Birth

Aunt Rahil carrying
Charbel Baini 3 months old

   On February 10, 1951, a baby boy was born. His parents, Sarkis and Petronella Baini, were eagerly awaiting a baby girl to grace their home, especially since they had already had three boys: Antoine, George, and Joseph.

   Sarkis, my father, was tucking the floorboards with his feet, as if weaving a long-awaited female future. He kept repeating, "O Lady of Mejdalya, give me Mary," the name he would give his daughter if she had more time. But the midwife, whose name was Amana El-Khoury, dashed the joy of anticipation when she exclaimed, "It's a boy."

   All fathers in the world are filled with joy when they have a child, unlike my father, who lamented his bad luck and headed to the church near his home to reproach Our Lady for not giving him Mary.

   If you think I'm exaggerating, listen up: My father did the impossible to bring Mary to him. As soon as he learned my mother was pregnant, he took her to a monastery where there is a rock. They claim that if a pregnant woman passes by and her dress gets caught, she will give birth to a girl. If it doesn't get caught, she will give birth to a boy. My father was so overjoyed when my mother's dress got caught that he distributed sweets to the children in front of his mother Christine's shop several months before the birth.

 

 right to left: My father Sarkis, my mother Petronella, my grandfather Tansa, my grandmother Christine

  Now you know the shock he experienced when I came into the world. In fact, he caused the entire family to experience it. Those who weren't saddened by his grief shunned him and distanced themselves from him.

   Mejdlaya, where I was born, is a Lebanese village in the Zgharta District of the North Governorate. It is 91 meters above sea level and is 6 km from Tripoli and 86 km from Beirut.

   It is considered one of the largest villages in Lebanon, with its lands extending to the borders of several districts, including Tripoli, Denniyeh, Koura, and Minieh. It is now home to more than 30,000 people. It is famous for its olive groves and numerous archaeological sites.

   The name Mejdlaya is not unique to this village. There is also Mejdlaya in Mount Lebanon Governorate, and Mejdlaya in Syria's Idlib District. Despite the common name between these three towns, there is no familial connection between them, and I have no idea how or why they came to be called the same.

Mejdlaya

   This beautiful village, which I began to call "The son of Mejdlaya," contains my grandmother Christine's shop, which combined three ministries: Post, Electricity, and Telephone. It was run with dedication by my father, Sarkis. Anyone who wanted to make a phone call at that time had to come to the shop, and anyone who wanted to send a letter or receive a parcel had to come to it as well, as there was no telephone or postal service in Mejdlaya except through Christine's shop.

   As for electricity, my father was responsible for collecting the meter reading from the village homes, then collecting the money and sending it to the Kadisha Company. Not only that, but he also oversaw the electricity warehouse; if the power went out, he was responsible for reconnecting it. I remember how many times the electricity went out in the middle of cold nights, and my father would rush to the warehouse to restore it, followed by his young sons.

   Despite his constant preoccupation, he never forgot about his daughter for a single moment. He continued to hope to fulfil his dream, but how could he? My mother had given birth to two children, Michel and Marcel, and he knew then that God's will was supreme.

My family

   Now, my father's name has changed in the village. They call him "The father of six boys", and they call my mother "The mother of six boys". Instead of grieving the loss of his daughter, he has begun to boast about his manhood, since no one in Mejdlaya has ever had half a dozen sons throughout history.

   My Baini family extends to many countries and several sects, but it nevertheless originates from one place: the town of Mazraat al-Chouf. Due to the escalating events that befell them and their homeland, Lebanon, Khatib Baini immigrated to Souweida, Syria, and his brother, Shaanin Baini, moved to the town of Reshdebin in Koura. There, he married a Maronite woman, whose sect he followed. Together, they founded a Christian family, which gave birth to Malkoun Baini, who moved to the town of Barsa in Koura. From his lineage, my great-grandfather, Youssef, came to the town of Mejdlaya, Zgharta.

Mazraat El Chouf

   The question now is: where did the name "Shaanin" come from in a Druze family?

   The story goes that he was born on Palm Sunday, the Christian feast. Our great-grandfather, also named Youssef, named him "Shaanin" in honour of the feast.

   The story also says that the most common name in the entire Baini family, Druze and Christian, is "Youssef," a tribute to the love, appreciation, and immortalization of this grandfather who gave the world the most honourable and greatest family, transcending hateful sectarianism and leaving a golden mark on the pages of history.

   I remember, when I was not yet six years old, that a delegation from the Baini family from Mazraat al-Shouf came to visit us bearing gifts. My grandfather would cry as he bid them farewell, saying, "These are my relatives... these are my family."

   Unfortunately, visits ceased, and distances between the family grew larger due to the painful events caused by the 1958 Revolution.

**

Military Training

Charbel Baini in military uniform

  Immediately after the revolution, the Zgharta Saray (Government Building) moved to Mejdlaya. To bring home some extra money, I began selling coffee to civil and military officials and visitors, accompanied by my brother Joseph. This service, however, was short-lived, as the Saray moved back to Zgharta, and I lost my title of "coffee seller."

    Despite this, my childhood passed without me realizing it. It was filled with love, affection, and tenderness, not only from my family, but from the entire village. Every person in Mejdlaya protected others, watched over their comfort, and advised them to follow the path of goodness, so as to honour the name of Mejdlaya.

   Thus, we lived as one family, despite the many families and residences. Our mother was one, the Lady of Mejdlaya, around whom we gathered and from whom we sought help.

   My first three years of school were spent in the village's one-room school, and I remained there until the end of the cursed 1958 revolution, which cost me several years of education due to my family's fear of sending me to Tripoli.

   There, in fourth grade, my teacher saw that I was outperforming all my classmates, so he asked the school administration to allow me to take the certificate a year early. And so it was, and with God's help, I succeeded, passing fifth grade and moving on to the supplementary stage at Al-Zahriya School in 1964.

My first one room school in Mejdlaya

   There, too, the teachers sensed my intelligence and asked me to take the “Brevet” exam a year early, in the third year of high school. I also succeeded in 1966. In doing so, I saved two years of my educational life and a lot of money, which my father earned with great effort, or which my brother George, who had immigrated to Australia, sent us.

   My next educational stage was at Al-Haddadin High School in the Abu Samra area in 1967, where I began undergoing military training, as was the norm at the time, to prepare us to receive the rank of non-commissioned officer at the end of service. A military corporal would visit the high school to explain to us how to march with distinctive rhythmic steps, cover our faces and bodies with mud to conceal them from the enemy, throw grenades, and disassemble and assemble rifles. I learned all of these things and became an expert at them, until disaster struck.

   One day, I fell in love with a girl from Tripoli. She would wait for me to pass by her balcony daily to throw me a jasmine flower or a carnation. Because I was so impressed, I decided to show her the black suit I had bought after passing my high school diploma. I put it on and went to school, overjoyed. However, upon arriving, I found all my comrades wearing their military uniforms, and I was the only one standing among them wearing a black suit.

   Yes, love made me forget my military duty, but that didn't matter. The corporal was my friend, and he would overlook the matter. He did, until a jeep arrived carrying the officer in charge of all the training schools. After saluting him, he looked at me and shouted, "You crow... come here!"

   I didn't move from my place in fear. He shouted again, "You... you... you crow standing at the back of the line in a black suit. Step forward."

   I approached him, my eyes fixed on the ground, muttering my name and military number.

   "Do you know the penalty for not adhering to military dress during training?"

   "I'm sorry..."

   "Look at that pool of water at the bottom of the stairs. I order you to swim in it in front of your comrades as an example to them."

 Aunt Madeleine Shaanin

   With slow steps, I approached the rain-filled pond, ready to throw myself into it. A voice thundered:

   "Charbel... what are you doing? Wait, I'm coming."

   It was my aunt, Madeleine Shaanin, who lives directly across from the school, less than ten meters away. When she arrived, she raised her finger at the officer and said:

   "If my nephew swims in this pond, you'll swim with him. Think carefully and make the right decision."

   "Your nephew didn't wear his military uniform, knowing it was a training day. Instead, he shamelessly replaced it with a black suit and tie, as if he were going to a funeral."

   "Poor guy! He came to show it to me just to cheer up his aunt. Where's the crime in that?"

   "Please, auntie, don't interfere. This is a military order, and I must obey it, or I'll be sent to prison."

   "Shut up while I speak... Understand?" 

   Here, the officer's face turned saffron-coloured, and sweat began to drip from his cheeks. He looked confused. What should he do? Should he carry out the order, or ignore it? Hundreds of students stared at him, awaiting his decision.

   After a long silence, he said, "For the sake of your virtuous aunt, I will forgive you this time, provided you don't do it again."

   As I opened my mouth to thank him, I heard my aunt's trilling as she approached the officer, kissed him on the forehead, and exclaimed, "May God protect you, my homeland."

   At the dinner table, I told my family what had happened. My father said, "My sister Madeleine shouldn't have interfered. This is a military order, and all you have to do is carry it out."

   I muttered, deeply broken, "And my new suit?"

   My mother exclaimed, "You should have thought before you took an action you might regret. My maternal instinct tells me that this officer will teach you a harsh lesson to restore his reputation in front of your fellow students."

   The maternal feeling was confirmed just two weeks later, when the instructor took us on a rainy day to the olive groves near the Abi Samra area to demonstrate to us how to camouflage ourselves from enemies. We gathered around a large pool of mud, each of us dipping our hands in the mud, applying it around our eyes, cheeks, and foreheads. As I was performing my camouflage to perfection, a man's boot suddenly pressed against my back, forcing me to swim from the top of the pool to the bottom. A voice roared like thunder: "This is how camouflage works, let your aunty protect now."

   Yes, the mud covered my entire body, to the point that no driver at the Zgharta-Tall taxi stand would let me get into his car and drive to Mejdlaya, fearing it would get dirty.

   One driver took pity on me, approached me, and said:

“Near the Hamra Cinema, there’s a newspaper stand. Go and buy a newspaper and spread it out under you so I can take you to Mejdlaya, provided you pay for two passengers, because no one will ride beside you.”

   And so it was. As I walked along the main village road, the children started running around me and singing, until I arrived at the shop. As soon as my mother saw me in this state, she exclaimed:

   “Didn’t I tell you… the homeland doesn’t sleep in humiliation?”

   yes, a homeland never sleeps in humiliation, and neither does my aunt Madeleine, who decided to visit her children in Melbourne, Australia, in 1985. After she had finished expressing her longing for them, she decided to visit me in Sydney, where I had fled from Lebanon in late 1971. As soon as she saw me, she took me aside and said, kissing me warmly:

   "Give me $500... Don't delay..."

   "Of course, you're kidding me!"

   "No, there was an incident that happened to you at Al-Haddadin High School on the Abu Samra stairs, and you must pay for it."

   "Do you still remember, after all these years?

   "How could I forget? Pay up... I saved you from swimming in dirty water, and I saved your black suit from ruining it."

   "And you want $500 for that incident?"

   "That's with the hospitality discounts at your home."

   I paid, afraid she'd raise the amount, and my inner voice kept saying, "The officer doesn't forget, and neither does my aunt.

   Because I was constantly thinking about what that officer had done to me, God wanted to throw me again into a puddle of mud in the "Hurstville" area. This was the wedding day of George, son of engineer Rafiq Ghannoum, author of "The best ever been said about Charbel Baini literature" (2002). I had parked my car under a tall tree, and as soon as I got out, lightning struck the middle of the tree, throwing me, with the force of the explosion, into a puddle of mud. My clothes got dirty. Moments later, a fire truck arrived. One of the firefighters helped me to my feet and said:

- Are you okay?

- Yes, but how did you know that lightning had struck the tree I was standing under?

- We were watching it.

   As soon as I entered the hall, some of the guests gathered around me. They even took me into the bathroom and helped me clean the mud off my clothes as possible so I could stand and recite my poem at the wedding.

**

The First Poem

Charbel Baini reading his first poem

  As I mentioned earlier, my childhood was filled with  overwhelming joy, especially when I was nine years old. In the Saint Mary month of May, I welcomed a statue of the Virgin Mary at my door with a poem that my father kept until his death.

   As soon as it fell into my hands, I was stunned and began to wonder: Why did my father keep such a poor poem, completely out of meter and rhyme? My mother answered:

   Because you recited it in a beautiful way that made the nuns applaud you in front of the villagers. And because he felt, with great pride, that a poet had been born in his house.

   Here, I began to focus on recitation, as it concealed many linguistic imperfections, especially as I gradually progressed on the path of poetry.

   On that very day, after the holy statue entered my home, I decided to visit the church to thank God for His many blessings. I found a street vendor sitting in the courtyard, selling various types of candy to children. Moments later, a neighbour called me over and handed me a sandwich my mother had stuffed generously with meat, in honour of my poem and to keep me from going hungry all day. I sat down next to the vendor and silently devoured it. Suddenly, he looked at me and said, "Can you eat it alone, you little child?"

   Immediately, the morsel caught in my throat, and I began to tremble like an autumn leaf. This caught the attention of the church neighbour, Matilda El Khoury. She rushed over, put her finger in my mouth, and began to clean the food from it. At that point, I began to regain consciousness. I looked around, but couldn't find the vendor. I asked Matilda about him, and she told me that he had run away, shouting, "I've cast the evil eye on him." Since that day, I've believed in the evil eye, and I'm terrified of it. How could I not, when they prevented my eyes from sleeping for several days, lest I faint again, or, God forbid, die? Some women would take turns watching me, boiling lead over my head and chattering:

   "Look, it's the evil eye."

**

Our Home

Our home in Mejdlaya

   Contentment is an everlasting treasure. May God have mercy on whoever said this true proverb, for contentment was fully manifested in our home. My family of ten lived in only two rooms: my father, mother, and siblings at home, and my grandparents in the small shop across the street from the house, where my statue now stands.

   You might be surprised if I told you that we lived without a bathroom, kitchen, or running water for a long time. Yet, we never complained. We fetched water from the village fountain or from our loyal neighbours, Antonius and Wadiaa Anisa. We also used their bathroom under the stairs to relieve ourselves when necessary, without them complaining, grumbling, or demanding payment for the water we needed.

   This was our village: one home for all its people, sharing its bounty among us without taking any credit from one another.

   Here, I must mention that our door never locked—it didn't have a lock, handle, or even a key. We would sleep with the door open all night. In fact, my mother would sleep with her head resting on the doorway, fearless. How could she be afraid when the villagers guarded each other's homes? Woe to anyone who wished them harm.

   Our door was arched, less than a meter and a half high. Our ancestors built it this high to prevent the Ottoman army's horses from entering in search of food supplies or the men needed for the journey to Safar Barlik. When strong winds blew and heavy rain fell, we would support it with a stone from the inside.

   The roof of the house was made of white mud, so the water would always get through it whenever the rains intensified. We would race to climb onto the roof with my father to roll it with a heavy roller, which was very tiring to pull.

   Despite my mother's anger at the intrusion, my brothers and I were overjoyed to be moving into the basement, sleeping on one bed, upside down, three on one side and three on the other.

   This is how we grew up, and this is how our love for each other grew stronger. Even after the death of our parents in Australia, we held on to each other to prevent the violent winds of exile, filled with family tragedies that spared no mother, father, or child, from tearing us apart.

   Having six young men in one house can save a lot of money for the family. For example, as soon as my older brother, Antoine, grows taller, his clothes and shoes will go to my brother George, and so on until my younger brother, Marcel, finishes his men's fashion show.

   If we talk about the educational attainment of my siblings, I am deeply ashamed to tell you that my brother Joseph is the only one who completed his studies, graduating as a health inspector. He worked for several years in the Lebanese Ministry of Health, until the Lebanese war brought him to Sydney, Australia, bringing home a little girl named Marianne, the only one of the family's descendants born in Lebanon.

   This does not mean that my four remaining siblings were innovators in the professions they mastered; rather, they transcended the stage of creativity to reach professionalism.

Joseph, Antoine, Charbel, Marcel, Michel and George

   Antoine became an electric welder, recognized by major companies in Lebanon and Australia.

   George, I must say, is an artist in everything he does. He is almost like an inventor; indeed, he was the only reliable source of information for solving the family's technical problems, whatever they may be.

   Michel worked as a blacksmith until he immigrated to Melbourne, where he began making caravans of all kinds.

   Finally, the youngest of the family, Marcel, became a carpenter whose skills were recognized throughout the houses, especially my own, which he built piece by piece.

   These four were the source of my brother Joseph's and my finances. Without them, we would not have been able to continue our education. The money they earned from their labour was given to my grandmother, Christine, the family's finance minister at that time.

**

A Private Library

Adolescence 1968

   As I mentioned earlier, I began writing at the age of nine. Although the poem I wrote to welcome the Virgin Mary was clumsy and broke the musicality and rhythms of poetry, it heralded a greater bounty.

  To further my creativity in writing, I began establishing my own library, collecting numerous collections of poetry and stories. I read them wholeheartedly, once or twice, until I understood how sentences were constructed and how music danced between their letters. I began writing carefully, even reviewing what I wrote and presenting it to several intellectuals in Mejdlaya before considering publishing.

   After receiving a warm welcome for the magic of my verses and the harmony of my expressions, I decided to select several Lebanese newspapers to publish my poetry. I chose Al-Anwar and Al-Jamahiriya newspapers, not because of their popularity, but because the poet “Younis Al-Ibin” supervised the cultural page in both newspapers.

   The presence of “Younis Al-Ibin” there was a source of reassurance for me. Any poem he didn't publish, I would inevitably throw into the fire. Fortunately, he respectfully published everything I sent.

   As for the prose articles, I sent them to Ad-Dabbour magazine.  Mukarzel, whose first name I believe was Fouad, took care of them and published them beautifully, to encourage readers to read them.

   After I had become somewhat famous, I began to supplement Al-Nahar newspaper with my colloquial poems that fell under the banner of modernism, such as my poem "I would like to change this world but I can’t”," which they published in colour.

   After the 1967 Six-Day War, I began publishing "Diary of a Foreign Correspondent in the Middle East." Al-Hadaf magazine, under the supervision of Palestinian writer Ghassan Kanafani, published it in full. In 1968, at the age of seventeen, I decided to publish my first collection of poems, titled "Adolescence." But where would I get the money to fulfil my desire?

   My great-uncle, Boutros Baini, my grandfather Tansa's brother, was enamoured with my poetry. Whenever I visited him at his residence on Badaro Street, near the National Museum in Beirut, I would recite some of my poems to him. He would introduce his poetic nephew to the Lebanese parliamentarians who lived in the same building.

My great Uncle Boutros Baini

   Not only that, but he would also "drive me around" in his Buick on the road leading to Sidon, and I felt like he was taking longer to get me to recite more poems.

   Suddenly, he stopped his car on the side of the road and said,

   "Charbel, you are a poet... and the Baini family and your town of Mejdlaya will be proud of you, and you will raise their name high. So why don't you publish these poems in a book?"

   "And where will I get the money, uncle?" I showed the book to the owner of Al-Ghad Press in Tripoli, and he told me that the cost of printing 500 copies would be around 500 Lebanese pounds.

   "Print the book, and I'll pay for it."

   "Adolescence" was published in 1968, and caused a major media uproar due to the obscene nature of some of its poems, which Nizar Qabbani admired. When I visited him in his office in the Azariyeh building in Beirut and presented him with the book, he said after reading some of the poems:

   "Listen, Charbel, you're a poet, but don't follow the advice of Said Akl, who advocates replacing classical Arabic with colloquial Arabic. Three million people read colloquial Arabic, while classical Arabic is read by hundreds of millions. Which should you choose?"

   "But there's a problem, Mr. Nizar."

   "What is it?"

   "If I wrote in colloquial Arabic, I might surpass many colloquial poets, but if I wrote in classical Arabic, how could I surpass the creativity and greatness of Nizar Qabbani? I would simply remain where I am.

Nizar Qabbani

   Nizar was impressed by what I had to say and invited me to lunch, so that I wouldn't return to the north hungry, as he put it.

   After many years, my friendship with Nizar strengthened, and we began exchanging letters between London and Sydney. One day, while I was talking to him on the phone, I mentioned what had happened between us the day I visited him in his office in 1968. I mentioned the advice he had given me when I presented him with my collection of poems, "Adolescence," and how he had fed me so that I wouldn't return to Mejdlaya hungry. He sighed and said, "I'm sorry, Charbel. London has made me forget so many beautiful memories, and I have completely forgotten that visit."

   When the Arab Heritage Revival Association awarded him the Gibran International Prize, I asked him to be my honoured guest in Sydney, but he declined due to the distance, especially since doctors had prevented him from traveling.

   When the association asked him to send a speech, he agreed on one condition that his friend Charbel Baini would deliver it and accept the award on his behalf.

**

Adolescence

Mikhael Farah

   The “Thaqafa” Library in Tripoli displayed the poetry collection "Adolescence" on its front window in a striking display. The library's owner, Mikhael Farah, was a first-class poet who gathered prominent figures in prose and poetry. I was a young teenager among them, forced to address each of them as "uncle" out of respect.

   The book, as I mentioned, caused a major uproar. Many critics and religious figures attacked it, demanding that parents prevent their sons and daughters from purchasing it.

   Rather than affecting sales of the book, this attack increased the interest of the younger generation. The poet Mikhael Farah would ask me for more copies to display, until it became the best-selling book in his library. His older visitors began calling me "Mr. Charbel" and refused to be called "uncle" by me, instead using their given names

   Because the attacks on "Adolescence" were so intense and varied, I decided not to publish the articles here, since they had previously been published in the encyclopaedia "Charbel Baini in Their Pens" by the writer Clark Baini. But an article written by Tony Saba in “Al-Sakhir” magazine, Issue 6, June 1970, hurt me psychologically. How could a thinker like Jean al-Dayeh, the real name of Toni Saba, write what he wrote? If he lived to this day and saw what we see on social media, he would have ridiculed himself. Here is what he wrote:

   "The popular proverb says: God afflicts and helps."

   The following lines present some of its Lebanese applications in the field of poetry:

   We are afflicted with bad, silly, funny-style love poetry by a stupid, tasteless man named Nizar Qabbani, the author of this meaningless verse:

   I am afraid to say to the one I love, I love her.

   Wine in its jugs loses something when we pour it out.

