beyond their mountains,  a village of a different religious faith that regarded Faraya as an adversary. 

Furthermore, the damage of the blast was so great that it gave rise to concerns that there were spies among the villagers who could  pinpoint targets to the unseen enemy. 

Soon an atmosphere of mistrust developed in the whole village. 

The villagers started looking at each other with suspicion. Slightest deviation from a routine seemed to point to a “traitor.” 

This atmosphere of mistrust could have dire consequences for the village. To circumvent the unfolding state, the priest, the village chief, and a local power broker, in local parlance, a "Zaʿīm", formed an ad hoc military command and called the villagers for a general meeting.

The announcement for the meeting was aired from a car mounted with a loudspeaker. For three days in a row, the car roamed in the village inviting the villagers to the meeting. During those three the days the priest emphasized in his sermons on the importance of coming together for the planned meeting. Young men took upon themselves and visited family after family inviting them to the meeting. They also pinned posters on the trees along the main road notifying and inviting the villagers to the gathering.

Finally, the day of the gathering arrived. The church was full to capacity. Present were those who had served in the French Army during the Second World War carrying their antiquated rifles, the village’s ranger, the man in charge of irrigation, the policeman, the principal of the school who also was its only teacher, the butcher, the ironsmith, the tailor, mothers nursing their children. In short everyone from the village was present.

The meeting proceeded in a heightened mood. Battle cries for revenge echoed in the church. The cries of the men to take revenge, and the cries of hungry babies filled the air, while the priest who was conducting the meeting, could barely be heard shouting “people, speak one  at a time so that we can understand each other,” as the attention of the men were distracted by the breast-feeding mothers  to keep their babies quiet.

The side conversations did not cease as people blamed each other for having left the village without protection. Some thought the safety of the village should be entrusted to a certain political party having a military wing. Yet others argued to abstain from introducing outsiders and rely on their own capabilities.

But a sudden a shrill stopped all conversation. It was  the butcher’s wife who had suddenly realized that she had left the dinner cooking on the stove and had to go home to turn the stove off, lest the dinner would burn. 

In spite of all the commotion, they finally decided to form a popular army to protect the village. 

Immediately forty-five young men enlisted as front line combatants, and some ten older men as defensive liners. The arsenal they could produce consisted of around twenty-five rifles and approximately the same number of pistols.

Those who had a broader understanding of military matters concluded that it would not be possible to defend the village with rifles and pistols. A more effective weapon was needed. They concluded that it was best that they acquire a cannon. 

Artillery against artillery. That was the only solution to be protected and retaliate.

Everyone agreed to the proposition.

The necessity for having a cannon was deemed irrefutable, especially that a bomb or two kept falling almost on a daily basis on the outskirts of the village, luckily causing material damage only.

A table in the church’s courtyard was covered with a white sheet and set for collecting donations towards the purchase of a cannon. Everyone took turn and made their heartfelt donation and remained lingering discretely eyeing each other for the donation each made.

After collecting the necessary funds, the village’s military command got in touch with an army captain who had artillery in his possession for sale. 

The negotiation was completed with the battalion’s commander. 

All that was needed now was to have the cannon brought to the village.

The mood was festive in the village that day. Men were dressed in their military fatigue to welcome the artillery that was to be the deterrent for their village. The young had tied colorful ribbons on the trees along the main road. Most wanted to be there to see the cannon they had purchased to do what it is purported to do. 

The village’s school was closed that day. The news of the arrival of the cannon spread like a wildfire. The mountains echoed the jubilant cries:

- “They arrived, they arrived.”

The bells of church tolled, heralding the arrival of the cannon accompanied by the armed young militiamen. 

The villagers lining along the streets showered the cannon with rice and rose water. 

The cannon, decorated with colorful ribbons was placed in the church’s courtyard, which was soon jam-packed by the impatient villagers. People started jostling and elbowing each other to have a closer look. Everyone wanted to see it and touch it.

They were mostly impressed by the cannon’s long barrel that was to be aimed at the enemy. A housing supported the barrel. It had a small door where the bomb went in. There was a short rope attached at the end of the barrel. 

People took the opportunity to show their knowledge in military matters and arsenal. They took upon themselves to explain the components of the gun; the barrel, the door where the bomb shell goes, then the short rope which when pulled fires the cannon, etc.  

The priest blessed the cannon and gave his benediction to the kneeling villagers. He then sprinkled the cannon with blessed water. 

Everyone passed by the cannon as they exited the courtyard. Some touched it and others gave a hug to the mighty armor that was to protect them and their village.

The cannon was now ready for test firing. All the villagers were anxious to see and hear it thunder. 

They deemed the flat land on the outskirts of the village, surrounded by wild bushes and far from the orchards to be the best place for test firing the cannon.

