Memories Die Hard

Couple of months ago, I read an interesting post entitled “Leaders Know When It’s a Good Day to Die Hard” by a friend, Dan Forbes, founder of the Lead with Giants Community of which I am a member. When I commented on the post, I mentioned that I remembered only watching the first movie of the “Die Hard” series, although I might have watched a couple of them. I was able to recall the first of the series probably because it reminded me of a story that happened back in 1975 when I was just 11 years of age.

“Memory…is the diary that we all carry about with us.” ― Oscar Wilde

The war started very close to home. I was born and raised in the east suburbs of Beirut with a majority-Christian population and where right-wing political parties and militias dominated on the ground. Less than 1 kilometer away from home, there was a small zone where a group of people from other political inclinations, religions and nationalities lived. Naturally, when the conflicts started in the heart of Beirut, other regions of the country soon had their own daily frictions among different conflicting groups. This also happened in what had been considered “my safe neighborhood.”

When the violence erupted around that mixed zone, the local right-wing militia decided to put an end to it and to cleanse from that spot anyone considered alien to the region. A fierce artillery fight started. It was the first time in my life I had ever heard such loud, scary noises. At home, mum, dad, and my brothers and sisters were all agitated and did not know where to hide or what to do. Since our house was full of windows, it had always been considered a healthy place to live with the sun infiltrating it from all directions. But it suddenly became hazardous because of the risk of getting hurt from the broken windows and shattering debris incoming from all directions.

The battle to take over that spot lasted only a couple of days. When we heard the good news, we thought, perhaps naively, that “finally” the violence was at an end. But what we didn’t know was that some of the defeated militias had managed to run away from the spot, were hiding in neighboring homes and were taking hostages. That’s what happened to our peaceful neighbors living in a building just 50 meters away. Four heavily armed gunmen entered their building, and took them hostages along with all the other residents of that building. They were forced to go to the top floor. Then the gunmen started to shoot, targeting the surrounding buildings. When we heard the very close shooting, we all ran to hide in the corridors, the safest places in our house. The local militia could not attack the building because of the taken hostages, so they decided to force their release by using a horrid technique that I can never ever forget

“The mind replays what the heart can't delete”―Unknown

A lineup of approximately 50 captured men, of all ages, passed in front of our house down the road until they reached a big, long perpendicular wall, which was used as a fence for a neighboring convent and home for the elderly. Among those poor people being led at gunpoint, there was one man who shouted dad’s name when he passed by our house, begging dad to save his life. I recognized his voice; he was an old man who used to sell us fresh oranges from his garden. Without a second thought, dad reacted to help the peasant by asking one of the militia guys to release him because he was a peaceful person and we would shelter him at home. The guy shouted angrily at dad, telling him to go inside and not get involved.

"To dare is to lose one's footing momentarily. To not dare is to lose one’s self." ― Soren Kierkegaard

All the captured men were forced to stand against the long wall. Using loud speakers, the local militias ordered the four gunmen to release their hostages. Otherwise, they would shoot the captured men one after the other. Shortly after that we heard a lot of screams and firing of guns. Horrified with all that was happening, I started to cry, taking refuge next to mum and dad. Finally, the gunmen ended up by surrendering. We later learned that none of the hostages or the captured men was killed, as the militias were only hitting some of the younger ones and firing in the air. A tentative peace came back to our neighborhood, and, what we thought was the end of the violence was actually just a truce preceding a long civil war.

Memories die hard when our innocence has been hurt so deeply. Those stored memories from 1975 come to my mind again and again, reminding me of the horrors of war. Being exposed to such situations, in spite of the atrocities involved, taught me some good lessons in life and how to behave when emergency strikes. Such lessons are that:

• We must resist the urge to respond to aggression with more of the same. If not there is a big risk of unintended casualties.
• We need to have the courage to take risks and speak up for what we believe in. "It is only by risking our persons from one hour to another that we live at all." ― William James
• Even in extreme situations,we need to retain our essential humanity and aim to support others rather than spectating on them. "Never let the odds keep you from doing what you know in your heart you were meant to do." ― H. Jackson Brown, Jr.
• Family support and love are very important. Love gives us courage to overcome fear and the giving and receiving of support strengthens our resilience even in extreme situations.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer…. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”― Frank Herbert

* I would like to thank my friends David Hain and Richard Pennington for their most valuable comments!
* Drawing & Collage by Hoda Maalouf 

Lost & Found Treasures, and Stories from the Past

I am writing this post to honor the memory of my father William and grandfather Elias. Dad passed away two years ago at the age of 94. He was fascinated by his father who sadly died in the 1920s when Dad was just a little kid. He used to tell us stories about my grandfather’s expeditions to neighboring countries with a German explorer to excavate ancient ruins and historical treasures. These stories were so intriguing that I wondered many times whether they were real or simply exaggerated by Dad due to the emotional attachment he had to his father.