   He helped us with refined, aristocratic love poetry, including these palaces by Charbel Baini (Where are you, Saint Charbel?):

“Al-Sakhir” magazine

This hot nipple

burnt a lot of hearts

And it is written on the breast:

Don't touch me, I am electrified. 

Your nipple, my beloved

Arrogant and haughty

Who told it that it is the world

Oh, little one, and afterlife?

How delicious is this pistachio!

And this pistachio, you teenager!

They worship it in this world!

Like the one who create it!

  They told me that “Farouk” Theatre needs a poet to stand between parentheses and recite a poem between scenes, keeping the audience engaged with the wonderful programs being presented. Will you go, Charbel, or is your poetry not as useful for standing as it is for squatting or sleeping?

   If he had been in Nizar Qabbani's office when I gave him the book and heard his praise of me as a poet and for the bold poems, I had to write in classical Arabic for hundreds of millions in the Arab world to read, he would have ridiculed himself even more.

Father Bious Baini

   His article encouraged some of the young men of Mejdlaya to denounce the book's abhorrent obscenity. Of course, they decided to complain to the village priest, Father Bious Baini. They brought him the " Adolescence" book and shouted:

   "Look, Father, this filthy, pornographic book, written by the son of the altar man Sarkis Baini. The father serves the church, and his son encourages vice."

   Without hesitation, he snatched the book from their hands and said:

   "I'll read it first, then I decide."

   A few days later, he returned the book to its owners, laughing and saying:

   "What do you want a seventeen-year-old to write? He's in his teens, and that's what every teenager thinks."

   How intelligent and understanding this priest was! He knew that God created man to develop mentally and physically. During adolescence, he is captivated by thoughts of sex, during manhood, he is seized by family thoughts, and during middle age, he begins to turn to God to atone for his sins during his teens and manhood.

   On the Jubilee On the silver jubilee of "Adolescence" in 1993, many cultural and social organizations gathered in Sydney, Australia, to celebrate it.

Father Abboud Gebrael

   On its golden jubilee in 2018, the "Wednesday Meeting in Sydney" celebrated its release, decorating the hall with gold.

   When Father Abboud Gebrael, the parish priest of Mejdlaya, visited us in Sydney in 2018, he brought me the manuscript of "Adolescence." I was extremely happy with it, and I saved many previously unpublished poems from it.

   My joy was not in the manuscript, but in Father Gebrael's care for it and his preservation of it in his library for more than half a century. This is clear evidence of his respect and appreciation for my literature.

**

A Good Teacher

Al-Zahiriya School

   You may become a poet by inheritance or by instinct, but you will never become a writer unless you study under a good teacher.

   “Najib al-Kayyal”, a devoted son of Tripoli, is the one who endeared me to the Arabic language, Arabic poetry, and Khalilian meter.

   Yes, he was a cheerful teacher in the supplementary classes at Al-Zahiriya School, and we would eagerly await his arrival in class.

   Once, he said to us:

   "Come, let me teach you Abu al-Nuwas's poem 'Ala Hubbu ila al-Karkh' in one hour." When he saw the astonishment on our faces, he said:

   "Come, grab my waist so we can circle the class like a snake, while you recite the verses of the poem after me."

   He began to leap ahead of us, with a beautiful rhythm, and we followed him, shouting:

“Rush to Al-Karkh”

To a wine shop

To a red winery like musk

Near a perfumer’s garden

And a garden with a river

Near palm trees and trees

And I will feed you with meat

From wild animals and birds

If you desire amusement

We will bring you a flute player

And if you desire union

This is the mistress of the house

Abu al-Nuwas

Until his class ended, he said:

   “Tomorrow, you will recite the poem by heart.”

   Not only that, but he used the same method with every poem that was difficult to memorize and understand.

   Here, the rules of the Arabic language began to crumble before me, surrendering to me. This was noticed by “Jalil Bahlis”, a history and geography teacher at the same school. He began to court me, asking if it was possible to review the language of the books he wrote before they were published.

   Instead of spending my afternoons in the playground with my friends, I spent them next to my teacher, “Jalil Bahlis”. He wrote, and I reviewed what he wrote, with extra care, so as not to undermine my linguistic standing in his eyes.

   I will mention “Jalil Bahlis” when I tell you about my stories with my mother, so I will suffice with what I have mentioned for now.

   Had it not been for my proficiency in Arabic, Sister “Constance Basha” would not have asked me to become an Arabic teacher at Our Lady of Lebanon Institute in Harris Park in 1980.

   The civil war was raging in Lebanon, and it was difficult to obtain books to cover the school's annual needs. So, I began preparing books for all primary levels. After presenting them to the New South Wales Department of Education, they were adopted, printed, and distributed to schools free of charge.

   This credit goes to my teacher, “Najib Al-Kayyal”, and may his memory live on.

**

Scattered Poems

Scattered Poems 

      The rush of the younger generation to buy "Adolescence" saved me some money, so in 1970 I decided to publish a booklet titled "Scattered Poems on Lebanon and the Revolution." In it, I warned of the sectarian war that would destroy Lebanon's people and infrastructure. I wrote:

Destruction creeps towards the city

Breaks through the wall of silence and tranquillity

And stray birds

On cold nights

Sing sad hymns

   I also wrote:

The leader, the leader, the leader

A spark flew from hell

And set the gardens of bliss ablaze

   This is what happened a few years after the booklet was published. Despite the sincere warning to avoid strife, threats began to reach me, terrifying my mother. Father Charbel Lichaa, the son of Mejdlaya and the abbot of the Bsarma Monastery, surprised us with a night visit so that no one would see him. He told my father and mother:

- If your son does not stop his revolutionary writings, they will throw him in the well. 

   My mother said in a trembling voice: 

- Where did you get this warning, Father?

- From a reliable source. And Charbel just had to be careful.

   Here, my father decided to withhold postal and telephone services from me, so that I would not write to Beirut newspapers and magazines, or contact them.

   Yes, he truly tightened the noose on me. I could no longer use postage stamps or make free phone calls, which saved me money I didn't have. So, I decided to give private lessons to any of the village students who wanted them, for 20 Lebanese pound per month. You might not believe me if I told you that in 2023, more than half a century later, I met one of my students. She approached me at the unveiling ceremony of my statue and said:

- Do you remember me, Master?

-No, who are you?

   Norma El-Hajj, that little girl whose school refused to allow her to take the Certificate exam due to her low grades. My mother agreed with you to give me extra lessons. I applied for the exam personally and passed, thanks to you. Unfortunately, all my friends failed.

- Yes, yes, I remember you...

- I will never forget you, and I came specifically to this celebration to shout at the top of my voice: Charbel Baini is my teacher.

   She was speaking, and everyone around us was listening. I thanked her for her rare loyalty to the teacher who gave her private lessons and helped her pass the Certificate exam. She carried this memory in her heart, an indelible memory despite the passing years.

   The few pounds I earned from private tuition weren't enough to buy a new pair of shoes. So, the idea of a storyteller—a person who tells stories to people in exchange for a few dirhams—came to my mind. I said to my grandmother: 

- When we gather around you in the shop by the fire, I will tell you the most beautiful story I've ever written.

Christine's shop

   She agreed without hesitation, and even asked me to invite my cousins, to listen to it.

   When the family gathered that evening, I began my story with that famous phrase, "Once upon a time," until, after an hour of reciting it, I reached a touching and painful scene. I stopped narrating, yawned, rubbed my eyes, and muttered in a low voice:

- Good night... I'm tired.

   My grandmother nudged me with her cane and shouted:

- Continue the story. It's a shame to leave the hero in such a difficult situation.

- Forgive me, Grandma. I'm sleepy and I want to go to bed.

- I'll give you a pound if you finish.

- I won't finish with less than two pounds.

She pulled two pounds from her pocket and threw them at me, shouting:

- Take it, and finish.

   My improvised stories became a fixture in my grandmother's shop's evenings, and liras began piling up in my pockets so I could go to Zgharta and send my poems to newspapers and magazines from its post office, circumventing my father's punishments.

**

The Problem Solver

   

Charbel Baini acting with Laurance Kahil

I remained in this position until I was hired as a secretary, treasurer, and problem solver in the Mejdlaya Municipality, during the days of President Felix Baini. I began receiving a monthly salary of 100 Lebanese pounds.

   Before I got this job, the government asked me to mortgage a house as security in the event of a theft, as always happens in government departments. My grandmother agreed to mortgage her shop. They sent us an appraiser with a hand injury, meaning he had a defect in one of his hands. He whispered something in my grandmother's ear, which I later knew what he said:

- The shop isn't suitable as a mortgage, but I'll solve the problem for 50 pounds."

   As soon as he began the appraisal, my grandmother called me and said:

- Take this and put it in his hand as he got into the car.

   I looked at the 50 pounds and shouted:

- Does he want a bribe?

   -Our country is ruled by corrupt people, my son, and that's why they want a mortgage, because in their eyes, you'll be just as corrupt as them.

donkey races

   - I won't give him the fifty, and I'll file a complaint against him.

   - If you want the job, keep quiet and put it in his hands. Otherwise, if you open your mouth, he'll claim you offered him a bribe and you'll go to prison. He's strong and you're weak. Every employee in this country has their back to a leader.

   As soon as he finished his false guess, he headed toward his car, looking at the fifty pounds I was holding. He opened the door and waited a little while, extending his good hand. I approached him, fearfully, and said:

- Someone is filming you. Drive quickly, or they'll accuse you of taking a bribe."

   He looked right and left cautiously, and saw a group of neighbours standing on their balconies. He got into his car; his face filled with regret. As for me, I put the fifty dollars back into my grandmother's pocket. Instead of rejoicing, she began to shout:

- Oh, Petronella, your crazy son lost the job.

Joseph S. Baini acting

   I waited for the results. Would the guess be in my favour? Had I scared this corrupt employee with my white lie? After a week of tedious waiting, the results came back positive.

   I believe my revolutionary madness began here. I decided not to remain silent. A country run by corrupt people will never, ever be a decent home for humanity.

   As I said, the monthly salary was very good at the time, which prompted me to give up my job as a storyteller in my grandmother's shop. I began traveling to Beirut, visiting the Lebanese Radio building, and writing some children's songs for the program "My Little Friend." I also began buying my own clothes, having previously worn the clothes of my older brothers.

   After a short time, I truly became a problem solver. Whenever a problem arose in the village, I had to intervene and resolve it.

we create a party to build the village cemetery near the Saint Elias Monastery

   If I ever forget, I'll never forget the fight between the olive grove keepers, and how they brandished their rifles at each other: my uncle Bacchus Baini, Antonios El Bachhari, and Salim El Hamati. I, a young man, gathered them in the municipality office and listened to each one of them recount their problems with the other keepers, jotting down notes on a piece of paper. They finished their stories, and I applauded them, saying:

- May God protect you. Everything you've said is in the best interest of the olive grove owners. You're all right, and that's why I'm going to tell the mayor and the council members so they can thank you for your dedication."

   They were stunned and looked at each other, bewildered. I said to myself:

- Seize the opportunity, Charbel.

    I stood up and said:

   -Let me shake hands with the greatest keepers I've ever known in Mejdlaya."

   They stood up and shook hands with me, their faces filled with astonishment. I said:

- I brought the camera to take a picture of you shaking hands. What do you think?

   Instead of shaking hands, they began kissing each other, laughing, clasping hands, and leaving the municipal office without taking a souvenir photo. I shouted:

   - Where are you going, people? You forgot your photo.

Clark Baini and Michel Issa acting

   Because of my work, I realized that the municipality could not handle all the tasks with limited resources, especially in private buildings, such as churches, monasteries, and others. So, I decided to establish a secret association I called the "Association for Combating Neglect." Its members included my brother Joseph Sarkis Baini, Michel Elias Shaanin, Clark El-Khoury Baini, and Michel Elias Issa. Our first task was lighting the roof of the church, under the supervision of electrician Michel Shaanin. We also cleaned the courtyard of the Monastery of Saint Elias the day before its feast day, and we almost caused a massive fire to the olive trees surrounding the monastery, had it not been for divine intervention. The association also contributed significantly to the success of the ceremony held to build the village cemetery near the Saint Elias Monastery, and to the preparations for the largest sports festival, which included donkey races, bicycle races, and various running events. Hundreds of young men, women, and children from Mejdlaya participated.

Charbel Baini, Joseph Doumit and Michel Shaanin

   In order for the Anti-Negligence Association to succeed and to keep its work confidential, we assigned tasks to each of us. I wrote and printed the leaflets exposing the neglect, and my brother Joseph secretly hung them on the church door or on the village's electricity poles. Michel Issa's job was to walk the streets and inform us of any neglect he saw. Clark's job was to watch my brother Joseph hang the leaflets to warn him if anyone passed by. The implementation of the projects remained the responsibility of Michel Shaanin. We all swore not to tell anyone, not even our families, about this association until our deaths. They all passed away, leaving only me and my brother Joseph.

**

A Poetry Evening

My first poetry evening 1970

   Literary fame began knocking on my door, and my name began to spread in literary circles, even before I turned eighteen.

   In Tripoli, I met the artist Charbel Noaimi, who invited me to attend one of his plays. A brotherly friendship developed between us, and I began to learn from him how to act and direct. I finally put what I had learned into practice at a party I held in the playground of the Maronite Sisters of the Holy Family School in Mejdlaya in 1970, attended by a large number of officials and locals.

   The party included humorous plays, which I wrote and directed, and which were performed by many of the village's young men and women. As a result, we raised a respectable sum of money, which we presented to the parish priest, Father Bious Baini, to build new cemeteries near the Monastery of Saint Elias.

Mr. Charbel Noaimi

   The media often confused the names Charbel Baini and Charbel Noaimi. Instead of being irritated by this confusion, we laughed and rejoiced.

   This theatrical experience I gained from him greatly helped me write and direct 14 plays for children in Sydney, with children aged between six and eleven, and each play catering to between 300 and 600 students from Our Lady of Lebanon school in Harris Park.

   To demonstrate my success with children, the distinguished artist Duraid Lahham admitted, when he saw the play "Ghost Village" (1990), that most ministries of education in the Arab world would never have the same level of quality.

   I will later discuss this period of my life, which I spent at the institute. Therefore, I will return to Tripoli, where I also met my friend Hussein Mawas, who, I believe, was a member or supporter of the October 24 Movement, affiliated with the Tripolitanian leader Farouk al-Muqaddam. One day, he told me that the Revolutionary Student Union affiliated with the movement had invited me to deliver a poetry evening on April 25, 1970. I accepted without hesitation, as it was the first time I had been invited to recite poetry.

   At the appointed time, I went to the movement's centre with my brother Joseph and neighbour Faraj Doumit. I found a large audience waiting for me. The hall was divided into two sections: one with a roof, the other without a roof, resembling a large balcony.

   After Hussein Mawas introduced me to the audience, I began reciting my poems (Diary of a Foreign Correspondent in the Middle East), which lasted for more than an hour, with applause continuing after each verse. Then, regarding the Palestinian cause, I said:

They didn't kill a child, my brothers.

I know them, yes, I know them.

For mercy is theirs.

And compassion is theirs.

Let everyone listen.

If it weren't for the justice of their revolution,

I would have lost my faith in justice.

   Bullets rained down in admiration of the poem, and my heart nearly stopped from the intensity of fear, as I thought the bullets were directed at me. They didn't stop their jubilation until Abdul Rahman al-Muqaddam, Farouk's brother, ordered them to stop.

   Fearing for me, a group of armed youth from the movement took me to the Zgharta-Tall taxi stand and did not leave until my car had left the station.

   These bullets did not physically harm me, but they did psychologically. The threat of throwing me into a well began to escalate, reaching its peak after I recited some of my poems in the Beddawi camp, in the presence of Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat. I welcomed him that day and said:

Abu Ammar has come!

A child in the camp shouted

And smiled...

Everyone in the main square smiled!

Women carrying the children of tomorrow!

And elders who had tasted the injustice of the aggressor!

And lions wearing the spotted dress!

Ah, how sweet it is to meet the Redeemer!

   Here, members of the “Second Office” began to monitor me, until they isolated me in front of the Rivoli Cinema in Tripoli. I, and still am, fond of watching the Indian films it shows.

   My brother Joseph, who was with me, decided to go to the Capitol Cinema to see the poster for the movie playing there. As he crossed the street toward me, a white Volkswagen stopped, and a man got out holding a gun. He hit me on the head with it, shouting:

   -Shut your mouth! You have to shut your mouth!

   As soon as he heard my brother Joseph's screams as he ran toward me, he got into the car and fled.

**

My uncle points a gun at my head

Mr. Louis Abou Sharaf

   When I heard, in the 1960s, that Professor Louis Abu Sharaf would be giving a lecture at the Kataeb Party headquarters in Tripoli, I was overjoyed. How could I not? I'd heard so much about him; he was a master of eloquence and the prince of rhetoric. All I had to do was seize the opportunity of his presence in the North to learn from him how to command the audience, how to finish a sentence, and how to conclude a lecture without letting sleep creep into the listeners' eyes.

   At the appointed time, I went to the seminar with my neighbour, Mr. Faraj Doumit. He was a highly cultured man who read extensively and spoke little. I found comfort in his company; in fact, I spent most of my time with him in the village, with one book in his hand, another in my hand, and silence in our midst.

Kataeb Party headquarters in Tripoli

   We entered the hall, and after a quarter of an hour, Professor Louis appeared and began speaking. I listened attentively, trying to discover the secret of his superior rhetoric. I confess that I learned many things from him, which I still turn to whenever I stand behind the microphone.

   On the second day, my uncle met with his cousin Faraj and thanked him for accompanying his nephew Charbel. Faraj responded by saying:

- Don't be afraid, my aunt's husband. Charbel and I are comrades in the arts. Yesterday, we listened together to Professor Louis Abu Sharaf giving a lecture at the Kataeb Party headquarters."

   Without saying a word, my uncle left him and headed to our house. He called out at the top of his voice:

- Charbel, come down. I want to talk to you.

   I went down the stairs, my face filled with astonishment:

- Uncle, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

- Come with me. I want to show you something.

   He walked ahead of me, and I followed him like a shadow, until we reached a field where the crane's wheels were tied. There, he turned to me and shouted, pointing his gun at my head:

- Show me your party card... Hurry!

   - What card are you talking about?

   - Have you joined the Kataeb Party?

   - No. I swear I didn't.

   - And what were you doing there yesterday?

   - I went with Faraj to listen to a lecture by Professor Louis Abu Sharaf.

   - Don't lie to me.

   - By God, I'm telling the truth.

   - Swear by the Lady of Mejdlaya.

Uncle Bakhous Baini

   Our families had taught us that whoever swears falsely in the name of "The Lady of Mejdlaya" will never be successful. That's why we avoided swearing by her name.

   - By the life of the Lady of Mejdlaya, I am not a party member, and I will never join any party, not now or tomorrow.

   - I'm sorry I pointed the gun at your head. I was afraid you would become partisan and get lost in a maze you don't need.

   - And why are you worried about me? Wasn't my grandfather Tansa the head of the Lebanese Kataeb Party in Mejdlaya?

   - That was in 1938. Today, everything has changed. Parties have become more numerous than cockroaches. Your grandfather wasn't a poet like you, so I don't want you to join any party at all. I want you to be free like the air and soar like an eagle.

   - By God, I won't join any party.

   - Did I scare you?

   - No, I wasn't afraid—not of you, nor of your gun, because I know how much you love me. You were the only one who gave me money to go to Beirut to publish my literature.

   - Don't tell anyone what happened.

   Apparently, my uncle believed me, which is why he wasn't angry with me when I gave that evening's lecture at the October 24 Movement headquarters.

President Suleiman Frangieh

   I still have to remember that the gun he pointed at my head was one I carried in 1970, when Suleiman Frangieh won the presidency. That day, my uncle decided to go to Ehden to congratulate him, accompanied by a delegation that included me. To complete the delegation's décor, he handed each of us a pistol with two magazines and asked us to fire in the air as soon as we arrived at the palace square.

   When we returned, I handed him the pistol and the magazines. He looked at them and exclaimed:

- Didn't you fire a single shot in the air?

- Of course, not...

- By God, you will never become a man.

- I am against this murderous culture, which claims the lives of hundreds of innocent people.

   As soon as I finished speaking, he turned his back to me and muttered:

- A madman would bring a poet with him as a delegation.

   My heroic uncle was stolen from us by the cursed civil war. He was martyred on January 14, 1976, after our house was burned down by elements of the warring parties, intent on killing and destruction, and displacing the Lebanese people across the globe. Because of them—yes, because of them—my family took the sea to Cyprus, and from there to Australia.

**

Bullets of Celebration

Charbel baini, 15 years old

   It wasn't the first time they'd fired shots in approval of what I said. They'd fired into the air when I mourned the “Mukhtar” of Mejdlaya, Mr. Sarkis Khoury Baini. I was fifteen years old at the time, and I'd practiced my recitation well. I stood on a grave near the church door so the mourners could see me. I began to recite, and as soon as I finished, bullets rained down into the air.

   That day, the poet Hanna Moussa preceded me in reciting his poem. When they lowered me from the grave, he approached me and said:

- I didn't know Mejdlaya had such a poetic talent.

- Now I know, but I don't have the beautiful voice to sing with you on stage.

   He shook his “tarboosh” and made his way through the mourners until he disappeared from my sight.

   In 1987, Hanna Moussa visited Australia, and the owner of An-Nahar newspaper, Mr. Boutros Andari, invited me to dinner at his home.

Boutros Andari

   As soon as I entered the house, I found some of the poets, who had later become friends, gathered around Hanna, whispering words I couldn't understand, and sneering at me maliciously.

   Suddenly, he approached me and asked:

- They told me you're a poet. Would you like to recite some verses to me?

   I immediately realized that my enemies had conspired against me, and that all I had to do was pass this test. That day, I was preparing to travel to Iraq to participate in the eighth annual Al-Murid Poetry Festival. I decided to let him hear some verses from the poem I would recite there. I said in Arabic:

Lebanon, Oh, Baghdad, how many years

Pain feeds on its livers.

Does a person ever end up in a homeland whose

values used to lull him into submission?

Whereas its vile enemies are concerned:

To intoxicate the swamps with their blood.

I'll write down their descriptions, if you wish.

So that you may know how ashamed the pen is.

   As soon as I finished, he turned to them and shouted:

- If this isn't poetry, then shit on poetry." (Literally.)

Poet Hanna moussa

He took me aside and said:

- Tell me more. Tell me more.