In the afternoon the village came to stand still. The few shops of the village were closed, along with the fuel depot, the restaurants on the bank of the river, and even the pharmacy. The villagers came out of their houses and followed the cannon as it was pushed and pulled towards the flat land on narrow winding paths at the slope of the mountain. Every now and then they stopped to catch their breath. It seems it was then, they noticed that the housings on the light posts had become like a sieve; targets of frustrated hunters who had not been able to have a successful hunt had fire at the light posts instead. 

The flat land where the cannon was going to be placed for test firing got congested as more and more people came to watch.

The cannon was aimed towards the hill behind the apple orchards. 

Many approached and examined the cannon and checked the position of the barrel to ascertain its intended trajectory. Others ridiculed those who looked through the barrel towards the intended target, instead of using the binocular placed on top of the barrel. Some thought that the cannon should be aimed further than the hill behind the apple orchards to spare the apple trees from damage.

Some wondered at the extend of the damage the exploding bomb might cause, the number of trees it would topple down, the crater it could form. Eventually they all came to conclude that the test firing might give the answers to all their speculations.

Since nobody had had the experience in firing a cannon, they had asked the artilleryman of the battalion to do the firing.

Heeding to the officer's command they carefully brought the bomb and placed it in the cannon at his instructions. One of them even gestured kissing the shell  just before it was loaded in the cannon. He had seen a scene like that in a war movie.

The captain was getting impatient as the test firing was getting way late into the afternoon. He appeared to have arranges to do.

Suddenly, without any warning he pulled the rope attached to the trigger and the cannon fired.

The blast and the recoil created a wave that threw sand, pebbles all around.

Those who were standing closest to the cannon were pushed a few feet back and thrown to the ground. Only the village’s “fool” who was standing far from the crowd seemed to view the whole thing with amusement.

Covered with dust, the thunder still ringing in their ears, all followed the trajectory anticipating a big explosion on the hill beyond the apple orchard. When the standard six seconds time for impact elapsed without an explosion, all eyes turned to the artilleryman expecting an explanation. All those who had great opinion on the cannon, thought that the shell must have gone over the hilltop and must be still going till it came to a hard surface. 

For skeptics, the shell must have been spoiled or worn out from onset.

The captain's explanation was the most persuasive to almost all. The shell must have fallen on a soft ground, probably a newly irrigated orchard, absorbing the impact, instead of hitting a hard and rocky ground. Therefore it had not exploded as expected.

They demanded another test firing.

The artillery captain adjusted the trajectory and asked for another shell.

This time, the spectators took all kinds of precautions. Those who were famous with their high pitches shouted to warn if there were people in the vicinity of the orchards irrigating to go away, lest they might get hurt with shrapnel, something they had forgotten to do during the first test firing. 

After the cannon was loaded, people ran away keeping a safe distance, while those who were close and pretended to be brave, kneeled, covered their ears with the palms of their hand and opened their mouths to neutralize ( "swallow" ) the pressure ensuing from the blast, following the instructions of the wise and knowledgeable among them. 

The cannon thundered. A few seconds later, a scant dust appeared on the targeted hill immediately followed by a distant explosion. 

Everyone expected to hear a tremendous thunder from the impact, even some rocks flying towards them, trees being uprooted, in other words a cataclysmic explosion. But nothing like that happened. 

The result was insignificant.

They called for a third test firing but were heartbroken to learn that the money they had raised had been hardly enough to purchase the cannon and two bombs only.

The disappointment was great. 

The defense of their village could not be relied on such an ineffective device.

It was getting very late in the afternoon, almost dusk. The captain was impatient to leave. 

The spectators exhausted and some of them still covered with dust, feeling forlorn and aghast, they returned to the village pushing and pulling the cannon. They placed the canon in a corner of the church’s courtyard and returned to their homes  in disappointment.

That night and for the following days, the talk of the village was about the cannon.

Unbeknownst to the "Farayots" the realities on the ground in the city and in the mountains around them had changed. 

The village over the mountains that was housing the artillery causing so much damage and concern for Faraya had been taken over by relatively friendly militiamen hence long range shelling falling on the village stopped abruptly.

Summer arrived and the "Farayots" resumed their work in the fields and orchards.

Years went by, so did many winters with the gatherings around the stove. 

A new generation came about, and rust covered the village cannon.

Nowadays, in a corner of the church’s courtyard of the village Faraya stands a rusting metal mass with a long barrel which has remained neglected for many years. Kids, youngsters approach it with interest and apprehension. Their curiosity takes better hold of them, and they touch it, examine it,  and some even attempt to lift it but to avail. The rusting metal piece is too heavy for them. The older generation of the village cast a glance at it, shake their heads in desperation and move on. The metal mass with a barrel rekindles in them memories of by gone days. They simply ignore "the village cannon" and move on.