“The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.” ― Czesław Miłosz

Five years ago, when I was working in my office at the university a German doctoral student introduced himself as Wolf and asked for five minutes of my time to fill in a questionnaire. After answering his numerous questions, I asked the young man whether he knew any Arabic. His answer was that he was learning it so that he could complete his research in Oriental studies. Then I said promptly, “Oh my grandpa worked with a German Orientalist many years back.” When he asked me about his name, I paused and said, “I think it was Oppenheim.” But when I saw the reaction on Wolf’s face, I called Dad to get the correct name of the German explorer. It was: Max von Oppenheim. He gave me a look of astonishment and said, “Do you know that they are rebuilding Oppenheim’s museum in Germany right now, and I know the two main researchers in charge of this project?”

Wolf then took my e-mail address and the name of my grandfather, and promised to ask these two German researchers to contact me. When I told Dad about what happened in my office, he became very excited to hear some new stories about his long-gone father. Unfortunately, no one contacted me from Germany to the dismay of Dad who kept checking with me on the subject matter until the end of his days.

“Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.”  ― Kevin Arnold

One day, a couple of months after my father passed away, and while I was doing routine work in my office, I received an e-mail entitled “Re: Elias Malouf.” My heart almost stopped beating: This was the long-awaited e-mail.  It reads as follows:

“Dear Ms. Maalouf,

Two years ago Wolf-Hagen VA, University of Cologne, was so kind forwarding your E-Mail-address to us. I am sorry that it took so much time getting in contact with you, but my colleague and I were so busy with preparing an exhibition that we neglected answering sooner.

But let me start from the beginning: Elias, your grandfather, worked for Baron Max von Oppenheim (1860−1946). He was engaged as secretary for most of his expeditions. He wrote detailed journals about the encountered Bedouin tribes and the excavations, and hand-copied ancient scripts by drawing them (see enclosed picture).

In 1899, Baron Max von Oppenheim embarked on an expedition that took him to the head waters of the river Khabur. At the tent camp of Ibrahim Pasha, he heard about strange basalt sculptures—half man, half animal—that instantly caught his attention. When he arrived at Tell Halaf shortly afterwards, Oppenheim was not yet aware of the fact that he had stumbled upon the remains of an Aramaic royal palace.

Released from diplomatic service at his own request in 1910, Oppenheim henceforth devoted himself to studying Bedouin culture and exploring Tell Halaf. Initially his spectacular finds were to be displayed at the Pergamon Museum, but when negotiations with the National Museums in Berlin failed, Oppenheim decided to create his own museum. Despite inflation and the economic crisis, he managed to open the private museum on his 70th birthday, 15 July 1930. On 23 November 1943, the Tell Halaf Museum was hit and set ablaze by an aerial bomb. The remainders of the Oppenheim-collection were recovered after the end of the war. But the 27,000 fragments were deemed beyond restoration and it was not before 1993 when preparations to relocate the material led to another viewing and at last to the founding of the Tell Halaf restoration project.

Almost seventy years had to pass for the monumental gods, lions and fabulous beasts to shine anew in splendor. Their discoverer, Baron Max von Oppenheim, had been confident until his death in 1946 that one day they would rise again "like a phoenix from the ashes."

“The past is never dead, it is not even past.”  ― William Faulkner

I am grateful to Dr. Cholidis for giving me this priceless information about Max von Oppenheim and my grandfather, but regret not having received it a couple of months earlier simply to show it to my father. I also felt ashamed of the many times I had doubted Dad’s stories because I thought he had mistaken his imagination for his memories.

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”  ― Thomas Campbell

Each day, people and events surrounding us make an impact on our lives but we can never tell which story our brain will pick and store away among its treasured things. Leaving it up to our memory alone, imagination and facts can fuse together, making it difficult sometimes to know what really happened and what did not. Similar to how Dr. Cholidis’ e-mail rectified facts for me, I have written this article as a diary that I will keep for my children so they need not question my credibility the day I tell them the story of the fabulous expeditions of Max von Oppenheim and their great-grandfather Elias Malouf.

“Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.”  ― Barbara Kingsolver

Enclosed photos are taken from the digital database Arachne which includes the Oppenheim photos.  

PS Maalouf and Malouf refer to the same surname.

Thank You RAP for your valuable Comments!