I said to him:

Do you remember that young man who mourned the “Mukhtar” of Mejdlaya, and you patted him on the shoulder. That's me, Hanna."

- Oh my God, that day I was amazed to find a poet in Mejdlaya I'd never heard of before.

   Meanwhile, Boutros Andari was reprimanding his guests for their foolish behaviour, saying to them:

- You don't stand on Charbel Baini’s level, so stop fighting him.

   And to make them stop fighting me, Boutros confessed the following at an evening of literature organized by the League for the Revival of Arab Heritage in 1986:

   Charbel Baini lives as a poet. His work is poetry, his craft is words, his hobby is publishing or hatching books, and tickling papers on the desk, in the garden, or in bed.

   Charbel Baini has become a distinct phenomenon in our diaspora, with his numerous collections of poetry, in a community that, until recently, was literary and intellectually barren.

   At first, I thought Charbel Baini was just a poet among a large group of composers of popular poetry, known as Lebanese zajal. Over the years, and as we followed his productions, we became acquainted with him and his vast, transparent poetic world, sometimes humorous and at other times stern and stern.

   We also became acquainted with Charbel Baini as a poet of our classical Arabic language. We read, among other things, his poems "Bouhaysa (Arabic princess)" and "Ripening Grain?" and discovered in him poetic authenticity and a sense of renewal.

**

Travel Visa

I rejected this invitation 3 May 1970

   A week before Labour Day in 1970, Mr. Abdul Rahman Al-Muqaddam visited me at my home, accompanied by a delegation from the October 24 Movement. He invited me to participate in the celebration, along with the program for the event. His brother Farouk and I were the last speakers.

   Of course, I refused, because what happened at the poetry evening frightened me greatly and robbed me of sleep. How could it not, given that I fight with my poetry against such leaders and call for curbing the lawlessness? My fear was further heightened when the movement occupied Tripoli Citadel and declared a rebellion against the state.

   Here, I decided to disappear, taking refuge in the town of Bazoun in the Bsharri district, accompanied by my friend Michel Issa, a member of the Association for Combating Neglect, who kindly opened his home to me.

   I stayed there for more than two weeks, with no one knowing where I was, until my brother Joseph came and told me that my travel to Australia had been approved, that my brother George had submitted the application, and that all I had to do was go to the Australian embassy and obtain a military permit to leave the country.

   At the Australian embassy, they examined me from head to toe. They found me to be like a horse. They asked me:

- If we called you up for military service, would you go to Vietnam to fight there?

- Yes, without hesitation.

   My answer wasn't heroic, but rather out of a certainty that Australia would withdraw its soldiers from there. That's what I read, and that's what happened.

- Would you return to Lebanon if you collected a large sum of money, or would you stay in Australia?"

   I answered poetically:

- Australia gave, and Australia will take.

- Do you have a work certificate so you can contribute to the country's reconstruction?

- Yes, I'm a tailor, and this is the certificate.

   I had met a well-known tailor in Tripoli, and I was happy to help him gather fabrics, hang up clothes, clean the shop, and the like. At the same time, I was watching him to learn the trade.

   A month passed in this manner, until the time for my visit to the Australian embassy approached. I asked him to give me a certificate proving that I had worked for him as a tailor. He refused unless I paid him twenty pounds.

- But I worked for you for a full month, and I didn't receive a single penny.

- Work is one thing, and a certificate is another. Pay.

   I paid. Yes, I paid, because they won't let a poet into Australia even if he has magic stones hung on his chest.

- Congratulations, we've granted you a visa.

   I carried the visa and left, thinking about how to obtain military permission. The officer wasn't content with throwing me into a puddle; he wanted me to request his permission to flee my hometown into an unknown world.

President Renee Moawad

   My mother found the solution. She was the only one in the family to vote for MP René Moawad, who had served as Minister of Finance in Prime Minister Rashid Karami's government in 1971. So why not mediate with him?

   On the appointed date, my mother, my uncle Bakhous, and I visited His Excellency. He gave us the warmest welcome. Then he turned to my uncle and said:

- You, Bakhous, vote with the Karam family at the tip of the spear. You even go to prison to support them. As for this virtuous lady, Petronella, she is the only one of your family members who voted for me.

   My uncle looked at my mother and asked: 

- Is this true?

- Yes, I remember the day Charbel told you he found a teaching position at the White Fathers Monastery School in the Qobbeh area, and the principal asked him for a recommendation card.

- That day, we met to visit Mrs. Mary Karam, and she promised Charbel the recommendation card.

- But she gave it to another teacher, so he got the job, leaving my son unemployed. Charbel introduced her to the job, and Charbel lost it.

   My uncle and my mother were arguing, and His Excellency was looking at them with a smile. Until my uncle asked my mother:

- How did René know you were voting for him, given that the ballot was secret?

   Minister Moawad replied:

- I know everything, even about the job Charbel lost. Mrs. Marie hired a man who supports a family and is in greater need of work than your son.

   My uncle turned to His Excellency and said regretfully:

- But my brother's wife flew outside the family flock and voted without my knowledge. In other words, she betrayed me.

- That's why I will help her and fulfil her wish without hesitation.

   At this point, my uncle fell silent and said nothing more. My mother said:

- May God be pleased with you, Your Excellency. My son Charbel needs military permission to travel.

   Here, he went berserk and looked at me, shouting:

- Do you want to travel?!" We had hoped that some of our Maronite youth would receive military training so they could assume leadership in the future. Instead of focusing on your studies and one day becoming a leader that would make the nation proud, you joined frivolous literary evenings and revolutionary writings calling for regime change.

   My mother muttered:

- What should we do now?

- Put this question to your son. Does he want to travel or stop writing and continue his studies?

   Without hesitation, I answered:

- I want to travel.

- Then, the military permit will precede you to the airport, and I hope, with all my heart, that you become the most beautiful face of Lebanon abroad.

   Rene Moawad was the only Lebanese leader I cried for when he was assassinated by treachery.

**

Farewell

Father Bious Baini

   On the day I left Mejdlaya, people lined the road, waving to me. Some were crying, others were greeting me warmly, as I extended my hand out of the car window. Only my mother was not seen among the crowd; she had completely disappeared.

   Bious Baini, the parish priest who defended my "adolescence," whispered in my ear:

- Don't ever forget Mejdlaya... Don't ever forget the Church of Our Lady of Mejdlaya. Hang this like a ring in your ear.

   My great-uncle, Boutros Youssef Al-Khoury Baini, who printed "Adolescence" for me with his own money in 1968, advised me to return to Lebanon as a young man, before old age brought me to my knees. Otherwise, I would die in exile, he said, kissing my forehead and making the cross over my head.

My father Sarkis Baini

   My father slipped the prayer of the Immaculate Confraternity of the Virgin Mary into my pocket and whispered in my ear:

- The Virgin Mary watches over you, my son."

   To this day, I still pray the prayer of the Immaculate Confraternity before going to bed.

   As for my grandmother Christine, her farewell to me was hilarious. She said:

- They told me that travellers to Australia pick up dollars from trees. Don't be greedy. Pick up a few thousand and return a millionaire to your grandmother's arms. 

    That's it, by God.

Grand mother Christine Baini

   At the airport, I found the military permit waiting for me, as if they were rejoicing and cheering for my departure. I found the Australian employee examining my luggage and asking me to exchange the shoes I was wearing for new ones. I said:

- Look, these are new shoes!

- But you put them on before you came in here... Take them off so I can throw them in the trash.

- But I don't have any other shoes.

- You should have complied with what we asked of you. Act quickly, or you'll be stuck here.

    I looked out the hall window to see some of my family members. They had already left the airport. I stood among the crowd and shouted:

- Good people, who among you has a new pair of men's shoes, size 10, so I don't have to board the plane barefoot?

   A man from the town of “Hawqa”, whose name I forgot, approached me and offered me a size 12 shoe. I took it from him, hugged him, thanked him warmly, and presented the shoe, along with its box, to the Australian employee, who examined it for a long time and ordered me to put it on.

Grand Uncle Boutros Baini

   I put two socks in the shoe so it wouldn't come off my feet while I was walking. On the plane, I tried to return it to its owner, but he laughed and said: 

- It's yours. Remember me in your Australian kingdom.

   Before the plane even landed in Australia, the flight attendants began spraying disinfectants over the passengers, until the air was contaminated and, involuntarily, you would vomit.

   The Australian authorities didn't just throw my new shoes in the trash, so I wouldn't bring germs back to their territory. They turned me into a germ they were justified in spraying with disinfectants, so I wouldn't threaten their epidemic-free society.

   This spraying process came to a complete halt after “Amana Al-Khoury”, the midwife who pulled my head, passed away before leaving Sydney Airport. It was said at the time that the disinfectants didn't just eliminate the germs, they also killed the poor woman, causing her death.

**

The cost of the Air Ticket

   Some may wonder where I got the cost of the Air Ticket, to board the plane. Here's the story:

   When I received my visa, I went to Al-Shabtini Travel in Tripoli. There, I was greeted by a humble, compassionate, and understanding man in his sixties. I told him I was about to travel to Australia, but I didn't have a penny to cover the cost of the ticket. He said:

   - Show me your passport.

   He read my name and said:

- You're from the Baini family from the town of Mejdlaya.

- Yes. I'm the son of Sarkis Baini.

- The Baini family is an honourable and generous family.

- Thank you.

- Listen, Charbel. They say you can recognize them by their faces, and I knew you were an honest person.

- Thank you, sir.

- I'll lend you the sum of $200. When you arrive in Australia and start working there, you can send it to me. All right?

- I don't know you, and you don't know me, yet I risked throwing $200 in the air because they said, "You know them by their faces”.

- You're from a noble family, don't be treacherous.

- Let me kiss your hand, please.

- I have one last request: Don't ever borrow money. Pay it back from your own pocket.

   When I arrived in Australia in 1971, I realized that collecting $200 was not an easy task. It might take a long time, and it would be shameful not to repay it quickly, as trust is a trust that cannot be tampered with.

   I told my cousin, Boutros al-Bahri, about the matter, and he took me to the Commonwealth Bank in Regens Park. The manager agreed to lend me the money in Australian dollars, on the condition that I repay it monthly.

   With the first traveller home, I sent the money, along with a thank-you note, to my caring father—that's what I called him—who believed in me without even knowing me and entrusted me with a large sum of money without batting an eyelid. I asked the bearer of the money to tell me about his reaction. He said:

- He wasn't pleased at all, because he felt you had borrowed the money.

   Where else can you find people like these, who go down in history and become a beacon of history?

**

From Pen to Pain

with my brother George and my sister in law Antoinette

   When I left Sydney Airport, the first thing I looked at was the trees on both sides of the road, hoping to find a dollar hanging from the branches, as my grandmother had told me. I found nothing.

   The reception I received from my brothers, Antoine and George, was touching. They showered me with indescribable love. Since George was the one who submitted the immigration application, I had to live with him, his wife Antoinette, and their young daughter, Christine.

   After only two weeks in Australia, I felt a deep sense of sadness and an indescribable longing for my family in Mejdlaya. I decided to return. I carried my bag and headed to the train station near my brother's house. When Antoinette saw me dragging the bag behind me, she followed me, shouting:

- Where are you going?

My first payment

- To Lebanon...

- But the train doesn't take you to Lebanon... You forget that Australia is an island surrounded by water.

   Then, I sat on my bag and began to cry, while she comforted me and said:

- Go home. In two hours, your brother George will be home from work, and we will discuss the situation with him.

   I returned, as I had no choice but to return, but I decided to accept my fate and start working. What was written was written.

My brother Antoine

   In those days, in 1972, factories paid tips to those who brought in workers. A friend arranged for me to work as a porter in a cardboard box factory in the Five Dock area, an hour's train ride from where I lived in the Berala area.

   The work there was tiring and painful, and the Lebanese workers looked at me with pity and said:

- From the pen to the pain.

   One of them didn't just chatter. He stood up to my brother Antoine, who had come to take me to his home in the Belmore area, and shouted:

- Your brother Charbel is a poet. How could you accept him working as a porter? Find him a job worthy of him.

   To tell the truth, the work was hard. They gave me a small sickle to wear on my little finger to cut the ropes I used to tie the boxes so they wouldn't come undone. "Jim," the Greek immigrant, worked on the machine I was collecting the boxes from. To earn a few extra dollars, he pushed the boxes toward me at incredible speed, repeating:

- Very soon, I'll be returning to my Greek island and swimming in its warm waters.

   The boxes swam toward me nonstop, as I gathered them with the ropes, cut them, and then carried them on my back to a special warehouse.

   Two months after starting work, I felt severe redness on my little finger, the one I used to hold the small sickle. I decided to take it to a doctor. He looked at me in surprise and said:

- If penicillin doesn't help, we'll cut it off.

   As I left his clinic, I replied:

- Your tongue would be cut off out of boredom, doctor."

Hay al-Alam

   I treated my finger with a plant called "Hay al-Alam," which the French army had brought with them to my hometown of Mejdlaya. My mother used to take care of it to treat our tumours. Luckily, I found it in Sydney with a man from Zgharta, who supplied me with its green leaves, which are rich in a magical liquid that heals tumours. All you have to do is cut the leaves so the liquid can flow, and then place them on the tumour. I did this until my little finger healed.

**

You Stole My Daughter

Christine swinging

   If I told you that boredom was killing me every day, before I started working, believe me without hesitation. My poor command of English, and the distance between Berala and the densely populated areas of the Lebanese community, led me to take Christine, my niece, on a long journey through the streets until I reached Auburn. I then followed the same route, which I had marked with trees and houses, so I wouldn't get lost with a little girl.

   One day, while I was pushing the stroller as usual, and little Christine was fast asleep, a woman ran toward me, pushing me hard, shouting:

- You stole my daughter!

   Like a madwoman, she leaned toward the stroller to see the face of the child she claimed had been stolen. She burst into tears, hugging me, and saying:

- Forgive me. I went to the market and left my daughter alone at home. The stroller looks just like mine.

   In broken English, I said to her:

- This is Christine, my niece. I take her out every day to relieve my boredom.

- I live here in that White House, and my daughter is the same age as your niece. If you'd like, I can offer you a cup of tea.

- Thank you. I have to take the baby home so she doesn't get cold.

- Please, forgive me...- 

- Don't ever leave your daughter alone again. A child is never left alone.

- I've learned my lesson... I'll pull her stroller, just like you, whenever I go to the market.

I am carrying Christine

   The wonderful thing about English is that the person you're speaking to understands you, even if you don't pronounce the sentence correctly. This is why this language has surpassed all other languages, becoming the language of the entire world due to its ease.

   This incident made me refrain from going on my daily walks through the streets with "Christine" for fear of being accused of stealing children again. Instead, I carried her on my back and ran with her to a nearby park. How she laughed and delighted as I rocked her and sang to her (Fairuz song):

"Tishitshi and Tishitshi" 

And the peaches under the apricot tree

Whenever the wind blows,

I pick an apricot tree for Christine

   until she gets tired, and sleep plays with her little eyes, then I carry her on my back again and take her back home.

**

My Australian Home

 

My friend Emile Abi Khattar

   While on break from work due to illness, I went to read the newspapers being dropped off for free in front of houses. I found that a company called Journey Group was advertising several homes in the Merrylands area. Those interested could purchase them without going to a bank, a lawyer, or making a down payment. All you have to do was sign the company's contract and pay for the house after just three years.

   I called the number listed in the newspaper and met with the person in charge. He drove me around several houses, all of which were dilapidated to say the least. However, I liked the house at the end of Desmond Street, and without hesitation, I signed the contract in late 1972, nine months after my arrival in Australia. I received the key from him and entered the house, singing:

- Oh my house, oh ...

My old house

   As for how this idea came to me, I was tired of hearing one song by Fairuz. Antoinette, my brother George's wife, would play it every morning:

"Yaba la la la la la"

Do you want to talk to us or not?

Are you going to answer us or not?

You mean you don't like us?

No.

And you don't like our songs?

No.

And you won't answer us.

Yaba la la la la la"

   And I would ask her:

- Don't you have anything else but this song? Aren't you tired of listening to it?

   And she would reply:

- I have nothing else... From it, I'm learning to pronounce the Lebanese dialect.

   From this, I got the idea to record and sell cassettes of various types of songs.

   From Lebanon, my brother Joseph would provide me with one-hour-long recordings, which I would transfer to several recording machines, arranged inside a sound-controlled glass box.

   We continued in this manner until we rented a store selling household appliances, which also became a headquarters for the Voice of the Cedars Company. However, we did not continue in this store for long because of the installation of a traffic light at the intersection and the "No Parking" signs in front of the store, making it impossible for cars to stop. So, we closed it.

Sawt Al Arz office

   After a while, my friend Emile Abi Khattar dissolved the partnership to go to Lebanon, so I switched to using modern tape recorders, which can play three cassettes over two sides in one minute.

   Meanwhile, my brother Antoine and his family moved to Melbourne to run a store in the Warrandyte area, and my brother George moved to Mount Druitt after obtaining government housing. I rented out the house, except for a single room with a private door that housed the tape recorders. I could enter and exit without disturbing the tenants.

   I left my job at the cardboard factory to start working at the Driglo towel factory in the Five Dock area. There, I received training in white and coloured knitting for six months, before being given eight machines. All I had to do was operate them, prevent them from stalling, and collect their towels at the end of the day.

My first car

   I stayed there for about two years. Then, I moved to another towel factory, Supertax, in Auburn, which was closer to the recording room. I began distributing tapes during the day and knitting towels at night. What helped me in this was my driver's license. Despite my successful driving, I was required to pay a $20 bribe to the police officer, or else he would forfeit my license.

   As soon as we arrived at the station in Parramatta, His Holiness entered the bathroom and ordered me to follow him. He reached out and took the $20 from my hand, slipping it into his pocket with unparalleled agility. I cursed the state my driving instructor had put me in, demanding that I abandon my moral values and follow orders without complaint, or I would not receive my license. My first car was a Holden, and I drove it between Auburn, Merrylands, and Mount Druitt, where I spent the night at my brother George's house.

**

Parental Migration

My parents standing next to my first car

   My life changed completely when my father, mother, brother Marcel, and his wife Laure, arrived in Melbourne in 1976. I began to feel stronger, and the pain of alienation began to fade. I would kiss my mother's forehead and my father's hand whenever I visited them there.

   Since I was unmarried and needed someone to care for me and be kind to me, I began asking my brother Antoine to give up his parents for my sake. He agreed after I promised him that I would visit him with my father and mother approximately every month.

   After a pitch-black night, the lights came on in my old, dilapidated house in Merrylands, and the aroma of my mother's cooking was refreshing even before my stomachs.

   My father began to supervise the recording of songs, and he would even take and fulfil orders by phone, while I knitted towels at night.

   Not only that, but I added another job to my work with towels and songs. Sister Constance Bacha asked me to supervise the Arabic language course at Our Lady of Lebanon school. I initially refused, but my mother encouraged me and said:

- You were born a teacher, a poet, and a writer. How could you refuse a job for which you were created, my son?

My five brothers helped building my house

- If I accept the job, I will lose a lot of money, as I will be forced to shut down (Voice of the Cedars).

So, in her soft voice, she sang me a verse of poetry that a poet had dedicated to his daughter, who had fallen in love with a poet like him:

   have you ever seen, my daughter, a poet wearing a rich fur coat, for you to fall in love with him? At best, he would be poor, like your poet father, not to mention the calamities and horrors that might befall you because of what he writes or sings on the pulpit?"

   There were also verses I completely forgot about. As soon as she finished singing, I embraced her and kissed her like a madman, while she cried out:

- Catch up, Sarkis! Your son has gone crazy!"

   Now, I have several professions: knitting towels, recording songs, and teaching children. I joined Our Lady of Lebanon School in Harris Park in 1980, full-time, as the Arabic language teacher.

   These many intertwined jobs, day and night, allowed me to save a respectable amount of money. I decided to buy a new Mercedes, suitable for my parents when visiting relatives and friends. I discussed the matter with my father, and he said:

- If, God forbid, you get into an accident, the Mercedes will be scrapped."

- Don't worry, Dad. There will be insurance, and the Mercedes won't be scrapped.

- When I married your mother, I promised her to build her a new house, but my promise to her was not fulfilled, and will never be fulfilled, except through my children.

- Do you want me to fulfil your promise?

- Then I'll die in peace.

   In 1979, we submitted to the Holyrood Municipality a map of the villa to be built on the site of the old house on Desmond Street. They agreed. Before we began demolition, a tax inspector stood at my door and asked me about the number of recordings I was selling and the profit I was making. I cooperated fully and asked him to contact the tax office of Hardin's son, Joe Khoury, who was responsible for filing my paperwork each year.

   After a week of continuous inspection, Joe told me he'd made a mistake by not informing me that I would have to pay the additional tax on the recordings every month, and that I would have to pay $9,000 to the government to avoid prosecution and imprisonment.

   The sum was so large, I could have bought a three-bedroom apartment with cash at the time.

   I paid the amount and decided to completely finish (The Voice of the Cedars), devote myself to education, and postpone building the house for several years, since a quarter of the allocated amount was no longer available after I paid my tax return that year.

My new home

   Apparently, my father didn't like the idea of postponing the start of construction, and he shouted:

- We'll start demolition immediately.

- A quarter of the amount has flown away, Dad, so we just have to wait.

- I caught the money as it flew away and put it back in your pocket.

- What are you saying? Are you kidding me?

   He looked at my mother and said:

- open up the heater box.

   There was an old gas heater in the house, in which my father had hidden the dollars I'd given him as pocket money.

- Did you hide the money in the heater?

- Yes, because it wasn't working.

   My mother pulled the dollars from a paper bag and gave them to me. I counted them, and suddenly I had $8,000. I cried out with joy:

- Hallelujah... Hallelujah! A new home has been born for you!

   I began demolishing the back section of the house, leaving the front section for us to live in during construction.

   The villa, designed by Mejdlaya's son, the engineer George Hanna El Khoury, was beautiful. Its white stones were speckled with black, baked with vinegar to prevent discoloration, and its arches extended over two floors, with two covered balconies.

   One thing I couldn't complete was the entrance to the house and the garage. They lacked cement, and I didn't have a single dollar to remove the dirt and mud.

