Serving With Heart

“There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my heart are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.” ― Dalai Lama

My love for people seems to have started at a very early age. Being brought up in a busy neighborhood in Beirut shaped my love for service and leadership. The other kids flocked after me to play and to join any activity I started. While some of them enjoyed kindling quarrels, I was the one who solved the problems and found a peaceful solution among my polarized friends.

My life was going perfectly well, I had lots of friends, was highly active and an extrovert until the age of 11 when the civil war started in my country. Partly for reasons of personal safety, I suddenly turned inward, left my neighborhood friends and their stories, and sat down alone, listening to music and reading countless books. At first, my books were about romance and fiction, and then I shifted to more serious materials—like history books, memoirs and literature. Reading was my escape, my mind developer and my future shaper.

At the age of 16, I thought I knew what I would do with my life. I wanted to rise above my ugly, brutal reality and change things, creating something new. I had big dreams, and I wanted to achieve them. Nothing would stop me from pursuing them, not even the war. I knew the only way to achieve that was to focus on my studies and work hard.

In spite of the dreadful situation in my country, I managed to excel at school and university. This enabled me to seize a very rare scholarship to pursue higher education at one of the most prestigious universities in the United Kingdom.

My love for people and my social skills resurfaced when I moved there. It was because I could relax and enjoy a normal life, and was no longer living in fear. I met lots of people who quickly became my friends. I hosted parties and was the glue among my diverse friends who came from different backgrounds and countries.

After completing my Ph.D. studies, I came back home and joined the faculty at Notre Dame University. In addition to teaching, I was the academic advisor of a large number of students. Working in academia was a blessing for me as it allowed me to be in contact with and serve many students on a daily basis.

At the end of my second year at NDU, I was asked to chair my department. I accepted the offer without any reservation because I knew deep down that with this new position I could do what I love best: connect, listen and serve.

There are endless stories I could share about my work here, but I am particularly fond of the following one:

In one of my classes, I had a timid student who sported a punkish hair style. In the middle of the semester, he disappeared and I knew nothing about him until his older brother came to fill in a withdrawal form for all of his courses. I enquired about his reason for having dropped the semester but the brother refused to talk about it. Two years later, I had a call from the student affairs officer who had an unusual request.

He said, “I would understand if you refuse to help because the other chairpersons have refused, but I just want to try with you.” He then added, “There was a student who took a course with you two years ago who dropped the course. His name was X.” I said, “Yes, I remember him very well.” He replied, “Well, he disappeared from your class because he was arrested for possession of drugs and then he was put in jail as the quantity he had was slightly larger than that of personal usage.” Then he added, “Now, he is totally clean from drugs and is feeling really wasted and just needs another chance to resume his courses.” My immediate reaction was to ask how I could help the young man.

Then we agreed that I would send him all the course materials and the student affairs officer would pay a visit to see whether he was facing problems and report back to me. The student sat for an exam in the presence of the SAO officer and passed the course. The following semester, he passed two courses that I arranged with other instructors from my department. The next academic year, I got a surprise visit from my formerly estranged student. He looked older and wiser. He gave me a good hug and thanked me for what I had done. Then we sat together and discussed how he could proceed to finish his degree. He did just that and started a new life, sober and clean.  

Finally, let me share with you the basic lessons I have picked up from my modest experience in serving others:

• If you connect, listen and help with all your heart, your actions will be echoed all around you and for many years to come.
• You need to support and aid others before starting to lead them.
• Embrace diversity, accept people for who they are and acknowledge that we are all different in the way we perceive the world, in what we like or dislike.
• Empathize, let your people feel that you care for them and that you share mutual trust. They will open up to you, and their problems will become less overwhelming and manageable.

 “Choose a job you love, and you will never have to work a day in your life.” ― Confucius

* I would like to thank my friend Richard Pennington for his most valuable comments!

You Can’t Hurry Love—No, You’ll Just Have to Wait

I was two years old in 1966 when the Supremes came out with that big hit song on Motown Records. Written from the perspective of a mother to her impatient daughter, it contains a lot of wisdom.