Uncle Paul El Bahri between me and my brother George

   One day, my cousin, Paul El Bahri, one of the most famous builders in Sydney, visited me and asked me to recite a poem at his son Joe's wedding. I said to him:

- Look at the entrance to the house. There's no cement, and no one to take pity on me and help me.

- You write the poem, and I'll lay the cement for you... What do you think?"

- When will this miracle happen?

- Tomorrow...

   At dawn, I found him and my brother George standing in front of the house waiting for the cement truck. Moments later, he began laying wood around the area to be covered by the cement. That evening, I couldn't believe my eyes when I looked at the entrance and saw a magnificent concrete masterpiece. It struck me as the first and last time I'd traded cement for a poem, but I did it.

**

The Death of my Father and Mother

My father and mother with my brothers

   I forgot to mention that my brother Joseph and his family came from Lebanon. My brother Antoine and his family moved from Melbourne to Sydney to be closer to his parents. My brother George bought a house just ten meters from mine, becoming my neighbour. My brother Marcel moved with his family to live with us.

   Only my brother Michel remained in Melbourne, and he didn't want to move to Sydney.

   As I mentioned, I built the villa to fulfil my father's promise to my mother, but fate was on our side. My father passed away on March 3, 1982, just one year after we moved into the new house. Instead of receiving congratulations, we accepted condolences.

   I wouldn't be exaggerating if I told you that my father's funeral was historic. We received hundreds of wreaths, so much so that the funeral company hired a large truck to transport them to Our Lady of Lebanon Church in Harris Park. As soon as Monsignor Youssef Touma saw the truck, he said:

- Tens of thousands of dollars will be wasted.

With my mother

   My mother always used to say:

- If I die, will you adorn me with wreaths of flowers as you adorned your father?

   When the light of her beautiful eyes went out on July 5, 1999, dozens of wreaths of white lilies adorned her. The diaspora media dubbed her "Mother of All," and poets at home and abroad mourned her. A special issue of "Leila" magazine was also published in her honour, which I will mention elsewhere.

   On the fortieth day of her death, we held a mass at St. Margaret Mary Church, where she often prayed. The church was filled with hundreds of mourners, so much so that Father Rod Bray said in his sermon:

- This is the first time I have ever seen such a joyful number of virtuous, veiled Muslim women who came to pray for a friend they loved, whose name was Petronella Baini.

   My brother, Marcel, bought a house fifty meters from mine on the same street, so the family is now united on one street, thank God.

   Since I mentioned her, I will begin by sharing my stories with her. She was my mother, my sister, and my inspiration. If behind every great man is a woman, then this woman is my mother. Here are my stories with her:

My father with my brothers

   Had my older brother, Antoine, not travelled to Australia, I would not have known that my mother, like most women at the time, could read and write with great difficulty. She, may God have mercy on her soul, would examine my homework with hungry eyes and shout:

- "Charbel... review your homework carefully before you go play.

   And I, to tell the truth, respected her "knowledge," so I would review my homework once and twice before throwing it back into her pure hands for her to examine once more. I would hear her say:

- May God be pleased with you and your brothers... You may go now.

   I said "your brothers," not "your sisters," because God had blessed her with six sons: Antoine, George, Joseph, Charbel, Michel, and Marcel. That's why in my town of Mejdlaya, they called her "Mother of the Six Young Men.

   My mother, Petronella, was going as she pleased until she summoned me to her humble, poor kitchen in the basement of the house after receiving a letter from my expatriate brother, Antoine. She whispered so no one would hear:

- I'll be angry with you if you reveal my secret...

- What's wrong, Mom? Tell me?

- I want you to listen to me as I read your brother's letter and correct my mistakes, then you'll help me write the answer.

   I shouted at the top of my voice:

- Mom... What are you saying? You're my teacher.

My brothers with my nephews

- I was pretending to be a teacher in front of you so that no one would punish you.

   Like a little child, I cupped her hands and kissed them, crying. She patted my back and said:

- Don't be afraid, I'll learn quickly.

   My mother didn't learn quickly until my brother George travelled. She found that the beads of her family's rosary were scattered everywhere, and she had to read and respond to more than one letter.

   As soon as I began publishing my revolutionary poems in Lebanese newspapers and magazines, my mother began to reassess her situation, asking herself:

- What if my son Charbel travels?

   She began demanding more writing lessons from me, as her reading had become more acceptable. Her suspicions were finally realized. In 1968, I published a collection of poems in Lebanese colloquial Arabic, "Adolescent," which was met with strong disapproval from some moral and religious hardliners due to its blatant obscenity, as they put it. This helped catapult my fame at the age of seventeen.

   Two years later, in 1970, I published my second collection, "Scattered Poems on Lebanon and the Revolution," which I immediately followed in newspapers and magazines, as well as in the series "Diary of a Foreign Correspondent in the Middle East." This prompted the October 24 Movement to invite me to give a poetry evening at its headquarters in Tripoli. This proved fatal to my future livelihood in Lebanon, due to the intelligence services' continued pursuit and threats. I packed - my bags and left for Sydney, Australia, in late 1971.

   Here, I began to reap the fruits of my sown. My first letter arrived, in my mother's handwriting and signature. It began with:

   "Mejdlaya, December 2, 1972

   My beloved son, my most beloved teacher, the apple of my eye, Charboulti..."

   I thank God Almighty that I entrusted you with my secret the day I told you that I read and write with great difficulty. And here I am, by God's grace and your grace, writing to you my first letter. I hope you will correct me. My spelling mistakes, and tell me about them so I can avoid them in my future letters.

   You will remain my teacher, even if you are far from my sight, and I will continue to receive your lessons by mail until you say to me, "Congratulations, Mother, you passed the exam".

   Allow me, more than 44 years later, after her death, to say to her, tears burning my cheeks:

- Congratulations, Mother, you passed the exam.

**

My Mother Slapped Me

My mother

   My mother didn't hit me when I was young, despite my many mischief-makers. But she did hit me when I was thirty-three years old, after I participated in a literary celebration held in the Wiley Park High School Hall in honour of the Prince of Poets, Ahmed Shawqi. Literary events at that time attracted many people, the exact opposite of today. Unfortunately, I was arrogant, walking among the crowds like a peacock, my inner voice repeating:

I am a rooster from India

Beautiful in shape and stature.

   I remember reciting a wonderful poem that ignited the flames and forced an Egyptian doctor, whom I believe was nicknamed "Al-Aryan," who had come from the capital, Canberra, to stand up and applaud, shouting:

- Bravo... bravo!

   Although I was the last to speak, I felt superior to all of them. I puffed out my chest and stepped off the stage. My mother's smile, with which she welcomed me, was more than two meters tall—how could it be, given that her son is a poet.

Dr. Al Arayn standing and clapping

   After the seminar ended, I no longer knew which of the speakers or audience members would greet me and congratulate me. I was growing increasingly bloated, to the point where I felt I would explode if I didn't leave the hall. I said to my mother:

- Let's go home.

   As I crossed the distance between Wiley Park and Merrylands, I had a conversation I will never forget. As saliva flowed from my cheeks, I said:

- You see, Mom, how I wiped them out, I destroyed them. They put my name at the end, so I put them in my pocket. I am the first, in spite of their noses."

   Suddenly, my mother slapped me across the mouth and shouted at the top of her voice, opening the car door for her to get out, despite the speed:

- Stop the car, drop me off here. I don't want to continue on the road with an arrogant, insignificant, empty son."

- They're fighting me. Didn't you see how they put me at the end of the program?

   - Charbel Baini, only fights his own arrogance.

   - Why do you get angry when I call myself "first"?

   - Who are you to be "first"? If you are the "fourth" among your six brothers, how can you be "first" among millions? Yes, you are the fourth among my children, and I thank God for that, so that I don't have to carry the name of a child who belittles others to raise his heels.

   - Don't get me wrong...

My speech

   - For God's sake, tell me, Charbel: What do you want from them? They are your friends, your colleagues... They congratulated you, kissed you, praised your poem, and showed you the utmost respect, so why do you betray them? Is this the reward for their love for you? You are sick, my son... Help yourself... Let go of your arrogance and hold on to your creativity. Honour others so that they may honour you... Extend a helping hand to everyone who seeks your help so that you may become a fruitful fig tree that no one can curse.

   -  But you hit me, Mother!

   - And I will hit you again if you belittle others to elevate your own status. Your talent is a blessing from God, so don't taint it with your arrogance. And always remember, my son, that literature is poverty; it doesn't provide bread.

   - I'm sorry, Mother...

   -Promise me that you won't crowd anyone, and that you won't act arrogant toward anyone, because you are "dust" in the end.

   -As soon as I stepped foot into the house, I grabbed a piece of paper I found on my desk and wrote on it the phrase I later published in the book "Thoughts":

“He who curses will be cursed, and he who honours will be honoured”.

   After I finished writing, I found my mother standing behind me, reading what I had written, a smile crowning her beautiful lips, and whispering in my ear these sacred words:

“This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased”.

   May God have mercy on you, Mother. How wise you were.

**

 Young Philosopher

My parents

   For a long time, I've been trying to write some memoirs with my mother, hoping to repay her for her kindness and to preserve her memory forever, because she lived up to the adage, "Behind every great man is a woman." I acknowledge that every success I've achieved throughout my writing journey has been thanks to her support.

   Here's my new story:

   When I was in third grade, the administration of Al-Zahriya School in Tripoli decided to promote me from third to fifth grade because I consistently outperformed my classmates—not to say "first.

   I moved up to the fifth grade, took the certification exam, and passed. I began to move closer and closer to my brother Joseph's class, who was two years and a few months older than me. There was only one class between us until I moved up to the Secondary School. There, all the class teachers, who taught different subjects, decided that I should apply for the Brevet exam one year before. They called a meeting with my parents, and my father quickly agreed. My mother, however, didn't say a word.

   As soon as I entered the school, the principal seated me next to my beloved brother Joseph. I joined him in his class, despite the age difference between us. There, fortunately for me and unfortunately for him, was a teacher named Jalil Bahlis from the town of Minyara in Akkar. He taught us history and geography. He wrote the textbooks we used, and the Lebanese Encyclopedia printed and distributed them for him, anonymously. He, may God have mercy on him, would sit in class throughout lunchtime, revising and adding information to the new editions of his books. He was impressed by my mastery of the Arabic language, so he asked me one day:

- Don't you play with your friends? I watched you yesterday and found you sitting alone in the playground. Play with your brother Joseph, even though he's older than you, because you're in the same class as him. Or you could sit with me in class and review what I'm writing. If you find any mistakes, underline them in red, or correct them for me. What do you think?"

   I couldn't believe what I was hearing, so I said to him, visibly surprised:

- I'm correcting you, teacher!?

- Yes, you are... and I'm impressed by your linguistic ability.

- But I'm your student... What will you tell the rest of your classmates?

With my brother Joseph

- I'll tell them: Be like Charbel Baini.

   Professor Jalil Bahlis wasn't satisfied with this level of admiration. He would tell the students after every exam:

- One day, you will say that we studied in the same class as Charbel Baini.

   My brother Joseph would relay this good news to my mother, Petronella, hoping to cheer her up about his brother Charbel's success. My mother completely ignored the good news.

   Until Professor Bahlis reprimanded my brother Joseph in front of the rest of the class, saying:

- Be smart like your brother Charbel. Didn't you come from the same womb? Didn't you nurse the same milk? So why are your grades low and his high?

   My brother Joseph replied:

- I study more than him, and yet you give me bad grades.

   Then, something unexpected happened. The teacher turned to my brother and shouted at the top of his lungs:

- Do you want to know why your grades are so much lower than your brother Charbel's? Because he's a "young philosopher”.

   As usual, my brother Joseph brought the news to my mother's ears. She asked all my siblings to leave the room, as she wanted to speak to me alone. She asked me, her anger evident on her face:

- Were you happy when you heard the teacher reprimand your brother and praise you?

- No, Mom, because my brother Joseph is my only friend among my siblings. He loves me very much and rejoices in every compliment the teacher gives me.

   The next day, while Mr. Bahlis was explaining a new lesson, the principal came and whispered something we couldn't hear. He asked me to monitor the class while he answered an important phone call.

   A long time passed, and the teacher still hadn't arrived. Suddenly, the lunch bell rang. All the students left, leaving me alone in the classroom, waiting for my teacher to return so I could finish correcting some pages of his new book. Suddenly, he entered without paying attention to me. I asked him:

- Did the phone call bother you? I see you're not talking to me.

- No, it didn't bother me, but it taught me a lesson I'll never forget.

- And who was it from?

- From your mother, Petronella. 

- From my mother?

- Yes... She asked me not to praise you in front of your brother Joseph, especially when I reprimanded him.

- Please forgive my mother, and don't get angry with me or my brother, because we respect you very much.

   So, may God have mercy on him, he got up from his chair, kissed me on the head, and said:

- Convey this kiss to your mother's head. If she were in front of me, I would have kissed her head myself.

- Why?

- Because she fears for the unity of her children. She wants them to be one, not to have competition and rivalry among them. I confessed my mistake to her, and she forgave me.

- You, my teacher, asked my mother for forgiveness?

- Yes, she was right, and I was wrong, so why wouldn't I ask for forgiveness?

   Then I stood up and kissed his head, tears streaming down my face. Suddenly, my brother Joseph entered the classroom. He found me crying and said to the teacher:

- You sent for me, sir. Did my brother Charbel do something wrong? I see him crying!

   The teacher asked him to come closer so he could kiss him on the head, just as he had kissed me. He said:

- This kiss is not for you, but for your mother's head. Kiss it for me.

   May God have mercy on you, my great teacher Jalil Bahlis and my caring mother Petronella. You were a good example to me. May God prolong your life, my brother and friend Joseph, so that you may always remain with me, supporting me with your love and encouragement, as you always did.

   For your information only, I dedicated one of my books to the spirit of this teacher and included some of this story.

**

Eternal Alienation

   The only issue I don't like to tell anyone about is my issue with exile.

   I said, "My issue," not my story, because my long, exhausting pleadings against exile still echo in the courtroom of the human conscience, whose rotten cells have begun to rust, following its suspicious and disgusting silence about a war that ravaged land, homes, and people, leaving us no choice but death or departure.

   I remember the day I said goodbye to my family in late 1971. My mother burst into tears and kissed me passionately, groaning and saying:

- Where are you going, Charbel? Can you find a country more beautiful and better than Lebanon?

- My exile won't last long, Mother... just two years and I'll be back.

- Two years, two years," a phrase I heard repeatedly from your brothers Antoine and George, who preceded you there. Imagine that your aunts and uncles emigrated twenty years ago and have yet to return!

My father Sarkis kissing my grand mother Christine
left: Hanna, Marcel, Elias, Charbel and Michel Baini

- By your life, I will return. Believe me, Mother.

- Your brothers promised to return. And I'm still waiting.

- You know my situation and the pressures I'm under.

- You could have lived "in privacy," without hurting or antagonizing anyone with your writing.

- I want your approval, Mother. Without it, I will not succeed.

- And for whom will you leave your homeland, your family, your friends, your memories, your library, and all the notebooks in which you scribbled your poems?

- For your sake, Mother.

   And I swore to return, and I tried hard to be honest with her and not to break a promise I made before her pure eyes and within earshot of God. But my financial fortunes didn't go my way. The two years passed in the blink of an eye, and my mother's letters piled up in my drawers, carrying a thousand reproaches and questions about the day of my return.

   Suddenly, the tide shifted after the outbreak of the vicious Lebanese war, some of whose chapters were played out in my safe village of Mejdlaya. Its homes were burned, its residents were displaced, and my family emigrated to Australia. My last human connection to my homeland was severed, after exile stole most of my relatives away, and "national duty" wiped out those who remained there.

   What was both funny and sad was that my mother, who had always urged me to return, began to change, confronting me with her many questions whenever I broached the subject:

- Who do you want me to return to? Your brothers and their families are here, and the people of Mejdlaya have settled in Australia, and my life is on the brink of collapse?

- If each of us says what you say, will exile swallow us up forever?

   - ...and the gangs, the fraud, the forgery, the connections, and don't forget that you demand in your poetry, that anyone who applauds the leader must cut off his fingers in atonement for his heinous act. Live here, Charbel, because you will be killed there.

   - If you return with me, I promise not to write.

   - Don't lie, my son, you are addicted to writing.

   - These are your letters to me. Read them. Have you forgotten what they contain of reprimands for not returning to Lebanon?

   - Since the day I boarded the plane with your father, I no longer remember a thing.

   - My father dreamed of returning...

   - If he had lived to this day and seen the massacres taking place there, he would have changed his mind.

   - May God have mercy on him... He died repeating the names of Mejdlaya, Beirut, and Lebanon.

   - And his grave became a place of pilgrimage that we visit every week... Do you want me to leave him alone in his grave? Have you gone crazy, my son?

  - I will transport his body to Mejdlaya... if you agree to return.

  - And can you transport thirty sons, daughters-in-law, grandsons, and granddaughters?

   - No, of course not. That's impossible.

   - Then let me die here and bury me next to your father.

   And now she lies next to the person dearest to her heart, my father Sarkis. And believe me, the pain never leaves my heart. My love for Lebanon and my loyalty to this hospitable country are factors that conflict within me, disturbing my sleep, to the point where I wonder:

- Am I destined for eternal exile?

**

My Mother's Faith Performed a Miracle

Saint Raymond

   On September 2nd, my late mother, Petronella Baini, celebrated her birthday. So, allow me to share this true story as a tribute to her in her heavenly kingdom, where Father Rod Bray is also present:

   If you don't believe in miracles, please don't read on and skip to the next chapter. I was just like you until something happened.

   One day, Father Rod Bray, the vicar of St. Margaret Mary Church in Merrylands, visited us as usual to inspect the parish. My mother welcomed him warmly and spread out a small feast of the delicacies she had cooked that day.

   Every now and then, he would wipe a sticky liquid from his forehead, to the point where he could no longer hold it back. My mother asked him in Arabic, with me translating for him and her:

- What's wrong, Father? I see a large bump on your forehead?

    - It's a malignant skin cancer, and I'll have to have it removed in a week.

    - May I anoint the bump with holy oil that I received two days ago?

    - And where did you get the oil from?

    - From Lebanon, from the Church of Saint Romanus (Raymond) in Hadchit.

    - I have no objection at all.

   At this point, I could no longer control my nerves, so I shouted at her:

    - No, Mother, no... the oil might harm him.

   She replied, dipping the cotton ball in the oil:

    - Saint Romanus doesn't harm anyone.

   Father Bray then rebuked me, saying:

    - Charbel... Charbel... Keep your faith in your Lord strong. If you knew my story with miracles, you wouldn't have opened your mouth.

Father Rod Bray

    - But the oil might cause you an infection or something similar.

    - Didn't I tell you to keep your faith in your Lord strong? Why would you deprive me of a blessing your mother wanted to bestow upon me? What would you have done if you had known that I was disabled at the beginning of my life's journey, and that my parents had sold everything they owned to pay for a flight from Sydney to Our Lady of Lourdes in France? There, my father carried me and threw me into the holy waters, from which I emerged healthy. But I didn't return home with them. Instead, I decided to serve the Lord of heaven and earth and become a priest. And here I am before you in perfect health. So be quiet, and let your mother complete what she began.

   After making the sign of the cross, he bowed before the holy oil, muttering a prayer I didn't understand. When he finished, he knelt on his knees, closed his eyes, and said:

- I'm ready, Petronella.

   My mother wiped his forehead, repeating a prayer I also didn't understand, as if I were living in a whirlpool of confusion, anxiety, and fear.

   The anointing was over, and he stood bowing, this time facing my mother, kissed her hand, and said:

- I am confident that God will heal me through you, O faithful lady.

   While sleeping, Father Bray felt a severe burning sensation on his forehead. He got out of bed and looked in the mirror. He didn't find the cancerous lump. He told the people at his morning mass about the miracle that had happened to him that night and that he would cancel the scheduled surgery, for God is the Greatest Physician. However, he didn't tell them the name of the woman who had anointed his forehead, lest he expose her to their harassment and endless questions.

   To further reassure my mother about his health, she asked me the next day to go to his residence and take him to lunch with us.

My Mother

   I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. I looked toward the church and found its door half-closed. I knew he was inside. You might be surprised if I said that the surprise had me speechless, forcing me to tiptoe out of the church so he wouldn't notice me. I found him crucified on the ground beneath the cross raised above the altar, immersed in a deadly silence, were it not for his slow breathing.

   After a quarter of an hour of waiting, the holy priest came out—this is what I exclaimed the day his body passed before me years after my mother's death—to be surprised by my presence. I said to him:

- My mother is waiting for you for lunch. She wants to check on you.

   He took hold of one of my fingers and said:

- Give me your finger, Charbel, so you can believe that your mother's faith has performed a miracle.

   The only thing I ask of my mother now is to strengthen my faith in God Almighty. If I had been strong in faith back then, I would not have tried to prevent her from wiping Father Bray's forehead and performing that holy miracle that occurred at her pure hand, and of which God wanted me to be a witness.

**  

My Mother and Cardinal Freeman

Cardinal James Freeman

When my younger brother, Marcel "Abu Charbel," read the story of his mother, Petronella, with Father Rod Bray, he looked at me and said:

- Your story is incomplete, brother. You forgot the most important part.

   I said to him, greatly surprised:

- What is it? Please remind me.

- You forgot to tell the readers that Father Bray informed his superior, Cardinal James Freeman, about the miracle and told him that my mother was the one who healed him with the holy oil of Saint Romanos (Raymond)...and that the Cardinal asked to meet my mother...Did you forget?

- No, I didn't, brother. I just left that historic visit for another article, which I'll start now.

   A week after the miracle of the oil, Father Rod Bray contacted us and requested an official appointment to visit us, unlike his usual habit of coming to us unexpectedly, whenever he wanted. We considered him a member of the household who could visit us without prior appointment.

   His insistence on setting a formal appointment confused us all. The entire Baini family gathered around mother Petronella, each of us wondering:

- Who's coming with Father Bray?

   A white car stopped at the entrance to the house, and the most senior figure in the Catholic Church in Sydney got out: Cardinal James Freeman.

   The surprise left us speechless, and we no longer knew how to react. My mother approached him and said in broken English:

- Welcome to my home. This is my family.

My mother. Antoine, Marcel and Pat 

   At that, the little children began running toward him, kissing his hand, as their mothers had instructed. Father Bray introduced us to Cardinal Freeman and why he wanted to meet my mother:

- Cardinal Freeman is the head of the Catholic Church in Australia, and I had told him about the miracle that had happened to me. He wanted to meet the woman of strong faith, Mrs. Petronella.

   Cardinal Freeman, out of his great modesty, did not let him finish introducing himself. Instead, he turned to my mother and asked:

- Why do you wear this necklace around your neck?

   My mother sighed and said:

- When the doctor told me that my lifelong companion, the father of my six children, Sarkis Baini, was suffering from leukaemia, I had a nervous breakdown and felt unable to walk. I entered Westmead Hospital at the same time as my late husband, and my family moved from room to room to check on us. After months of treatment, the specialist requested a meeting with my eldest son, Antoine, to inform him, in my presence, that I would no longer be able to walk. I needed a wheelchair, a private bathroom, easy access to the house, and so on. As soon as he finished speaking, I said, "Thank you, Doctor, for your concern for me, but there is someone more important than you, and I have surrendered myself to him. At first, he thought I was going to see another specialist. He said:

- Who is this doctor? Do I know him?

- He is my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Have you heard of him, or should I tell you more about him? He didn't answer a word, but said goodbye and left. And here I am, as you can see, walking and moving from place to place without a wheelchair, and this is all thanks to my Lord.

   Fr. Bray looked at Cardinal Freeman and said:

- This is what happened to me when I was young. Are we witnessing a new miracle, Your Excellency?

   Cardinal Freeman nodded and said:

- Strong faith works miracles.

   Then he approached my mother and whispered in her ear:

- Your greatest miracle, my lady, I see now in this faithful Christian family that surrounds you on all sides, and which you have worked tirelessly to raise in Lebanon so that Australia may enjoy them. Please pray for me.

   He bid us farewell one by one, even the children, saying:

- Do not give up your strength. Hold on to it more and more. Take this pure Mother as an example for you, so that you do not stumble in the darkness.

   We bid farewell to the cardinal and the priest, but their blessed memory lives on with us to this day.

**

They attacked me

Shawqi Muslimani, Charbel Baini, Sheikh Alhilali, Bishop Hitti

   My mother's fear for me was justified. I heard the phrase "Shut your mouth" and other insults again in Sydney, Australia, not in front of the Rivoli Cinema in Tripoli, as I had done before.

   This happened on the day that some people were angered by an article I published in 2005 in the London-based online magazine Elaph, titled "An Islamic Party in Australia." They attacked me at dawn, throwing eggs at my car and the walls and windows of my house. As usual, the police were the last to know what happened. Nevertheless, the commander gave me his phone number and asked me to call him 24/7 if I was attacked again.

   International media outlets reported the news, and I was inundated with calls from all over the world. So that you can understand what happened, I'll share with you the article that was also published by "Elaph" in 2005:

   May God forgive my friend, the poet Shawqi Muslimani. He published the news of the attack on my house on the morning of Friday, September 16, 2005. He knew that I was against leaking the news to the media, at the request of the Australian police investigating the matter. But it was his love for me that prompted him to publish the news, and a thousand thanks to him.

Elaph

   I don't know why they attacked me, even though their attack on my house came two days after the Australian newspaper Al-Mustaqbal published my article "An Islamic Party in Australia," which was quoted in Elaph. It's true that controversy has surrounded this issue, but I'm not accusing anyone. I also don't believe that someone who called for the spread of Islamic justice and Islamic peace, and that our rights would not be diminished under the banner of his party, would send a group of enthusiastic young men to insult me and shower my house and car with dozens of raw eggs.

   The story isn't fabricated, and I wish it were, so I could have gotten rid of the stench of eggs that pervades my home and causes my headaches, not to mention the difficulty of washing them off the windows, walls, doors, tiles, entrances, and even the car. May God forgive them. All night long, insomnia plagued me. On Friday evening, the day of the attack, my new play (The Enchanted Treasure) would be performed by more than 500 students from Our Lady of Lebanon Institute - Harris Park, which would be broadcast worldwide by Panorama TV. How could I sleep, as the director and writer of this play, and I had to show and hide an entire army of children in less than an hour and a half, without a thousand people in the audience noticing? And because I was tossing and turning, and turning on the light in the room every half hour, my wife couldn’t sleep either. We chatted and laughed until I told her: 

- I will go to my office and write a new article. She said to me, and God is my witness: 

- Your articles will bring us problems. 

The Enchanted Treasure

   Half an hour later, I heard screaming and insults that I am ashamed to mention, and that someone was trying to enter my very, very protected house. I said to my wife: 

- There is someone trying to enter us. 

   She muttered while fighting her sleep: 

- Sleep. They are the neighbours. Their problems are many and endless.

    I believed her and went to bed. Yet I didn't sleep a single moment.

   At six in the morning, the time we wake up to go to work, I went out to start my car parked in front of the garage. I was shocked by the sight of raw eggs covering it, as well as most of the outside of the house. At that moment, I realized that the insults were directed at me and that the attack had targeted me personally. I notified the police, who were very interested and had read some of my recent articles, knowing how to proceed.

   This is all that happened. I am recounting it briefly so that those who attacked me know that words can only be overcome by better words, that dialogue is far better than intimidation and terror, and that God created us on this earth to coexist, understand each other, and adapt to our surroundings. Otherwise, we become unknown and a "frightening" entity, frightening people instead of winning them over with refined logic and compelling arguments. May God protect you from the dawn visitors and from all those who sow discord in the land.

**

Speaking Arabic is Forbidden

My brother George and his wife Antoinette

   There's a Lebanese proverb that says, "The neighbour comes before the house." But in Australia, I experienced the worst of it at the hands of two neighbours: one who lived across the street from me and the other to my left. Unfortunately, they were both hostile to foreign immigrants like me.

   One day, my brother George had moved in with me. Our cousin, Paul Al-Bahri (Michael), visited us. We chatted in Lebanese dialect. Suddenly, the neighbour who lived across the street from me and whose house was about 15 meters away, stood in front of our door and shouted:

- Stop chattering in your language. You're in Australia. Speak English!

   My brother George immediately confronted him and expelled him from our house, saying:

- We are free to speak whatever language we want. Go home.

   To further frighten us, he called the police. Moments later, an Australian policeman of Lebanese origin, the son of my friend Rashid Al-Hallab, the then-president of the Arab Elderly Association, stood in front of me, accompanied by a companion. He was surprised when he saw me and said: 

- There's a complaint against you. What's the problem?

   My cousin, Paul, replied:

- I came to visit my relatives, and we were chatting in our Lebanese dialect. Then, suddenly, the racist neighbour attacked us and asked us to speak English, since we live in Australia.

- In Australia, you can speak whatever language you want, and we apologize for the inconvenience.

   The police spoke to us cordially, while the racist neighbour watched us from afar, hoping to see my brother George arrested. However, his field didn't match his threshing floor, because Lebanese blood was seething inside Al-Hallab's son. He went to him and loudly reprimanded him, telling him to stay home and not attack other people's homes, or else he would be held accountable.

   Apparently, this neighbour didn't learn from the first lesson. He started calling the fire trucks whenever we lit a fire to grill meat. The firefighters would get angry with him and apologize, especially when we invited them to join us for a meal.

My neighbours in Lebanon

   Even worse, he accused me of drug trafficking when I built the most beautiful villa Sydney had ever known in 1980. This poor man forgot that I was working day and night to fulfil the promise my father had made to my mother: to build her a new house.

   As the days, months, and years passed, this neighbour's view of us began to change. He began to treat us kindly and approach us whenever he had the opportunity, while we treated him with extreme caution.

   When he became ill, he spent most of his days in the hospital. Old age is unforgiving. His only son had married and moved away, and his two daughters had married and moved in with their husbands. His wife was left alone, unable to travel between home and the hospital. Suddenly, she knocked on my door and said:

- Can you take me in your car to Westmead Hospital so I can visit my husband?

- Of course, of course, please.

   On the way, a deadly silence fell, which was quickly broken when she said:

- I called my children to have one of them come and take me to the hospital, but none of them complied.

- Don't be upset with them... everyone has their own circumstances.

- No, I've discovered that a good neighbour is more important than a son.

   I laughed and said:

- Weren't you too late to find out?

- Yes, I was too late.

My neighbours from Mejdlaya

   As for my second neighbour, he was no less racist than the first one, I endured his harassment for a long time, until he acted spitefully on the day my father died. Delegations would come to my house to offer their condolences. Instead of feeling sorry for me, he started the lawnmower and deliberately made a disturbing noise. He even cursed at anyone who spoke loudly.

   Over time, I learned how to tame him like a horse, making him more understanding of our Lebanese customs. He began greeting me first.

   You might not believe me if I told you that these two neighbours had died and I didn't know about it. I didn't see the hearse outside either of their doors. When I asked the widows about it, they replied:

- It was a small family farewell, so we didn't tell anyone.

   These are my Australian neighbours, passing by like a summer cloud, unlike my neighbours in Mejdlaya, who accompanied me like my breath, or the beats of my heart, and loved me like my own family. That's why I kept their memory alive in several poems I published in the collection "Son of Mejdlaya."

**

Writing is a disability

Maniacs

   Writing may be an incurable disability, and this disability has afflicted me to the core. In fact, they say I inherited it from my grandfather and my maternal uncles, George and Lawrance Maroun. The former, my mother's father, enriched church libraries with his Syriac manuscripts, while the latter embellished translation and writing with his exquisite style. Instead of growing up and becoming complacent, I began contributing articles to the Beirut magazine Al-Dabbour in 1972, titled "Australia the Whale and We Are the Prophet Jonah." Had I known that the whale's throat is narrow and that it cannot swallow a human being, but spits them out immediately, I would have changed the title without hesitation.

Yolla, Veronica, Joseph and my father

   With the outbreak of the civil war, we acquired many newspapers, the most important of which were: Al-Telegraph, Sawt al-Mughtareb, Sada Lubnan, Al-Watan, Altalia and Al-Nahar. The newspapers were based in Sydney, due to the large number of innocent immigrants who arrived there after being thrown out of their surroundings, environments, villages, cities, and families by the cursed war. I chose two of these newspapers to publish my articles and poetry. Sada Lubnan was a platform for my colloquial poetry, and Sawt al-Mughtareb was for my classical poetry.

My uncle Lawrance Maroun

   It seems that my poetic stances preceded me here. Some poets and journalists worked hard to fight me, spreading rumours about me. They claimed that my writings before my departure were the reason for the outbreak of the war. They forgot that I was the first to warn of it, and that the stray Lebanese birds would depart and reach the Australian kingdom. Instead of thanking me, they began hanging my laundry on the rooftops. On the other hand, there were those who believed in my sincere patriotic stances, and that what mattered to me was the human being, regardless of their religion or political affiliation. In my view, a homeland, like a mother, could embrace everyone.

   To promote my recordings, I published a newspaper bearing the company's name, "Voice of the Cedars," and I distributed it free of charge to stores that sold my recordings. Unfortunately, it ceased publication after the first issue and never saw the light of day.

   The beautiful thing was that I began to get to know Australian printing presses, and I decided to print the first book to be printed and published in Australia, titled "Majaneen" (Maniacs), in 1976. It's true that the poets Issam Malki and Semaan Zaiter had preceded me in publishing their books and distributing them in Sydney, but the printing was done in Lebanon, not here. That's the difference.

   To do this, I asked my brother Joseph to send me a "Dactilo" (Typewriter) at lightning speed, with the first passenger.

My grand father Geris Maroun

   The poems were printed on Typewriter, and the book's pages were designed and numbered with Indian numerals, which we Arabs use, instead of the Arabic numerals that the West stole from us and proudly incorporated into its language.

   A week later, the owner of the printing press called me and said:

- The book is ready. You can pick it up whenever you like.

   As soon as I received the first copy, I exclaimed:

- What's this? You've confused the numbers with the pages, and the book is ridiculous and unreadable.

   The owner of the printing press apologized and ordered the book to be reprinted, on the condition that it be under my supervision, or that I replace the Indian numerals with Arabic-Western numerals (123).

   You know the content of the title "Maniacs." I burned all the fig leaves with which the nation's leaders cover their shame, exposing their true colours and how they began to divide the nation into sectarian alleys, far removed from the morality of the Lebanese people.

   So, I began the book with these verses:

I believe in God... and it is shameful to emphasize this belief.

I believe in Jesus and the Messenger Mohamad as well.

I believe in my Gospel and the Quran.

I believe in the unity of a people 

Who lived in contentment and love

On the land of Lebanon.

   And I began reciting my poems at every party, seminar, evening, wedding, and funeral, with the goal of uniting the Lebanese people in their Australian diaspora and warding off the spectre of discord.

   Here, my enemies began to fade away automatically, and even began to praise my patriotic stances. If you were to ask any Lebanese at that difficult time, they would honestly admit that Charbel Baini's poetry united the Lebanese community during the darkest times Lebanon had ever experienced.

**

Humility

  My mother used to ask me to repeat this sacred phrase more than ten times before I went to bed and slept:

- O Jesus, gentle and humble of heart, make my heart like yours.

   Because I didn't adhere to this prayer, she gave me that slap I told you about earlier in the chapter "My Mother Slapped Me." After that, I adopted humility as a luminous path from which I never deviated, no matter how difficult the circumstances.

   Because of my many literary activities, I met all sorts of people who claimed to be literary, stealing a word from here, a phrase from there, a poem from there, and claiming that Gibran Khalil Gibran was less famous and appreciated than them.

   I met people of refined literature, but unfortunately, they lacked morals and fought each other over trivialities that would make children ashamed. Woe betides you if you praise one of them; he will float like a balloon in the air until he explodes on his own.

   One day, while I was driving the poet Jean Raad, who sang with Zaghloul al-Damour for many years, to his residence near the Monastery of Saint Charbel in Punchbowl, a poet stopped us on the way. As soon as he got into the car, he began reciting some of his poems. With all kindness, I said:

- How great you are, our poet...

    Then, the poet Jean Raad pinch my hand to keep me quiet. As soon as our great poet got out, as I had described him, Jean turned to me and said:

- Don't give greatness to anyone, because there is no one great except God. Do you know that you will lose the friendship of most of those you praise, because many of them are undeserving of praise and will turn against you?

   I met poets who sell their poems, and poets who compete to buy them, hoping to recite them at events or publish them in books they proudly and shamelessly sign.

   I was deeply saddened when I saw a poet, for the sake of a trivial presidency, sowing discord and discord among poets, writers, and artists, without batting an eyelid or fearing God.

   But at the same time, I met writers and poets who memorized and repeated that sacred phrase my mother taught me. They adopted humility as a beacon, and I tipped my hat to them.

   I met Nizar Qabbani (without any literary, religious, or academic titles) and learned from him the courage of poetry. He called me the "wonderful rooster." As for Abdul Wahhab Al-Bayati, he asked me to write and write to overcome my alienation. Muhammad Zuhair al-Basha called me the sailor who is searching for God. Nuaman Harb bestowed upon me the title of the poet of the age in exile. Yahya al-Samawi called me the dean of diaspora writers. Mustafa al-Hilwa threw me between classical and colloquial Arabic, and I was torn between which to choose. In my long exile, Bahia Abu Hamad illuminated me as a beacon of letters. May al-Tabaa drew me into a poem sung by other poems, just as Yusuf al-Jazrawi described me as the painter of words and Antoun Antoun as the saint of poetry. A literary icon came to me from Naim Khoury, Issam Haddad made me a prize, Kamal Al-Ayadi a white king, Issam Malki the adornment of poets, Mufid Nabzu the poet of my nation, Zein Al-Hassan the pride of poets, Shawqi Dalal a Lebanese treasure, George Karim an ambassador above ambassadors, Tony Charbel the sword of diaspora literature, Ayoub Ayoub the foremost poet of the diaspora, Iyad Qahouash the poet of poets, Rafiq Al-Dahaibi the genius of the diaspora, Ghassan Munajjed the captain of poetry, Sarkis Karam the master of all, Hamid Awwad a literary gem, Therese Harb the poet of long exile, Joseph Al-Hayek the prince of poetry in the lands of the diaspora, Boutros Andari a distinct phenomenon, Sami Mazloum the moon of words, Fadi Al-Hajj a cedar planted in exile, Suzan Baini the soaring eagle of Mejdlaya, and Ali Bazzi the pioneer of children's theatre. As for Mohsen Edmond Yammine, he acknowledged that time doesn't bring forth a likeness of Charbel Baini every day. Rafiq Ghannoum considered himself lucky to be living in the era of Charbel Baini. Sayed Mikhael asked me to chair the Second Pen League. Youssef Saeed wrote that Charbel Baini shook the eighth poetic cradle in Iraq. Abdo Khalifa warned against public speaking in the presence of Charbel Baini, as anyone who spoke before him would be forgotten by the audience, and anyone who spoke after him would not be listened to. Kamel Al-Murr described me as one of the most important Arab poets of our time, and Ahmed Al-Yasiri as a milestone in Arabic poetry.

   Marwan Kassab called me the genius of exile, Albert Wehba the pioneer of the literary movement, Fatima Naoot the boy dripping with poetry, Suzanne Aoun the ambassador of the poets of the diaspora, Romeo Owais the sultan of the literary arenas, Milad Ishaq the king of poetry, Fouad Naaman Al-Khoury the mill of publishing, and Shaiban Heikal the lover of freedom and the human being.

   Most of these great men have never met each other; in fact, they live in different countries. Some of them I've never met. Yet, with their overwhelming humility, they have elevated me to the highest levels of sublimity. To each of them, I bow my head and pay my respect.

   I've mentioned a few names to avoid prolonging the explanation, since everything said about me is published in Charbel's Encyclopedia, written by the writer Clarck Baini. However, I wanted to focus on the titles I mentioned because some illiterate, petty thieves have begun stealing them and awarding them to even more petty people.

   Yes, some have begun to covet my titles, and I would be honoured to relinquish them to someone who deserves them through their generosity and creativity. However, those who covet them have nothing to do with literature, near or far. They are nothing but a hotbed of baseness.

**

No to the Parliament... Yes, to the Patriarch

 

Charbel Baini. Patriarch Sfeir, Issam Haddad 

   You might say I'm far from humble if I told you that I've been honoured dozens of times in my life, received dozens of awards and certificates of appreciation, and published dozens of books in both classical and colloquial Arabic.

   In 1985, the Lebanese Consul General in Sydney, Dr. Jean Alfa, decided to award me the Cedar Literary Award, the first award I ever received in recognition of my literary work.

   There, at the Lebanese Consulate in Sydney, the Premier of New South Wales, Mr. Nick Greiner, along with several of his ministers, and religious and civil society figures, lined up to listen to my poem, which I recited in the Lebanese dialect. The poem was applauded by Australians before it was by Lebanese, because, as I said before, I use moving recitations that touch hearts before ears.

   This caused Mrs. Samira, the Consul General's wife, to break down and cry profusely as I listed the qualities of her motherhood, moving from country to country.

   The camera captured her, despite her attempts to hide her tears by covering her eyes with her hand and bowing her head forward.

   After I finished speaking, Premier Nick Greiner approached me and said, within earshot of the Consul General:

- I didn't understand anything you said, but I was impressed by your confident, theatrical stance as you spoke, and I was even more impressed by your engaging delivery. I need a young Lebanese man like you to run for parliament in your region, and who knows, I might even choose you as a minister. The Lebanese community is large and deserves proper parliamentary representation.

- But I hate politics and don't like to deal with it, so I beg you to look for someone else.

   At that, our Consul general, Jean Alfa, nudged me and said:

- Don't let this opportunity pass you by. Listen to him and follow his instructions. This is a historic opportunity. Don't waste it.

- I'm sorry, Dr. Jean. I'd rather remain a free poet than become a politician bound by party decisions.

   I believe I made the right decision, as Australian politics has been shattered by the many Lebanese politicians who have entered it and been imprisoned.

Premier Nick Grainer, Minister Jackson, John Alfa and me

   Not only did I refuse the prosecution, but I also refused the presidency of the Lebanese Cultural University in Sydney. The doorbell rang one night, and there was Mr. John (Hanna) Romanos Karam at the door, accompanied by some men. As soon as they entered the house, Mr. Karam turned to me and said:

- Come together. We want to elect you president of the Lebanese Cultural Union by unanimous vote."

   I calmly replied:

- You know, John, that I hate positions of all kinds, so allow me to decline your request with love and respect.

   One of the men said:

- Don't you want to serve your country?

- Yes, but I will serve it only with poetry.

   The crying scene was repeated when His Beatitude Patriarch Mar Nasrallah Boutros Sfeir visited us in 1993. To understand what happened, I will leave you with this story published by teacher Maha Bechara in Al-Bairak newspaper, Issue 728, November 11, 1993:

   “I was standing four meters away from the stage where His Beatitude, our father Patriarch Mar Nasrallah Boutros Sfeir, stood with our virtuous bishops, priests, and nuns during his visit to Our Lady of Lebanon School - Harris Park. Truth be told, I was observing his holy features with rapt curiosity, when I was surprised by tears streaming down his eyes, shining proudly on his pure cheeks, as he listened to the opening poem recited by the poet Charbel Baini. Apparently, the surprise shook Charbel to the point that he was forced to apologize to His Beatitude and stop speaking, after saying, "We want to make you happy, not to make you cry." Here, His Beatitude nodded to him to continue the wonderful poem”.

Samira Alfa, Minister Jackson. John Alfa, Charbel Baini

   Since I refrain from publishing poems in this biography, in order not to prolong the narrative and to be as brief as possible, this poem, which made the Patriarch cry, and hundreds of others, are published online in writing and video. The reader can simply refer to it whenever he wishes.

   Before I conclude, I would like to mention that the Lebanese Ambassador, Latif Abu al-Housn, honoured His Beatitude at the embassy. I was among the invitees, and he wanted to introduce me to His Beatitude. He smiled and said:

- I know him, for he made me cry with his wonderful poem.

   I said:

- I apologize, Your Excellency, if I disturbed you.

- It wasn't the first time I cried. I cried when I saw the orphaned children of Lebanon walking in a silent procession before me.

- Your compassion is overwhelming, Your Excellency...

- I shouldn't have cried.

   Seven years after this incident, I visited Lebanon in 2000. My friend Dr. Issam Haddad asked me to visit the Patriarch in Bkerke. We arrived at 2:00 PM. Upon entering, a priest greeted us and said:

- The Patriarch is resting at this time. Make an appointment for another time.