Along the same line, these days just about the only thing we receive by post is junk mail, bills and business letters! We rarely get something we really cherish unless it’s a gift sent to us or a book we have ordered. I don’t even know the postman who delivers my mail these days. If you know yours, you are fortunate. 

I recall when I was younger and madly in love with my boyfriend (who is now my husband). He had gone to the US to pursue his graduate studies. At that time, there was no Internet and the landline telephone system scarcely worked as we were in the midst of the civil war in Lebanon. I used to write a diary every single evening and then after two weeks I sealed it in an envelope and sent it to him by post. I did that religiously, and he did the same. Our letters took two or three weeks to cross the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea, and I waited for them patiently and with anguish. 

“The frankest and freest and privatest product of the human mind and heart is a love letter.” ― Mark Twain

The postman who brought these love letters was a very nice man in his fifties. He quickly realized how much they meant to me, so every time he had something for me, he rushed to our house with a big smile on his face to hand me the letter. I can still remember him coming from down the street to our house in such a kindly manner. And when he crossed the street with no letter for me, he would make a “sorry” sign on his face, letting me know that I had to wait a bit longer for the next letter from the States. I dreaded Sundays and holidays because I knew the postman would not be knocking on the door.

 “More than kisses, letters mingle souls.” ― John Donne

The arrival rate of these back-and-forth love letters could not keep pace with our elevated heart rates, so my boyfriend cut short his stay in the US and came back home to finish his master’s degree at a local university. As a result, the letters stopped coming. The kind postman worried that my boyfriend had left me, so he asked Dad about me to make sure that I was doing fine. 

“Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.” ― Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Nowadays, we are far removed from the ’80s, when there was no Internet, instant messaging or Skype phone calls. This is affecting all of us and in particular the younger generation which has grown accustomed to being bombarded with fast-turnover information; they filter it instantly without paying much attention to its meaning. Our whole society is becoming instantaneous, just like instant messaging, instant photography, instant news, instant coffee and so forth. We are unwilling to decipher any complicated messages, wanting things simple and fast. Depth and nuance are out the window.

The biggest weakness of today’s generation is impatience. If I may generalize, it seems that young people want to see things happen immediately or get changes in place right away. They have no patience to let things develop and watch as situations ripen. Real dreams take work and time—and yes, patience. That tends to win out in the end.

“Traveler, there is no path; the path is made by walking…Beat by beat, verse by verse.” ―Antonio Machado

* I would like to thank my friend Richard Pennington for his most valuable comments!

Gifts That Really Matter

As the holiday season approaches, we see more quotes and posts about gifts, Santa Claus and Christmas lists. One that caught my attention lately says, “I think as you grow older, your Christmas list gets smaller and the things you really want for the holidays can’t be bought.” Reading this quote made me think how my Christmas lists have changed over the years.

Like any child, I loved dolls and soft toys but I had only a few as my parents could not afford to indulge me with presents. We were five kids and my dad’s job was not going well at the time. What mattered most to my parents was for us to be well educated and well fed. Dolls and toys were never a priority for them, even for Christmas. During my impressionable childhood, this was somehow upsetting to me. But now I have the perspective of a few years, and when I reconsider the situation, how much did I miss? Not much at all. On the contrary, having only what was strictly necessary made me appreciate more what was really important in life and motivated me to work harder and improve my status.

“The greatest gifts you can give your children are the roots of responsibility and the wings of independence.” ―Denis Waitley

I was 11 when the civil war started in my country. The surrounded violence turned me from a joyful extroverted child to an introverted teenager. I loved reading, drawing, listening to music and watching movies. The gifts that I enjoyed most were music tapes and CDs. I never had any interest in fancy gifts, and that never changed in me. In fact, I recall an incident in one of my wedding anniversaries; my husband surprised me with an expensive piece of jewelry. But he was disappointed upon seeing my facial reaction when I opened the gift. At that time, I wished that he had bought me Time Traveler, a set of five CDs by the Moody Blues that I had seen earlier with him. He knew how much I loved this band and how much I cherish such gifts. 

The years went by, and the thing I wanted most was to have a child. But this was not an easy task for me. Ironically, the only tests I ever failed in my life were pregnancy tests. But I never gave up. Deep down inside, I knew I would have my own kids. Finally, after 20 years of childless marriage, seven IVF trials, loads of medicines and injections, and three miscarriages I had beautiful twins, one of each gender.

“Everything you need will come to you at the perfect time.” ―Unknown

Since the day they were born, my twins were pampered with expensive presents by family members and friends. But what amazes me most is that my four-year-old kids are more interested in some unusual gifts that they can buy from a vending machine in a local store, made of very small plastic boxes that cost almost nothing, each of which contains each a small toy. My daughter and son are always fascinated by these tiny gifts, which may contain fake jewelry, colorful bouncing balls, tiny cars or some build-it-yourself toys. This reminds me that the joy brought by any gift has nothing to do with its size or material value; it’s only the pleasure of unfolding it and discovering what is inside that matters most.

“Surprise is the greatest gift which life can grant us.” ― Boris Pasternak

Almost two years ago, my father died at the age of 94. He left behind some great stories and memories. When I visit my parents’ house, I always expect him to appear from behind, but he doesn't. There is nothing that can replace the absence of someone we love, and why even make the attempt? Our memories and gratitude are our precious gifts that can fill the emptiness created by the loss of our loved ones and transform the pain of their loss into acceptance. 

Thus, the gifts that I appreciate most are the ones that are useful in my life—that is:

• Love, to give and receive abundantly.
• Peace, to be able to live freely and with dignity.
• Time, to live and love the way it matters to me. 

“Everything I know, I know because of love.” ― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

* I would like to thank my friend Richard Pennington for his most valuable comments!
* Corel Drawing by Hoda Maalouf 

Precious Dreams are Never for Sale

The Painting

My father was always a big dreamer. One of his dreams was to find hidden treasures, priceless antiques and pieces of art. He was very much influenced by his father who had an intriguing life. Grandfather worked for Baron Max Von Oppenheim (1860−1946). He was engaged as Oppenheim’s secretary for most of his expeditions in the Near East region. He wrote detailed journals about the Bedouin tribes they encountered, the excavations they undertook and the ancient scripts they copied by hand. Fascinated by his father’s stories and voyages, Dad had big plans for every one of us, including himself.

“It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.” – Gabriel Garcia Marquez

One of Dad’s greatest findings was an old oil painting that featured a noble man and was signed “Titian.” Dad bought the painting from a junk shop that obviously did not know its real value. He brought his treasure home and showed it to us in a religious way. The painting was in a dreadful situation with lots of cracks in the canvas; it was almost falling apart.

Back then, in the late 1980s, there was no Internet or Google, so Dad searched hard for books about Titian (1490−1576), an Italian master painter. But he could only find one that briefly described his work, depicting just a couple of his paintings. This kept us puzzled for a quite some time especially since the “painting” was done in a similar artistic style. Dad also asked some experts who were supposed to know about old paintings. They all confirmed its old age, but none seemed to have seen it before in books or elsewhere.

As no one could verify that the painting was authentic, Dad decided to preserve his treasure, hiding it in a safe place, waiting for the right moment to reveal it. Sadly, it was my duty to kill my dad’s dreams and tell him the bad news that it was just a replica.

“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.” – Langston Hughes

In 1999, I went to Austria to visit a good friend and spent two weeks in Vienna and Salzburg. While in Vienna, I visited most of its museums and in particular the Kunsthistorisches Museum. I have always been a big fan of Vincent Van Gogh, so I looked at the map to find how to reach the impressionists’ rooms. I followed the map, and in the first hall I entered, there stood my Dad’s famous painting! My heart stopped beating for a while. I sat on a bench and stared for half an hour at that magnificent drawing, very similar to the one at home, with the same colors and the same size. Simply the same, only it’s in a better condition. Tears came to my eyes while thinking about Dad’s crumbling hopes. Why did it have to be me to break his heart!