   Issam told him:

- Tell him that the poet Charbel Baini has come from Australia and wants to see him.

   The priest entered and exited with lightning speed, saying:

- He’s waiting for you."

   I had heard a lot about the Patriarch's impeccable memory, and I believed it because when he saw me, he said, laughing:

- Don't you dare make me cry again.

- Do you still remember, my Patriarch?"

- And how could I forget? Tears write your story better than ink.

   And here I am, my Patriarch, writing my life story with tears and ink, and I hope to succeed."

**

The Poetry Forum (Al-Merbid)

At Babylon - Iraq

   In 1987, the Iraqi Ministry of Culture, under President Saddam Hussein, invited me to participate in the eighth Poetry Forum (Al-Merbid). My famous poem "The Curse of God Be Upon Us" had preceded me there. It was also the first time I had left Australia after 16 years of exile.

   There, cultural delegations began arriving from various countries, bringing more than a thousand poets to the Poetry Forum (Al-Merbid). Among the Lebanese delegation was Dr. Issam Haddad, director of the Alphabet Institute in Byblos, and founder of the Charbel Baini Literary Award in 1993. The first warning he hurled into my ear was:

- Don't you dare read the curse...

   Of course, I wouldn't recite at a grand celebration a poem that had been read by thousands around the world and spread like wildfire. In appreciation of my presence, as I was the only one included in the Australian delegation, they asked me to open (Al-Merbid) Radio with an impromptu speech, which I did. The festival's activities were to begin in the evening, so I decided to carry my poem in my pocket and go to Al-Rashid Hall in Baghdad. To my great surprise, the evening's host asked me to open the poetry recitation. I stood and recited a new poem entitled "I Come to You, Land of Iraq."

   It contained several passages from modern poetry, Khalili's meters, and Lebanese colloquial Arabic. Indeed, I combined them all in one poem. It would be very difficult to omit a single passage, as they were so cohesive that they astonished critics. The Iraqi doctor, Father Youssef Al-Saeed, declared that Charbel Baini had shaken the eighth poetic (Al-Merbid) in Iraq.

   At (Al-Merbid), I formed a strong friendship with the poet Abdul Wahhab Al-Bayati, the critic Naseeb Nimr, Dr. Issam Haddad, the Yemeni poet Mohammed Al-Sharafi, and many others.

   A Lebanese journalist dashed my joy. He approached me and said:

- I'd like to write an article about you in the Beirut newspaper An-Nahar, if you please. I'll record your words on a cassette tape so they reach the readers honestly.

Babylon

   I replied, standing next to me was my guardian angel, Dr. Issam Haddad.

- I didn't come here for fame. I came to smell the air of Iraq and visit the city of Babylon, steeped in history, after a long migration.

- Listen to me, and you'll become very famous. An-Nahar is one of the most powerful newspapers.

- I know this, because I used to publish some of my poems in its weekly magazine.

- So, let's begin.

   I looked at Dr. Issam and asked him for his opinion. He took me aside and said:

- I don't trust this man, but you just have to try.

   I approached the journalist and said:

- You can ask me anything that comes to mind. I'm ready.

   I was greatly surprised when he said:

- Do you know that I pay for the cassette tape out of my own pocket, and that I stay up at night transcribing the conversations I record?

- Okay, what do you want me to do?"

- Pay me $300 as assistance...

- What?!

- Brother, $200...

   So, I grabbed Dr. Issam Haddad by the shoulder and said:

- Let's go, or I'll beat him up.

With Dr. Issam Haddad

   I later learned that this journalist, whose name I'm ashamed to mention, doesn't work for the Beirut-based newspaper An-Nahar, but writes for it occasionally. He began exploiting its name to blackmail poets. So, years later, when they nominated him for the Gibran International Prize in Sydney, I denied him the prize with a single phone call. Dr. Issam told me that the greedy journalist had lost his mind when he received the news that the award had been withdrawn, and began shouting:

- Behind this act is Charbel Baini. He's taken his revenge on me.

   I don't know how the news of his blackmailing me spread among the guests at (Al-Merbid). Yemeni journalist Ahmed Al-Ashwal approached me and politely asked if I could conduct an interview for Al-Thawra newspaper. Before I could even open my mouth, he said:

- It will be free. We don't blackmail poets.

   After the long interview, he asked me:

- The interview is very interesting, but there's something we must delete.

- What is it?

- The news of your work as a porter in the Australian factory. I don't think this is befitting of you as a famous poet.

- Listen, brother Ahmed, if you delete this story, delete the entire interview. But if you keep it, please write this headline in bold: An Interview with the Poet Charbel Baini, Who Worked as a Porter in Australia.

**

The Officer Driver

Eyad Alzamili, Me, Abou Tamam

   By chance, I met my friend Iyad Al-Zamily, owner of the "Kitabat" website, in Iraq. He was a university student, traveling among delegations to meet poets and writers. The supervisors at Al-Merbid had allocated a private room for me during a trip we took to the city of Mosul. Then, one night, there was a knock on the door, and Iyad stood before me and said:

- Can I spend the night with you?

- Of course, please.

   I wasn't afraid of him at all; in fact, I was happy to have someone else entertain me in the room. After an hour of getting to know each other, he looked at his watch and said:

- It's time for prayer. I'll pray behind you, Professor.

   I told him:

- I introduced myself a little while ago and told you my name is Charbel.

- Yes, but I've never heard that name before.

- Haven't you heard of the Lebanese saint Charbel Makhlouf?

- I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'll pray alone.

   After that, he never left my side. He began taking me to many places in Iraq, such as universities, popular markets, and movie theatres. Yes, I watched an Indian movie in Baghdad.

   There was a young driver assigned by the Al-Merbid administration to transport me from the hotel to the literary events spread across various halls.

   This driver would place a picture of his little daughter on the windshield of his car so she would never leave his sight.

- Is this angelic little girl your daughter?

- She is my soul... She is my life... She is the joy of my life.

   He began telling me about her, fatherly tears welling in his eyes. Every chance I got, I would buy her a gift.

Babylon with Ousayma Towajeri

   I considered him a chauffeur chasing a living, until he took me to Baghdad International Airport at four in the morning, to return to Australia.

   Unfortunately for me, the inspectors treated the passengers harshly. Two days earlier, two Malaysians had attempted to hijack a plane, mobilizing the security forces and tightening the noose around the passengers. Then, my turn came. One of them approached me and began searching me, paying no attention to the small card I wore on my chest, proving I was a guest of the Iraqi Ministry of Culture.

   He was searching, while the driver, the child's father, stood silently beside me. I had put all my remaining Iraqi dinars in his pocket. The inspector grabbed my testicles harshly, causing me to scream in pain and say:

- I had hoped to leave Iraq filled with joy, but now Iraq has humiliated me.

   Then the driver turned to the inspector and said:

- This man standing before you is a guest of Iraq, and you have humiliated him.

- And who are you to speak to me like that?

   Suddenly, the driver removed the edge of his jacket, revealing the card hanging inside. Fear gripped him, he shouted:

- Sir, I'm sorry. I was just following orders.

- Go and call one of the hostesses to open the VIP lounge for our valued guest. Perhaps he will forgive us, knowing full well that forgiveness is generous.

**

Who are you going to assassinate in Australia?

military uniform

   Sydney Airport, unlike these days, closed its doors in 1987 at 5:30 PM, and my plane arrived at 4:00 PM.

   I went to the baggage claim room and waited impatiently for my bag to arrive. Two high-ranking officers stood in front of me and said:

- Come with us...

- Where to?

- You'll know when we arrive.

   I entered a small room and found my bag in the middle, surrounded by four officers. One of them asked:

- Did you pack your bag yourself?

- Yes, but many friends visited me at the hotel room to see me off.

- Do you know what was inside the bag?

- Yes, my clothes and some gifts.

   Suddenly, they opened my bag and pulled out a military uniform they had given me before my trip from Baghdad to the Khanqin border area with Iran. I took many photos wearing it while reciting this poem, on the front lines:

Who said: The Tigris and Euphrates

Nourish Iraq with their pure water

So that the palm trees may stand tall like heroes?

Are there any heroes in the universe like the heroes of Iraq?

Those who cultivate the spirit as signs and banners

On the shores of Iraq

Those who burn their lives in faith

So that Iraq may be purified therein...

And those who shed their blood

So that sins may be erased

From the face of Arabism

..And hypocrisy.

   And I forgot to tell you that my poem "I Come to You, O, land of Iraq" was broadcast every night after the newscast, at the request of thousands of Iraqi soldiers.

   I remember that the commander there wanted to honour me, so he invited me on a trip in his military jeep on the road separating Iraq and Iran. An Iranian tank accompanied us the entire trip on the other side of the road. The Australian officer who pulled the military uniform from the bag held it up to me and shouted:

- Tell us, who are you going to assassinate in Australia?

- I'm an Arabic language teacher at the Our Lady of Lebanon school, and my record is clean. You know that?

- Who trained you and who sent you? And who is the intended victim?

- They gave me this uniform so I could recite a poem for the Iraqi army on the border with Iran. Let me show you the pictures.

   They flipped through the pictures, looking at each other, and finally, they were convinced of my innocence. Before they released me, one of them said:

- This uniform is a gift from the American army to the Iraqi army. Unfortunately, our Australian army doesn't have its quality.

Fouad Nammour

   By this time, the airport had completely closed, and the passengers and their greeters had left, except for my mother. She asked everyone who left:

- Have you seen my son Charbel? Is he on this airplane?

   The answer was negative, and her blood pressure rose from fear for me. As soon as she saw me outside, she nearly fainted. She shouted:

- Where have you been? And why were you late?

- I'll tell you at home. I hope you prepared a delicious dinner. I'm hungry... hungry.

   The story didn't end there, because Australian intelligence decided to tap my home phone. I felt this every time I received a call, until Professor Fouad Nammour called me and told me that his nephew, who had come from Jordan, wanted to get to know me. I innocently asked him:

- What does your nephew do?

- He's the head of Jordanian intelligence.

- You're welcome... I'm waiting.

   I waited for an hour, maybe two, but no one arrived. At that point, I decided to call Fouad to ask him what had happened. He shouted at the top of his voice:

- Your phone is being monitored. Several members of the Australian intelligence agency came and took my nephew away for entertainment. They reprimanded him for arriving in Sydney secretly, since they had trained together in London.

   Instead of feeling sad, I was happy because I would ask our honourable Jordanian visitor to mediate with the Australian intelligence agency to remove the wiretapping from my phone. And so, it was.

**

Hotel Gangs

Bangkok

   My invitation to visit Iraq came with flight tickets: from Sydney to Baghdad, and from Baghdad to Sydney. The company they had assigned to book the flights and hotels was Qantas, a well-known airline.

   From Sydney to Bangkok, I was flown by Qantas. There, I found someone waiting to take me to a miserable and frightening hotel. The door to the room I was placed in had been broken into several times, and I couldn't sleep all night, fearing thieves.

   From Bangkok to Baghdad, I was flown by Iraqi Airways. I discovered a vast difference between the two planes. The first was modern, operated by a well-trained, experienced crew, while the Iraqi Airways was in need of complete renovation. Despite sitting alone in the business class suite, I found nothing working at all. The window blinds were broken, the seats wouldn't move, and the walls of the plane shook, making an annoying, even frightening, noise.

Baghdad

   I called the only flight attendant working in the suite and asked him:

- What's wrong with this plane? Nothing works. Aren't you afraid to ride it?

   He replied:

- As you know, we're at war with Iran. Instead of repairing our planes, we're allocating the money to the war effort.

   I arrived in Baghdad, and an employee greeted me in his car to the luxurious Sheraton Hotel, which deserves six stars instead of five.

   When it was time to return, Iraqi Airways took me to Bangkok, which was somewhat better than its predecessor. There, I was afraid they'd booked me into that terrifying hotel. But no, this time the hotel was luxurious and secure, and at the same time, it was rife with thieves. That is, it had arranged with passenger transport companies to the airport so they wouldn't arrive on time, so the plane would fly away and the guests would stay longer.

   In the hotel lounge, I heard that many guests had started selling their valuables to pay their room rent. I didn't know I'd be the next victim until the driver who was supposed to take me to the airport was late.

   Were it not for the existence of people with a living human conscience, the universe would have collapsed on its inhabitants. As soon as I approached one of the workers to ask her why the car taking me to the airport was so late, she whispered in my ear:

- Take a taxi. Don't stay here. The taxi stand is in front of the hotel.

   I thanked her, wishing I could kiss her forehead. I grabbed my bag, got into the taxi, and said to the driver:

- Don't put the meter on. Tell me how much you want, so I can pay you?

- Fifty dollars...

- I'll give you one hundred dollars, provided you arrive at the airport before my flight takes off.

   I arrived, by God's help, ten minutes before take-off. A Qantas flight attendant greeted me with a beaming smile and escorted me to the plane.

**

And I Walked on Dollars

   When I decided to go to Iraq to participate in the eighth poetry festival in 1987, two days before my departure, Mr. Boutros Andari, editor-in-chief of the Australian newspaper Al-Nahar, visited me and asked:

- Will you be bringing American dollars with you to Iraq?

- I'll only bring two thousand dollars.

- That's a lot. Take only three hundred dollars, because you won't need money there. Everything is covered by the Ministry of Culture: your accommodation, transportation, and food.

- But I'll buy some gifts.

- So, do what I once did.

- And what did I do?

- I hid dollars in my shoes.

- Would you advise me to put a thousand dollars in each shoe?

- That's what you should do to avoid having your dollars confiscated. Iraq, unfortunately, is subject to the worst US sanctions, and they are in dire need of hard currency, so you should be careful.

   On the second day, I bought shoes two sizes larger than my normal size, put the money inside, and started practicing my walking. For the first time, I felt like I was stepping on the neck of the dollar, which has trampled on the necks of millions around the world.

   In my wallet, I had only $300 to declare at the airport, where I was warmly received by a specialized committee who took me to the hotel.

     There, you can't buy things by dollars like in Lebanon; you have to convert them to Iraqi dinars. They told me that the black-market exchange rate for the dollar was four times the bank rate. Secret brokers began hovering around me, raising the exchange rate. But I refused to betray the hospitality. I happily visited the bank and accepted the “halal” national currency over the many “haram” ones.

   Believe me, I happily spent most of the money I had in my possession in the Iraqi markets, on gifts and rare books I brought back from there. Iraq, which had so generously hosted me, was obliged to give it a handful of hard dollars, in defiance of American sanctions.

**

Diplomatic Honours

   A tribute to my work at the Lebanese Embassy, following my return from Iraq, will not be written by me, as Syrian engineer Rafiq Ghannoum had already written it in 2002 and published it in his famous book: "The best ever been said about Charbel Baini's Literature." This book contains many of my memories and my journey with the pen. In short, it contains much of what I will mention, and much of what I have not mentioned, in this autobiography, and I advise anyone who wishes to study my literature to refer to it. Here is what he wrote:

   Never in the history of the Lebanese or Arab community in Australia has an Arab embassy opened its doors to honour an Arab writer, as did the Lebanese Embassy in Canberra in 1987 to honour the poet Charbel Baini, who returned from the poetry festival in Iraq.

   Given the widespread coverage of the honouring by diaspora media, I will suffice with excerpts from a large-page article published in the Sada Lubnan newspaper, dated January 12, 1988:

   "In honour of the poet Charbel Baini, who has raised Lebanon's name among the Arab poets in Iraq, the Lebanese Ambassador, Mr. Latif Abu al-Housn, and his wife, Samira, were invited to a literary banquet at the Embassy in Canberra. The banquet included the Arab ambassadors: Anwar al-Houdithi (Iraq), Abdul Rahman al-Awhali (Saudi Arabia), Ali Kayed (Chargé d'Affaires of the Jordanian Embassy), and Mansour Abdullah (Secretary of the Lebanese Embassy), along with a group of distinguished writers and educators, most notably the Sisters of the Holy Family in Harris Park, Sisters Constance Basha, Marlen Chedid, and Madeleine Abu Rjeili, and professors Kamel al-Murr, Fouad Nammour, Naim Khoury, Ismat al-Ayoubi, Georges Tawq, and others."

   So, as we read at the beginning of the article, we find that Lebanese Ambassador Latif Abu al-Housn planned to honour Charbel Baini. He invited Arab ambassadors, nuns, writers, poets, and community leaders in Canberra, and seated the poet Baini under a picture of the then-President of the Lebanese Republic, Mr. Amin Gemayel, as an additional tribute. 

   Here is the rest of the article:

   Lebanese Ambassador Abu al-Housn improvised a speech for the occasion, welcoming the ambassadors and representatives of the Arab countries, the Maronite nuns of the Holy Family, and all those who responded to his invitation to honour the poet Charbel Baini. He also spoke about the role of the writer and about diaspora literature in Australia, “which I do not see as diaspora literature, but rather as expanding or spreading literature, because our diaspora literature proudly maintains its roots deep within the homeland’s soil.”

   His Excellency spoke about the role of the writer in his new homeland, his contribution to its development, and the strengthening of its civilization. He considered that any writer, and any poet, are ambassadors for their country and their mother civilization, and that such ambassadors bear the responsibility of introducing the mother country and its ancient civilization. At the end of his speech, he wished poet Charbel Baini, the Association for the Revival of Arab Heritage in Australia, and all writers and poets who carry the responsibility of the word every progress and prosperity, wishing them further success.

   To ensure that the honouring was held at the Arab level, Ambassador Latif Abu Al-Hassan gave the floor to the Ambassador of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Mr. Abdul Rahman al-Awhali, who "thanked His Excellency the Lebanese Ambassador for providing the opportunity for Arab ambassadors and diplomats to meet poets and writers, emphasizing that his country and all Arab countries bless the efforts of Arab writers and poets in Australia, especially poet Charbel Baaini, who recently returned from the Mirbad Festival in Iraq, "and his fame preceded him, which aroused in us the longing to hear his Mirbad poem."

   Before I share with you excerpts from the speeches and poems of the expatriate poets who participated in the tribute, I would like to inform you that Iraqi Ambassador Anwar Al-Houdithi was no luckier than Mrs. Samia, Ambassador Jean Alfa's wife, or Maronite Patriarch Mar Nasrallah Boutros Sfeir, who both cried while listening to Charbel Baini's poems. In fact, Sada Lubnan reports that he was unable to control his tears while listening to Charbel Baini's poem “Al-Mirbadiya”.

   "As for Charbel Baini, he recited the famous poem, which was interrupted repeatedly by applause, and it had a special impact on Ambassador Al-Houdithi, who was deeply moved and could not control his tears."

   The first speaker was Mr. Kamel El Murr, President of the Arab Heritage Revival Association. He said:

   "Your Excellencies, if I may speak before my fellow poets, I would like to thank His Excellency the Lebanese Ambassador, Dr. Latif Abu Al-Housn. First, for restoring the Lebanese Embassy as it should be, a home for all Lebanese. Second, for giving us the opportunity to meet with you on the occasion of his honouring of the poet Charbel Baini. Third, for this generous gesture to honour one of our leading poets in the Australian diaspora, of whom we are proud."

   After him, the honoured poet Charbel Baini recited his Mirbadiya poem, and a second poem in the Lebanese dialect, from which I chose:

His name is Latif... and Abu al-Housn is a family.

History is the diamond-studded pattern on its chest.

The direction it's in... the direction we favour.

As much as people gather around it,

God is my witness that I loved it.

From the day the wind knocked on my door.

And when he cleared that our house is his house.

We feel sad if they call us immigrants.   

   As usual, the voice of the late poet Naim Khoury roared in a poem that was a volcano in itself, in which he wondered about the state of Lebanon:

"And why is a fierce war against it?

It rages while every thought is dull!

O Abu al-Housn, in your shadow grows the flame of awareness and solid harmony.

You water the places of thought with a fragrant

Narcissistic fragrance so that ingratitude may bloom.

This is a call for humility.

Your virtues include splendour. Witnesses

   At the conclusion of the tribute, a poem by the expatriate poet Ismat Al-Ayoubi ignited the hearts, and it was truly the perfect ending. I have chosen from it:

The letter “Dhad ض” rejoices when a poet is honoured.

And the human being is honoured within the human being.

Charbel is nothing but the youth of our dreams.

He carried the message within the conscience.

Like the buds of a dewy flower, he protects it.

And he crafts it into the most beautiful melodies.

Sometimes it melts with tenderness and gentleness.

And when it erupts, it erupts like a volcano.

   Upon his return to Sydney, in an article published in the An-Nahar newspaper on January 14, 1988, the writer Ismat Al-Ayoubi captured the tribute, as never before captured on video. He said:

   "Tuesday, December 22, 1987, was Charbel's day in Canberra, the federal capital of the country, where His Excellency Ambassador Abu Al-Housn resides. It was decided that the tribute would be held, along with a luncheon hosted by His Excellency in honour of the honouree, attended by the Arab diplomatic corps and members of the participating delegations.

   Early in the morning, the invitees left the state for Canberra, traveling by two routes: one by land and the other by air.

   The three-hours journey between New South Wales and Canberra passed in the blink of an eye, or like a beautiful dream that still engulfed us in a state of ecstasy and elation. We soon found ourselves at the gates of Canberra, trying to figure out the street leading to the Lebanese Embassy, which had given us a gift. With eagerness and longing, I saw the flag of our country fluttering proudly on the corner of the embassy building.

   This is how Ismat Al-Ayoubi depicted his first trip to Canberra to participate in honouring his friend. I admit that I took a few phrases from the article, and I would have published it in full, given its importance, had space not been limited. In conclusion, Ismat said:

   "Over a cup of coffee after lunch, there was a wonderful welcoming speech delivered by His Excellency Ambassador Abu Al-Housn, which included all the invitees. The speech focused particularly on the Arab Heritage Revival Association and its role in serving diaspora literature, which His Excellency suggested we call the literature of expansion and dissemination, so that the connection to the homeland remains strong and intact, far removed from the concept of diaspora and the meanings of alienation and uprooting it entails. He then congratulated colleague Charbel Baini on his perseverance and resistance to the temptations of materialistic life, wishing him continued progress and prosperity, and continued success in the mission he was undertaking.

   Around three o'clock, the meeting adjourned, and commemorative photos were taken. Charbel's day was the day of the diaspora, the day of the homeland, and the day of the Arab nation."