Afterward, I went to see Van Gogh’s paintings but could not concentrate or enjoy them. My mind was still there in Titian’s room. I went back to that hall, sat and looked at the “Portrait of Jacopo Strada.” (Strada was an Italian contemporary of Titian’s, a painter, goldsmith, architect, inventor and linguist.) Then I bought a book about Titian from the museum where Dad’s painting is depicted, and took it home with me.

A year later, Dad offered me the painting as a gift when my husband and I moved to our new home. I took the old replica to a restoration artist who worked beautifully on it and brought it back to its splendor. The restored painting—so what if it’s a replica?—was very popular in the artist’s shop, and many customers offered to buy it. My answer was an emphatic NO. My dad’s dream was not for sale. This painting which now grandly hangs on the wall of our home is a constant reminder of Dad and a good lesson that without our dreams and hopes, we lose the excitement of possibilities.

“I prefer to be a dreamer among the humblest, with visions to be realized, than lord among those without dreams and desires.” – Khalil Gibran

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 

Is there an extra couch for the night?

This morning, while we were driving up to my native village on a very brisk zigzag country road, I saw a middle-aged woman standing on the side of the road waving. She was hitchhiking. My husband, who was driving our car, kept going while I urged him to stop and give the woman a ride. He argued that the car was full with five people in it, and we didn’t know the lady. My answer was if I put one of the kids on my lap there would be space for her. Furthermore, I had no problem with the idea of offering a ride to a total stranger.

“The best portion of a good man's life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.” ―William Wordsworth

This little episode triggered another story from my past. I was born and raised in a two-bedroom flat in a suburb of Beirut. Although our flat could barely accommodate seven people—in addition to mum and dad I have two brothers and two sisters—we managed to squeeze in with no complaints. There were two bedrooms and two sofa beds in the living room. Dad slept on one of them and the second was kept for any unexpected guest. In fact, this extra sofa bed was not only used by friends and relatives, but also by some guests whom we hardly knew.

The civil war in my country affected all its parts but not concurrently. The violence moved in a random fashion from one place to another, where conflicting militias, even former allies, fought each other. So sometimes, our neighborhood was slightly safer than other parts of the country and sometimes not depending on who was fighting whom. During what might be called our off-violence periods, our neighborhood was flooded with people seeking shelter with relatives and friends. Our extra sofa bed, as you might have predicted, was used a multitude of times for that purpose.

“If you can’t feed a hundred people, then just feed one.” ―Mother Teresa

I appreciated why we offered a safe place to our relatives and friends, but I was too young to understand why we would do so to strangers. My parents explained that duty compelled us to do it because these “guests” were related to our neighbors and there were not enough sleeping spots for them in one place so they had to sleep where they could. What if we were on the run in a strange neighborhood—wouldn’t we hope somebody would take us in for the night?

One time, my sister who taught at a school 20 kilometers away from home got stuck in her school because of fighting that suddenly erupted between two formerly allied militias. When my parents ascertained how dangerous it would be to cross these newly erupted frontlines, they conferred with our neighbors to check the availability of any shelter for my sister and found her a place in the house of the relatives of one of our neighbors where she stayed a couple of days until the road re-opened and was safe for her to come back home. 

“Our actions are like ships which we may watch set out to sea, and not know when or with what cargo they will return to port.” ― Iris Murdoch

The possibility of being in a situation where we might need to give a helping hand to someone we know—or don’t know—might arise at any time in our lives. Civil wars do not happen that often, nor do natural disasters, but personal conflicts and accidents could happen anytime and to anyone. So before saying no to that request for help, always keep in mind that:

• Your son or daughter could be standing on that office door seeking help or advice from someone they hardly know.
• There is no safe roof above any one’s head; no one is untouchable and you might need to sleep one day on someone else’s extra couch, or your car could break down in the middle of nowhere and you might need to ask a total stranger for a ride. 
• An act of kindness is never wasted because it remains in the hearts of all involved, and spreads from one to another, creating a long chain of love.
• Even if you have little to give, you still have the power to change someone’s life by simply offering a gracious smile, a kind word, a listening ear, a helping hand, a piece of your heart.

“There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my heart are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.” ― Dalai Lama

Picture by Hoda Maalouf
Thank you RAP for your valuable comments! 

She who Kept me Going

My story is about an unusual journey that happened in August 1989. It started with a telephone call from my fiancé who was studying in London to let me know that I had been awarded a scholarship to pursue a master’s degree in the UK. Having the scholarship in hand, I went to the British Embassy to get my visa. But I was informed that there were no visas because all the diplomats had fled Lebanon; I was directed to go to either Cyprus or Jordan to get it. 

Since Beirut Airport and various sea ports were essentially closed due to the chaos of Lebanon’s civil war, my best option to get a visa was to travel by car to Damascus and from there take a plane to Cyprus, where existed the nearest British embassy.

The roads from Beirut to Damascus were in no better condition because of the shelling and the risk of kidnapping. For that reason, very few taxi drivers dared to undertake that 84-kilometer trip to Damascus. But I managed to find one driver who agreed to take me at 4 a.m. the next day. It was the safest time to travel as combatants usually had a couple of hours of truce around 4 am.

At home, Dad was very reluctant for me to leave under such dangerous conditions. But Mum opposed him and said decisively: “Let her go. Let one of us survives this war.” When I heard her say that, I hesitated to leave, but Mum insisted and said, “You have a great opportunity you can’t miss. Go and don’t look back.”

Unfortunately, the evening before my departure was a very bad night of heavy artillery shelling. After I finished preparing my luggage, I waited anxiously in the corridor—the safest place in our home—together with Mum and Dad. Toward 3 a.m., the bombing stopped and I managed to snooze for an hour until I heard a frenzied honk at our front door. The driver had arrived to take me to Damascus!

My God, how could I travel after such a horrible night? But since there were rumors that the road to Damascus would be totally closed, I had to depart that morning. I left in such a hurry that I could not even say goodbye to my brothers and sisters who were hiding in a neighboring shelter.

The road to Damascus was deadly calm, no one on the streets, just our mad taxi driver, me and Dad who decided to escort me to Damascus to ensure my safety up to the border. We crossed several checkpoints where the soldiers were half asleep. They checked the car, and since there were no young men on board they let us pass. The driver was in such a hurry to reach the Syrian border that he was driving extremely fast, and we nearly had a fatal car crash.

“If you're going through hell, keep going.” ― Winston Churchill

We reached Damascus early in the morning and I stayed with my aunt who happened to live there. A week later, my fiancé flew in from London. We got married very quickly in a small church and then traveled to Cyprus a week later for a honeymoon of sorts. We remained there for almost two weeks until my visa was approved. It normally takes 5 hours to travel from Beirut to London, but it took me 30 days to get there in 1989.

We reached London penniless as we spent all our money on that long journey and my scholarship was due one week later. The first day we were there, we went for a walk in Fulham Road. While walking, a summer breeze lifted some tree leaves from the sidewalk together with a twenty-pound note that got stuck on my foot. I could not believe my eyes! What was the source of the money? I really don’t know, but this piece of money had come out of the blue when we most needed a penny. It triggered in my mind the idea that I was never alone since the day I left home and went to London. I can even think and argue that probably I had never been alone since much earlier—probably from the day I was born.

As a result of this journey, an important chapter in my life started. And it simply would not have happened had Mum not pushed me to go for it. Mum was and still is my guardian angel and my main inspirer. She taught me to remain positive, to never give up, and to work hard and see opportunities in every difficulty I might face.

“Our journey is filled with never ending struggles, we must meet them with an open heart.” ―Lolly Daskal

Picture by Christelle Rahme