   After this honour, the fraternal relationship between Charbel Baini and Ambassador Latif Abu al-Housn strengthened, and they became more than friends. Charbel honoured him at his home several times and praised him in numerous poems included in his collection, "Beloved 1990." He also defended him steadfastly whenever anyone attempted to attack him or the Lebanese embassy, or viewed Ambassador Abu al-Housn through a sectarian lens, at a time when sectarian fighting was at its peak in Lebanon, the land of the cedars.

   This is what actually happened, as Rafik Ghannoum records in his book "The best ever been said about Charbel Baini's Literature." Telling the story of an immigrant who fled Lebanon, a country of corrupt leadership, in 1971, only to be honoured by Lebanon, a country of sovereignty, dignity, and freedom, at its embassy in the Australian capital, Canberra, in 1987.

**

In Praise of ALI

   Engineer Rafiq Ghannoum did not stop at mentioning my honouring at the Lebanese Embassy in the article I mentioned earlier. He also went on to mention my honouring by the Islamic Association for my collection of poems, "In praise of ALI 1991," which has been translated into numerous languages, including English, French, Spanish, Urdu, and Persian. I may have been the first to introduce the Psalms to Islam, as the collection consists of twenty psalms in the Lebanese colloquial dialect. Here is what he wrote:

   In 1992, the Islamic Association in Sydney, in partnership with the great Lebanese writer George Jerdac and prominent figures from the literary and media community, honoured our poet Charbel Baini. Among the speakers was the ambassador Dr. Latif Abu al-Housn, whose speech was as wonderful as his delivery and presence. Since I will speak about this occasion later, I beg the readers' pardon if I pre-empt events and publish the ambassador's words, given their importance and sincerity. Here is what he said:

   "Whenever I enter Charbel Baini's home, two phenomena take hold of your heart and mind. The first is the radiant smile on the lips of the house's inhabitants, accompanied by the words "Ahlan wa Sahlan" (welcome) that come from the heart. This smile is nothing but a mirror reflecting the precious treasure of love and friendship that Charbel Baini shares with his family. You feel like you are one of the family, a caring mother who bestowed the beauty of love upon the world when she gave birth to Charbel Baini.

   The second phenomenon, which takes hold of your senses and mind, is the slogan—the symbol hung in the most prominent place on the wall of the reception hall, visible to all, near and far. If it spoke, you would hear it say: 'All creation is God's children.' It is a symbol of the unity of Lebanese religions and sects." Charbel gathered them in his home, heart, and mind, embodying them in his supplication to Ali, and uttering them in his seventh psalm:

Your religion is my religion... the religion of love

The love that unites universes

   On the principle of love, religions were united in Charbel Baini's world.

   In the supplication to Ali, love and faith meet on the principle of the supremacy of religions and the rejection of division and fanaticism. God, as Jesus Christ said, is love: "He who abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him." The only law by which man must live and for which, as Mikhail Naimy said, is the law of love, the love of all people and all beings.

   It is no wonder, then, that Charbel Baini drank from the spring of Ali, drawing from it as he wished, and quenching his thirst with his wisdom and purity to establish with him an intellectual and spiritual relationship, stemming from this eternal law, the law of Love for all people and beings.

   When Charbel addresses Ali, you feel as if you are witnessing a musical melody in which the teachings of the divine religions are intertwined in sweet harmony, transporting you from the ocean of faith to the ocean of love, from the earthly world of man to the galaxy of humanity. Above all, it reveals to you that "all creation is God's children; the most beloved to Him is the one who is most beneficial to His children."

   The Ali Address, in addition to being a wonderful literary work, is a shining aspect of Charbel's life, capturing our admiration and appreciation even more. It addresses a topic that touches on our real lives and reflects the most beautiful human and spiritual virtues in social relations between different sects. With this work, it brings to mind the masterpieces of Boulos Salama, George Jerdaq and others who recognized the value of Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib... and his fate.

   The value of this work lies in itself, and we are even more amazed by it because it was produced in exile, serving as a beacon for widespread literature. And a model of religious cohesion. It is a message from the diaspora to the homeland, or rather, a call to reject sectarian fanaticism and blind intolerance, which have nearly torn the nation apart. It is a message to those who use fanaticism as a cover, even a fortress, behind which they spread the poison of division, sometimes in the name of religion, sometimes in the name of the homeland. Neither religion nor the homeland are equal to them.

   A loyal son of Lebanon is one who carries the banner of cohesion, unity, love, and integration. Nations are built on these principles. Congratulations to Charbel Baini for this honour, and congratulations to a unified Lebanon and to a unified Lebanese community, thanks to Charbel Baini.

   I believe that these words of the ambassador were and will remain an ambassador of words in this distant diaspora. They explain themselves, and their meanings compete to explain each other with great precision. He also calls on the Lebanese, through a single citizen named Charbel Baini, to reject sectarianism and build a single, unified nation that embraces its children, all its children. This nation will later become the most beautiful, the homeland of the dreams nested within it and returned to its lands.

   When Ambassador Abu al-Housn retired, Charbel bid him farewell with a moving tribute, during which poems and speeches were recited, and hundreds of pictures of "Latif" were hung throughout the hall. He also dedicated an issue of Leila magazine to him, publishing all the words recited in his farewell. For Charbel Baini, the traveller is no ordinary person: he is his "first honouree" of 1987... he is the one who has bestowed "great favour" that he cannot repay... he is his friend and brother... he is his country's ambassador... he is Latif Abu al-Housn, and that's all.

   Here are excerpts from the speech delivered by Ambassador Abu al-Hassan on his farewell night, published in Leila magazine as an editorial in its twenty-second issue, published in August 1997:

   "Today I feel as if I am in the heart of Btekhnay, in the heart of Mejdlaya, and in the heart of Lebanon... for these surging emotions have rendered me unable to keep up with you in language, eloquence, and structure.

   It is a pleasure for me, surrounded by this fragrant bouquet of friends, to recall memories from twelve years ago. In the first year of our arrival in Australia, Professor Charbel honoured me by hosting a reception for me in his gracious home. The first thing that caught my eye was a painting hanging in the main hall of the house, which included the rituals of all the heavenly religions. I admired this and said to myself that I was witnessing a unique phenomenon that embodies Lebanon, that embodies humanity in Lebanon.

   After I heard, seven or eight years later, that he had actually practiced his convictions, I said: There is no doubt that this man, with what he represents, believes, and believes, is the embodiment of Lebanese values and morals, upon which the nation must be built.

**

My first Marriage

   Don't say I'm jumping from place to place as I recount my life story. At the age of seventy-four, my memory has begun to fail me, and I'm forced to write down my blessings as soon as they appear on my screen.

   My journey through marriage was more miserable than my journey from Lebanon to Australia. My first marriage lasted only four months, and the main reason for my divorce was my move to Melbourne. I had stipulated to my bride before the wedding that she would have to live with me in Sydney, and she agreed, saying:

- A wife must follow her husband wherever he lives.

   Suddenly, the tables turned, and my wife's family decided to bring her to Melbourne, even at gunpoint. Her father brandished a rifle he had hidden in the trunk of his car. If I had wanted to compromise with him, I would have put him in prison for life. But my love for his daughter prevented me from doing so. So, I told him:

- Put the rifle back in the car and take your daughter wherever you want, provided she agrees.

   She approached me and whispered: 

   - I'll be back in a week. Take care of yourself and call me often.

   A week, a month, and six months passed, and she still didn't return. Every time I called, she'd shout:

- If you really love me, come to Melbourne. Here, you'll work at night as my father's taxi driver.

- And do you want me to leave the home I built with the sweat of my brow and the profession of teaching children, which brought me so close to fatherhood, to work as a taxi driver at night, without even having a driver's license?

- That's my condition: either come or get a divorce.

   The civil divorce took place, and then, with the help of Bishop Abdo Khalifa, the Maronite Bishop of Australia, I filed for a Christian divorce.

   That day, a church lawyer asked me if I would divorce my wife if she admitted her mistake and apologized to me.

   I said:

- She won't do that.

- Yes, she did.

   He played me a recording of her voice, admitting that I had treated her well and that it was her mother who had destroyed her home and driven her away from her husband due to her murderous tyranny.

   After she finished her testimony, weeping, he asked me:

- Will you take her back?

   I said:

- If the church gives me a written pledge stating that if my wife bears me a child, she will not carry it to Melbourne and use it as leverage to force me to join her.

   He sighed and said:

- Unfortunately, we can't sponsor anyone.

- Then I want a divorce.

   It was the fastest Christian divorce ever, after six months of marriage, thanks to the support of His Eminence Bishop Abdo Khalifa.

   Since I'm mentioning His Eminence, I'll tell you that he was a fan of my poetry and wrote extensively about it. In fact, in 1988, he wrote an extensive introduction to my collection "God and a Drop of Oil," in which I describe the clergy as "temple thieves," because they rob believers to buy gold crosses in defiance of the wooden cross on which Jesus Christ was crucified.

   In his introduction to the book, his profound literary and religious knowledge and his deep understanding of ecclesiastical theology are evident. Instead of considering my criticism of the clergy as directed at him, he concluded that Charbel Baini with this outburst of his anger, was excluding honourable and pious clergymen, like himself, of course. Without this outburst, his poetry is meaningless.

   He also acknowledged that Charbel Baini was a reformist poet, and I quote the following from his introduction:

   "The twenty-four poems in the collection 'God and a Drop of Oil' are distinguished by the spontaneity and authenticity that are the virtues of a true poet. He does not carve from stone, but rather draws from the sea of poetic. All the poems come as if they were composed simultaneously. Rushing waves, all of their currents resembling one another, give this collection its unity, the cohesion of its ideas, and the breadth of its horizons. We read these poems, despite their diverse topics, and sense that a single breeze dominates them: the breeze of faith, the breeze of honesty, the breeze of objectivity, and also, and finally, the breeze of disgust at the nonsense of those who live honestly with themselves and with others."

   You see how he subjugated the revolutionary poems to his own advantage, transforming them from a trench of attack to one of defence of innocent clerics.

**

My second Marriage

   I swore I would never marry again, but that vow quickly evaporated when I fell in love.

   I've heard them say in Arab TV series, "Love is so humiliating." I used to laugh at this saying until I was humiliated by my love for a girl from the honourable Sunni Islamic sect.

   She is "Leila," the daughter of my friend, Professor Esmat Al-Ayoubi. She loved me, and I loved her, transcending the common proverb that says, "He who marries someone from a different faith will fall into a different ailment." God truly helped me, as our marriage lasted for more than 16 years, after which we divorced for trivial reasons, far removed from sectarianism and religion.

   Her family became my family, and remains so to this day. Every member of it is respected, not just by me, but by everyone in society.

   Because of my intense love for her, I founded a monthly magazine called "Leila." It lasted for more than four years, until I was forced to stop it after the psychological trauma, I suffered following the death of my mother in my car while we were returning from visiting our relative, Mr. Boutros Zaiter.

   In 1999, we decided to visit Lebanon after 28 long years of exile. Dr. Issam Haddad, the founder of the Charbel Baini Literary Award, welcomed us at his home. We stayed there for less than ten days, after which we moved to an apartment we had purchased in the "Samiria" area, near "Al-Nakhla," my wife's village.

   The apartment owner, Engineer Qassim Breish, handed us the key before charging us a single dollar. He drove us to Tripoli, where we bought all the furniture from a single store, on the condition that he immediately transport it to our apartment.

   The shop owner was at a loss as to what to do. It was getting late, and he had to either close his shop or find a truck to transport the furniture, so as not to lose a large sum of money he would receive in cash.

   While we were resting inside his shop, he was running from shop to shop, asking their owners for a truck driver to rescue him from this predicament. Apparently, luck had been on his side of the bargain when a truck stopped in front of his shop, and two men got out to transport the furniture.

   We slept in the apartment the day we bought it, without informing Dr. Issam of the deal, as he wouldn't have agreed, and how could he, given that he had set aside the sixth floor of his building for our comfort. When he found out about the apartment, he shouted at me:

- Why did you buy an apartment when you have one in Jbeil-Byblos?

   I sensed that he didn't want me to buy an apartment so I wouldn't be far from him. The moment I arrived in Lebanon, I asked him to show me apartments for sale, on the condition that they overlooked a valley.

   He said in his beloved Lebanese accent:

- O, my friand, the apartment must be above a valley. Lebanon is all valleys. You can stop and explore wherever you want.

   After two days of arduous, continuous movement from apartment to apartment, from town to town, without liking anything, he stopped his car and said, sighing:

- Get down...

   So, I got down.

- Look around. Is there a more beautiful view than this? Wherever you buy something, you'll find yourself overlooking a valley, a mountain, or the sea. This is Lebanon.

   Issam was right. The apartment I bought in the Samiria area overlooked “Qornet El-Sawda” from one mile and the Mediterranean Sea from another.

**

Airport Recommendation

   Brigadier General Mohammad Yasser El-Ayoubi tried to honour me the moment I arrived at Beirut Airport. I had never met him before, but I had heard his name from his brother, Professor Ismat. It was my first time returning to Lebanon, and I was filled with fear of being arrested after 28 years of exile.

   What did our general do? He sent an officer to the airport to receive me and arrange my exit without standing in line among the passengers. I hadn't known this, so I was afraid when an officer entered the plane and called my name:

- Mr. Charbel Baini.

   I remained silent, and he called again:

- Mr. Charbel Baini...

   Before he could finish calling, the mother of one of my students, who was sitting behind me, nudged me:

- Didn't you hear, Mr. Baini, that he's calling you?

   At that point, I stood up and said:

- Yes, what do you want?

- Don't worry, I have a recommendation from Brigadier General Mohammed Yasser El-Ayoubi, and all you have to do is follow me.

   Here I breathed a sigh of relief, thanked him politely, and said:

- Among the passengers are many of my students' families, and I'd rather stand in line with them so they don't say when they return to Sydney, 'Charbel Baini encourages connections.'

   He looked at me in surprise and said:

- What about Brigadier General Al-Ayoubi's recommendation?

- I'll thank him myself and explain the situation.

   He left me, shaking his head in surprise. When I arrived at the airport gate, I saw him standing there. I greeted him with a salute.

   I left the airport around 11:00 PM, and it was raining heavily. Professor Ismat had hired a driver from the Koura area. When we arrived in the “Dawora” circle, we were stopped at a Lebanese gendarmerie checkpoint. They asked the driver for the car's papers and if he had had it serviced. He replied, "The car has no papers and no mechanics."

   They immediately ordered him to park the car in a very dark place. Several impounded cars were nearby, one of which contained a small child crying with fear.

   The driver was frightened and asked Ismat to call his brother, the brigadier general, for help. He got out of the car, headed toward the checkpoint, and asked:

- Who is the officer in charge here?

   One of the soldiers pointed him to the officer. He approached him and said:

- I am Ismat al-Ayoubi, the brother of Brigadier General Muhammad Yasser al-Ayoubi.

   The officer looked at him and said:

- I am Ayoubi too, but I don't know you.

- Because I've lived in Australia for a long time...

- If you really are the Brigadier General's brother, call him and let me speak with him.

   As I mentioned earlier, the miracles of the security saint are endless. He was with one of his friends in the “Dawora” area, and moments later, the officer in charge hugged him and welcomed him warmly.

   When I saw the Brigadier General, I got out of the car and heard him say:

- Our son-in-law, Charbel Baini, is coming from Australia. He's not to blame for what happened. It's almost midnight now, and the weather is very cold. Take the driver's name and address, and let the son-in-law sleep and rest after his long journey.

   The officer approached the driver and said:

- Next time, we'll detain you and your car, but for the sake of our expatriate children, we'll let you go now. Go.

   At that, courage seized me as I looked at the crying child and said:

- I won't go, unless everyone leaves. Either the blessing of Brigadier General Ayoubi includes everyone, or I'll sleep in this car."

   The officer laughed and said:

- Your cousin, O, Brigadier General, has truly become an Australian. Everyone can go.

   And indeed, he released the rest of the passengers. In their joy, they waved their hands to me, to the Brigadier General, and to the officer, wishing us long life. The crying little boy looked up at me with tearful eyes and blew me a kiss.

**

Charbel Baini Award

   In 1992, Dr. Issam Haddad established Charbel Baini Award and began distributing it to outstanding students at the Alphabet Institute in the city of Byblos.

   In 1996, we began distributing the award in Australia at a grand ceremony held at the Orion Centre in Campsie. Since then, the award has been distributed to creative individuals worldwide.

   First, I sent out nomination forms for the award in Leila magazine, and the winner received the most votes. This meant that the magazine's readers would choose the winners, so I was not responsible for the selection process. I also established a committee to oversee the nominations to prevent any manipulation of the results.

   Four years passed, and the readers chose the winners until the magazine ceased operations. I then established a secret committee composed of four previous winners, as no one was allowed to win twice in the same literary, artistic, or social field.

   It's true that I wasn't entirely satisfied with the readers' choice, as they awarded the prize to someone who was completely undeserving. But there's nothing I can do about it. The readers made their choice, and they are responsible for it.

   Dr. Issam Haddad sent his congratulations to the winners as follows:

  “ I offer my congratulations from Lebanon to all the winners of the Charbel Baini Award, and I ask them to always live up to the responsibility. Carrying an award is like carrying a mountain. You either walk with your head held high or you'll crumble beneath it.”

   What's truly unfortunate is that some winners have begun to groan beneath the mountain of the award. One of them has threatened to return it if I don't carry out his orders. Therefore, I have published this important warning on the award's website:

   “To anyone who feels unable to carry the mountain of honour, or that they may crumble beneath it, or that it is too big for the Charbel Baini Award, all they have to do is respectfully return it to its owners, as it was handed over to them. They have our sincere thanks and appreciation, and we regret their choice.”

   Thirty-three years have passed, and the award continues to be distributed in Australia, the Arab world, and all over the world.  

   Dr. Issam Haddad created it to remain, and it will remain, God willing.

**

Gibran Award

   As for the award whose clinical death I deeply mourned, I apologize profusely for this comparison, because the Gibran Khalil Gibran International Prize was poisoned by their dissensions, slaughtered by their intrusion into literature, and buried with their hatred, even at the height of its glory.

   It may be no secret if I say, with all pride, that I was the one who founded it in mid-1985, when I was preparing to print the poetry collection "The Long Exile" at the "Culture" press, owned by Mr. Kamel El Murr. El Murr began to complain to me about his concerns at the "Arab Heritage Revival League," which he headed. After he finished sighing and speaking, I said to him:

- Why doesn't the League distribute an annual award in the name of the Lebanese philosopher Gibran Khalil Gibran? I am certain that those who covet it, and there are many of them, will rally around you and may even join the League in an effort to obtain it.

   He appreciated the idea and asked me to draw the award certificate for him to print. He also asked Professor Sabri Ramadan to draw the medal. Due to his extensive workload, he was unable to print it until late 1986, when it was distributed at a grand ceremony in 1987. I was one of the first winners, even though I hadn't yet joined the association.

   The Arab Heritage Revival Association has undertaken countless literary projects and welcomed many prominent Lebanese and Arab writers, poets, and thinkers. Indeed, its award has become a source of pride for prominent figures, such as our ambassador to the stars, Fairuz, the poet Nizar Qabbani, the Egyptian thinker Dr. Rifaat al-Saeed, Dr. Issam Haddad, the Yemeni poet Muhammad al-Sharafi, and many others.

   When I resigned from the association, it began to receive a growing number of members. The worm began to eat away at it, and the greed for its presidency began to destroy all its foundations, to the point that its founder, Mr. Kamel al-Murr, left the association.

   Years after my resignation, I tried to restore her literary glory, which had illuminated the world. I contacted my friend Elie Nassif and Mr. Kamel El-Murr for this purpose, and they agreed without hesitation. However, the association clinical death proved too much for my efforts.

**

Association for the Development of Poetry and Heritage

   The popular saying "God afflict and helps" rings true when He tested us with the demise of the Association, and then helped us with the birth of the " Association for the Development of Poetry and Heritage," founded by Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad.

   I decided to join it, and how could I not? I saw Bahia's boundless drive for the advancement of literature, just as I had when I was a young man, setting the stage ablaze. I was nicknamed "The Microphone," due to my participation in most of the community's events, weddings, and funerals, as well as the concerts of artists coming from home.

   I heard from Dr. Abou Hamad what I wanted to say, and I tipped my hat to her and began to support her wholeheartedly. She continued to give more and more to literature and art. Without her, and this is a testimony to history, poets would not have met poets, and artists would not have excelled. She was the one who opened the doors of Australian parliaments to honour poets, writers, and artists. She was the one who introduced Lebanese zajal and raised its banner in those parliaments.

   Just as the Arab Heritage Revival Association invited poets and writers to Australia, so did the Association for the Development of Poetry and Heritage, even doubling the invitations to inoculate resident literature with literature from around the world.

   Given the association's many activities, especially after the opening of her salon, which was affiliated with Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad, I told the doctor:

   - The word 'association' should be replaced with 'institution,' because what it does is more like an institution with complete departments and activities.

   To be fairer, I must acknowledge that this pioneering intellectual institution has bestowed upon me more glory than my pen can articulate. It distributed the Charbel Baini Prize on its Silver Jubilee at the UNESCO Palace in Beirut, and printed a book written by Dr. Bahia, entitled " Charbel Baini the glow of literature 2019," in three countries: Australia, Malaysia, and Lebanon. She signed it in countries, halls, and places too numerous to mention.

   I proudly recall that she was the reason for establishing the Library of Diaspora Literature at the Lebanese Consulate General in Sydney, which has preserved hundreds of books by poets, writers, and thinkers living abroad in Australia. Without her, an invaluable literary heritage would have been lost.

   What's truly gratifying is that Dr. Bahia speaks, reads, and writes fluently in three languages: Arabic, English, and French. This is something anyone who wants to lead a literary association need.

   Just as I was ingratitude when I held seminars at my home, I was ingratitude when I was ingratitude in her salon. It also happened to me, as an active member of her cultural foundation.

   To express my gratitude, I added the name of the "Association for the Development of Poetry and Heritage" to the list of donors of the Charbel Baini Award, including Dr. Issam Haddad, the Alphabet Institute in Byblos, and the Al-Ghorba website.

   It remains to be mentioned that the award went to her in 2015. Without her, the Library of Diaspora Literature at the Consulate General in Sydney and many other Arab consulates would not have existed.

   My literary journey with Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad continues, God willing, because the wheat is plentiful but the Harvesters are few.

**

Library of Diaspora Literature

   When the head of the Kafer Saroun Charitable Association, Mr. Elie Nassif, told me that the books of the expatriate poet Naim Khoury were being burned to light the charcoal in the barbecue, I went berserk. Naim is one of the most important poets of the Australian diaspora and the author of "Charbel Baini a Literary Icon" (2005). All we have to do is preserve every word he bleeds in his exile. No one but Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad is capable of finding a way to preserve our expatriate literature from the flames of expatriate generations who do not read Arabic.

   A letter of several lines I sent to her, like all the letters I have previously sent to various officials to preserve our expatriate literature from being lost, turned it into an honourable Arab national cause.

   The story begins in mid-2014, when Dr. Bahia told me she was traveling to Lebanon, where she would meet with some Lebanese ministers and officials. I responded by saying:

- You could provide a great service to diaspora literature if you could convince the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Emigrants to issue a government order establishing a library in every embassy or consulate to preserve our diaspora literature.

   Without hesitation, she asked me for an official letter to deliver to the Minister. I wrote:

   Sydney, June 4, 2014

   Dear President of the Association for the Development of Poetry and Heritage, lawyer Bahia Abu Hamad.

   Greetings from the Lebanese Diaspora.

   During my television interview with you, I suggested the idea of establishing a library in the Lebanese consulate or embassy to preserve our literary output published in Australia. Hundreds of books will be lost, shrouded in the dust of oblivion after being lost, dispersed, and the death of their authors.

   If they agree to implement this idea, I am willing to donate all the works of the writers in my library, plus the bookcase in which they will be stored.

   One might ask: Who will read these books?

   The answer: These books are for preservation, not for reading. They are a Lebanese diaspora heritage that honours my country, Lebanon. Who knows, they may attract academic researchers to study and shed light on them.

   I hope, my dear Bahia, that my request will be heeded.

With respect,

Charbel Baini

**

   My request was heeded, first by a cultured Saghbine woman named Bahia, and second by the Minister of Foreign Affairs and Emigrants, Mr. Gebran Bassil, who circulated the decision to the rest of the Lebanese embassies, and by Consul General George Bitar Ghanem. Our Consulate General in Sydney has become the first library of its kind in our diaspora history anywhere in the world, containing more than 450 books to date, all of which are our own. It's worth noting that the president of the Association for the Development of Poetry and Heritage donated the library's cost, not me, as stated in the letter. A thousand thanks to her.

   Not only that, but "Al-Bahia" not only preserved Lebanese literature from extinction, but also carried the idea to other Arab consulates and embassies, making the Iraqi Consulate in Sydney the second library dedicated to preserving Iraqi diaspora literature. I hope that the honourable Iraqis will send their books to the consulate as soon as possible.

   Here is the exciting news:

   "On August 25, 2015, as part of an initiative by lawyer Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad, the Consulate General of Iraq in Sydney received the private library for preserving books and the literary, poetic, and cultural productions of Iraqi poets, writers, and intellectuals. The ceremony was attended by His Excellency the Consul General of the Republic of Iraq, Mr. Bassem Abbas Daoud, and all consulate staff. Dr. Abou Hamad praised the honouring of His Excellency the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Dr. Ibrahim Al-Ashiqar Al-Jaafari, and his support for culture, poetry, thought, and literature, and his emphasis on the importance of communication between Iraqi residents and Iraqis abroad. She also commended the Consulate General's efforts to preserve Iraqi heritage, poetry, and literature between residents and expatriates, as well as Iraqi literary, poetic, and cultural production. She expressed her hope for the success of this initiative, especially since it will include all Arab diplomatic missions in Australia and abroad. She also thanked the Iraqi consular corps and all attendees for their support and assistance. On this occasion, Abou Hamad announced her continued readiness to serve Iraq.

   His Excellency the Consul General then briefly commended Dr. Abou Hamad's efforts in this initiative, saying that she deserves our utmost respect. We wish her success in her project, which includes preserving the cultural and poetic output of Arab communities in Australia. Dr. Abou Hamad and poet Charbel Baini are in the process of presenting a collection of books by Iraqi writers and poets in Australia for preservation in the library.

   Not only that, but the sun of Saghbine has promised to establish a library in every Arab mission in Australia. How can I not applaud her, tip my hat to her, give her my award, praise her, and thank her?

   A simple idea I conveyed to her has become a national cause that Arab ministries are paying attention to and honouring her for. Don't I have the right to demand that she be awarded the Lebanese Order of Merit? Yes, by God, because she sacrifices time and money to realize an idea articulated by a suffering person in a particular country and at a particular time.

   There are great people who have worked silently to overcome our alienation, whether socially, humanitarianly, literary, artistically, or folklorically. Lebanon and other countries must honour them. Woe betides a nation that does not honour its creators.

**

Selling our Apartment in Lebanon

   An unfortunate incident happened to Leila and me while we were returning from visiting the Haddad family in Byblos. Dr. Issam insisted on taking us to our apartment in the Sameria area of Koura. Unfortunately, I refused and told him:

- Let us take the bus like in the old days...

- Buses are unsafe, especially at night.

- We'll try...

   And if only we hadn't tried. The trip was excellent, until the minibus stopped to transport a Syrian worker to Tripoli.

   In front of me sat a young Lebanese policeman, his forearm muscles nearly tearing his shirt. The minibus was packed with passengers, except for the seat next to the policeman.

   The Syrian worker walked over to the seat to sit down, and the policeman put his foot on it and said:

- Sit somewhere else.

- Please, let me sit. I'm exhausted from the intensity of work.

- Get out of here... or else...

   As is well known, all young Syrian men are subject to military service, meaning they are trained to fight. So, the young man approached and pushed the gendarme's leg away. The gendarme slapped him, shouting:

- Go back to your country... We don't want you here!

   At that point, some of the young Syrian men on the bus stood up to support their fellow countryman. Several young Lebanese men also stood up to support their fellow countryman. As the slaps and insults flew along, Leila became frightened and tried to jump out of the back window of the bus, which was moving at top speed.

   A passenger in his fifties noticed her and grabbed her to prevent her from throwing herself out of the window. As soon as I saw Leila's panic, to the point of confusion and lack of proper thinking, I shouted at the top of my voice:

- Driver, stop the bus... Get us out of this animal pen!

   Here, they stopped fighting and looked at us as we pushed them aside to pass. Before we got out, I turned to the Lebanese policeman and said:

- It appears from your actions that they hired you on the recommendation of a certain leader. If you had undergone proper military training, you would have known that it is your duty to maintain security wherever you are. If I were you, I would have taken off my uniform.

   My words embarrassed him in front of the passengers, and he said:

- I apologize. I was joking with him. Please don't leave the bus.

   But we left it in the Batroun area. Night had begun to obscure the picturesque scenery, and rain was slowly falling, as if to dampen our anger.

   A few minutes later, a taxi stopped nearby, and its driver peered out the window and said:

- Where are you going? To Tripoli?

- Yes, on the condition that you don't take anyone else in your car.

- Tell me, what's the story? And why are you afraid of people? We are a peaceful people.

   I told him what had happened to us on the minibus, and he said:

- Allow me to show you the true Lebanese face, and for free. I will show you the beauty of Tripoli, from the Rashid Karami Museum, to the port area, passing by the Citadel, to the hill area, and Moutran Street, and I will take you on a walk by the sea.

- Your words reflect a high level of culture...

- Yes, I am a doctor. I work as a taxi driver at night to support my children.

   Here, we began to relax and listen to him, until he asked me:

- You didn't introduce yourself... Who are you?

- Charbel Baini from Australia...

- By God, I've heard your name before... My brother lives in Australia... So, allow me to take you to your place of residence. I won't let you go with another driver who might spoil your mood.

- Thank you. Your kind words made us forget what had happened on the bus.

- I want you to make a promise: that you won't stop visiting your country. Lebanon is in dire need of the support of its expatriate children.

   Before we got out of his car, I threw fifty dollars into his pocket. He swore he wouldn't take it, so I told him:

- This isn't for you, it's for your children.

   As we said goodbye, Laila shouted:

- We have to sell the apartment. Lebanon isn't safe at all. If you want to visit it, visit it alone.

   The apartment I'd dreamed of spending the rest of my life in vanished the moment that tyrannical, failed policeman put his foot on the minibus seat. I stopped visiting Lebanon from January 2002 until August 2023, when I was invited to celebrate the unveiling of my statue.

**

The Palestinian Cause

   As soon as I began writing, I vowed to champion justice, especially the causes of oppressed and displaced peoples. Therefore, I believed in the Palestinian cause and began to sing its praises in poetry and prose. I even published a collection dedicated to it, titled "Diary of a Foreign Correspondent in the Middle East." From this, I chose:

Revolt, O Palestine

And break the shackles of the despicable enemy

And be immortal for a mighty people

And become...

Letters that all lines fear

   I saw that most peoples were fighting among themselves, except for the Palestinian people. Therefore, I began to envy them for their unity, despite their many revolutionary organizations.

   This was in the 1960s and early 1970s. Today, however, the cause has been lost in the darkness of differing ideologies, which have fanned the flames of hatred, indeed the hell of death, among its people.

   Yes, the rope has been lost, as they say, and we, the believers in the just cause, open our mouths in astonishment, lamenting every word we wrote. My faith has begun to shake, not in the innocent Palestinian people, but in those who are leading them to destruction, and there are many of them.

   Millions of Palestinians have been displaced as a result of ideological, political, and external disputes that have nothing to do with the Palestinian cause. Who pays? Who gets paid? No one knows, but we do know that what we believed in has begun to shake. And if you ask me who shook it, I will answer with all honesty: not Israel, but the Palestinians themselves.

   In order not to stop supporting the Palestinian cause, I preferred emigrating rather than remaining silent. I left my home, my family, my people, my country, and I have not stopped supporting the cause, even in Australia.

   And now, I find myself frustrated, to the point where I have decided to distance myself from everything. 1948 was more merciful to the Palestinians than 2024, as neither the Arab nor Islamic countries, nor even the United Nations, took action. So that Gaza doesn't fall like others, I hope the Palestinians will set up their tents on their land, stand like trees in the fields, and wave their hands like windmills, lest a mad Don Quixote defeat them.

   And if you were to ask me this question now:

- If I had known at the time that the Palestinians would fight each other, would I have stopped supporting their cause?

   I would answer yes and no:

   Yes, because the intense frustration that struck me, as a result of the devastation that befell my homeland, Lebanon, and the displacement of my people, rendered me unable to gather my thoughts.

   Yes again, because a military trainer once told me:

- To win a battle, you must know your internal enemy before your external enemy. Otherwise, you will bring destruction to your homeland and reap death. An ill-advised war always leads to counterproductive results. And I remembered what I wrote in 1969:

War is not what it was

two centuries ago, or more:

A bow and arrows,

and a horseman who rivals “Antar” in the battlefield.

Our war today...

Navy fleets,

Radar...

and its atoms.

Our war today...

Missiles

Desecrating, whenever they wish, the galaxy.

   Yes, entering war does not take place through dazzle and empty claims, but through planning and the acquisition of modern technology, such as communications, weapons, and the like.

   And yes, thirdly: because if I hadn't emigrated, I would have chosen a different direction in writing. I would have remained in the military, serving Lebanon with sincerity and loyalty. And who knows, as Minister René Moawad said, I might have become a leader, a president, or a minister, according to the abhorrent sectarian distribution.

   And now I will answer you NO: because the Palestinian cause, in which I believed, was just, and remains just. This people, who possess the highest levels of culture and education, has the right to return to their homeland. Their return, unfortunately, will only be achieved through lasting peace. World War I ended in lasting peace, and World War II ended in lasting peace. War brings nothing but death, while peace sows joy in the hearts of children. Try it.

   On the other hand, exile has given me greater, even absolute, freedom to express my thoughts without hesitation or fear of a night visitor.

   And the most important question: Would I have been able to write "Maniacs,1976" "How did the ears of corn ripen? 1987" or "God's Curse on Us" if I had been in Lebanon? I don't think so.

**

Charbel Baini in Their Pens

   Clark Baini, my cousin, lives in Melbourne, which is an hour away from Sydney by plane and ten hours by car, but he was closer to me than my own shadow.

   One day, he called me and said:

- We live abroad. Our future generations will speak English with some Arabic words. So, the idea of collecting everything written about you in a series titled "Charbel, Baini in their Pens" occurred to me.

   I welcomed the idea very much, but I insisted that he publish criticism before praise. Otherwise, the series would be useless if it were not sincere.

   In 1986, the first book in the series was published and was well-received by the media and cultural establishment, especially since it contained articles from those who insulted and praised me without distinction.

   Due to the large number of books written about me, books continued to appear every year, and were even reprinted numerous times. Finally, in 2022, after the death of its author, it appeared as a ten-volume encyclopedia with over 3,000 pages. The books published about me were not included in the series due to their sheer number.

   If Clark hadn't thought of collecting the thousands of articles that discussed my literature, both positively and negatively, they would have all been lost, and people would have forgotten the literary and media names that appeared on the pages of our exile and disappeared without anyone mentioning them.

   I believe that no one has written about me without the encyclopedia "Charbel Baini in Their Pens" being an important reference for them.

   Here are the books been published, along with their authors' names, publication years, and number of editions:

1- Charbel baini in their pens-1, Clark Baini, 1986

2- Charbel baini in their pens-2, Clark Baini, 1987

3- Charbel baini in their pens-3, Clark Baini, 1988

4- Charbel baini in their pens-4, Clark Baini, 1989

5- Charbel baini in their pens-5, Clark Baini, 1989

6- Charbel baini in their pens-6, Clark Baini, 1990

7- Charbel baini in their pens-7, Clark Baini, 1990

8- A walk with Charbel Baini, Kamel El-Murr, 1988

9- Charbel Baini: A sailor searching for God, Mouhamad Z. Bacha, Syria, 1988, 1993

10- Humanitarian Glow in Charbel Baini's book: In praise of Ali, Najwa Assi, 1993

11- Charbel Baini in the praise of Ali's book, Ahmad Hammoud, 1993

12- Charbel Baini: A poem which has been sang by poems, May Tabbah, 1994

13- Charbel Baini at Macarthur University, 1996

14- Best ever that has been said about Charbel Baini's literature-1, by: Rafiq Ghannoum, 2002, 2010

15- Best ever that has been said about Charbel Baini's literature-2, Rafiq Ghannoum, 2002, 2010

16- Charbel Baini the white king, Kamal Ayyadi 2010

17- From Naim Coorey to Charbel Baini, 2009, 2010

18- Fast words about Charbel Baini, Dr. Ali Bazzi 2010

19- Charbel Baini, the poets’ ornament, Isam Melkey, 2014

20- Charbel Baini the poet of the century, Naman Harb, Syria, 2014

21- Charbel Baini the brave rebel, Michel Houdaid, 2014

22- Letters of the great to Charbel Baini, 2014

23- Charbel Baini a distinctive signature in the garden of the expatriation poetry, Shawki Moslemani, 2014

24- Charbel Baini is a distinctive phenomenon, Peter Indary, 2014

25- Charbel Baini the pride of the poets, Zein Alhassan, 2014

26- Charbel Baini poet of the dark expatriation, Dr. Jamil Doaihi, 2014

27- Charbel Baini is my nation’s poet, Mufed Nabzo, Syria, 2014

28- The revolution in Charbel Baini’s Poetry, Joseph Boumelhem, 2014

29- Charbel Baini a pioneer of the expatriation poetry, Antonios Bourizk, 2014

30- Dear Charbel Baini, Dr. Issam Haddad, Lebanon, 2014

31- Beware of befriending Charbel Baini, Fatima Naoot. 2015

32- Charbel Baini the painter of works, Father Yousif Jazrawy 2016

33- Charbel Baini a love song, by Akram El Mougawich 2016

34- Letters from Mouhad Zouhair Bacha 2016

35- We and Charbel Baini, Hadla Kassar, Mahfoud Jarrouj. Romeo Oueis 2016

36- The South of Lebanon honouring Charbel Baini 2017

37- Charbel Baini Award Silver Jubilee, 2017, UNESCO Place Beirut.

38- Charbel Baini Jubilee: Silver 1993, Gold 2018

39- Charbel Baini the glow of literature: Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad

40- Charbel Baini: A Great Man of Words – 2020

41- Charbel Baini: Between Classical and Colloquial Arabic. Dr. Mustafa Al-Halwa 2020

42- Charbel Baini: The Voice, the Echo, and the Scope. Ismat El-Ayoubi. 2022

43- Charbel Baini in their pens encyclopedia, 10 volumes, by the immortal writer Clark Baini. 2022

44 Charbel Baini: Pioneer of Children's Theatre, Dr. Ali Bazzi. 2022

45- 2023 - Charbel Baini: The true voice of Lebanon, by Dr. Marwan Kassab. 2023

   Regarding the Charbel Baini in their pens encyclopedia, poet Shawqi Moslemani said that he had never known a poet or writer who had compiled everything written about him in a ten-volume, over 3,500 pages, except for Charbel Baini.

   As you can see, my literary exile was not barren. It was adorned with love and appreciation by all those whose names I mentioned in this chapter. May mercy be upon those who have departed this world, and may long life be granted to those who remain radiant among us.

**

I've Been Honoured a lot

The talent of writing exhausted me greatly. It forced me to leave my country and exposed me to insults and threats. Yet, I didn't give it up. Instead, I continued to defend what was right, moving from one party to another to declare to members of the community my belief in the unity of the Lebanese people, with all their sects. Yes, my only concern was for the community to distance itself from everything happening in Lebanon. It's true that I was subjected to much political pressure to "keep my head down," but how could they? A cowardly writer is not worthy of writing, and readers will not care about their literature.

These patriotic stances bore fruit. I have been honoured many times in my life. The love of others for me was the lifeblood that provided me with energy and strength. How beautiful is an honour if it comes without seeking it, as some do. And believe me, I didn't seek fame, honour, or an award. Honest, humane literature shines like the sun's rays, and everyone will feel its warmth.

Here is a list of the names of those who honoured me while I was alive:

- In 1985, Ambassador Jean Alfa honoured me in the presence of New South Wales Premier Nick Greiner and numerous politicians, artists, and literary figures.

- In 1987, the Iraqi Ministry of Culture honoured me by inviting me to participate in the Al-Merbid Poetry Festival in Iraq.

- In 1987, Ambassador Latif Abu Al-Housn honoured me at the Lebanese Embassy in Canberra in the presence of the Arab diplomatic corps and members of the literary, social, and religious community.

- In 1991, I was honoured by the expatriates of the town of Mejdlaya in Australia.

- In 1992, the Alawite Islamic Society, in partnership with the writer George Jerdac and members of the literary and media community, honoured me for my international collection, Munajat Ali.

- In 1992, the Alphabet Institute in Byblos, Lebanon, owned by Dr. Issam Haddad, awarded the Charbel Baini Prize. In 1994, the prize was awarded in Australia and continues to be awarded.

- In 1992, Deakin University, Australia, published a profile of my life and writings in a book entitled: A Bibliography of Australian Multicultural Writers Page 18

- In 1993, the Arab community in Australia celebrated my Silver Jubilee.

- In 2001, the League of Lebanese Societies in the St. George area of Sydney, headed by Hajj Khalil Harajli, honoured me.

- In 2001, the Maronite Sisters of the Holy Family at Our Lady of Lebanon Institute in Harris Park, headed by Sister Irene Bou Ghosn, honoured me.

- In 2001, the former Mukhtar of Mejdlaya, Elias Nassif Abi Khattar, honoured me on the occasion of my return to Lebanon, in the presence of village dignitaries.

- In 2002, the Al-Babtin Dictionary of Contemporary Arab Poets committee dedicated pages 670 and 671 of the second volume, second edition, Kuwait, to me. Three of my poems in classical Arabic were published: Adeeb Ghareeb, Zilal, and Hanan, written in my own handwriting.

- In 2012, the Iraqi Media and Culture Foundation, owned by Dr. Muwaffaq Sawa, honoured me for my cultural, theatrical, and media creativity in Australia.

- In 2014, the Lebanese Community Council in Sydney, headed by Mr. Ali Karnib, honoured me on the occasion of Liberation Day.

- In 2015, the Australian Arab Nationalists Gathering, headed by Mr. Musa Merei, honoured me during the holy month of Ramadan.

- In 2015, I was honoured by His Excellency the Consul General of Lebanon in Sydney, Mr. George Bitar Ghanem, on the occasion of the launch of the Library of Diaspora Literature with Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad.

- In 2016, I was honoured by the Australian Lebanese Youth Club, Victoria.

- In 2016, Australia, in partnership with Lebanon, honoured me in the New South Wales State Parliament, under the supervision of Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad, President of the Poetry and Heritage Development Association. This was the first time in Australian history that poets were honoured in Parliament. The association also included Lebanese Zajal poetry in the records of Parliament and the British Royal Court.

- In 2017, the Mejdlaya Charitable Association honoured me on the occasion of the silver jubilee of the Charbel Baini Prize at the UNESCO Palace in Beirut.

- In 2018, the Iraqi Renaissance Association honoured me on the occasion of Baghdad being chosen as the Capital of Arab Media.

- In 2018, the Wednesday Gathering honoured me on the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of my first collection of poetry, "Adolescence."

- In 2023, my hometown of Mejdlaya unveiled my statue, created by sculptor Nayef Alwan.

As for the awards I have received from prominent figures, they have crowned me with laurel wreaths and adorned my life with glory. Here are some of them I remember:

1985 - Cedar Literary Award, from the Consul General of Lebanon in Sydney, Jean Alfa

1986 - Word Appreciation Award, from Mr. Sami Mazloum, Melbourne

1987 - Gibran International Award, from the Arab Heritage Revival Association

1988 - Ras Maska Charitable Society Shield, Sydney

1990 – Song writing Award, from the Arab Arts and Heritage Association, Canberra

1992 - Mejdlaya Shield, from the Mukhtar of Mejdlaya, Elias Nassif Abi Khattar

1992 - Mejdlaya Expatriates Shield in Canada, from expatriate Tony Anissa

1992 - The George Jerdac Poet and Writer Award, honouring me for his collection (Munajat Ali).

1992 - An oil painting representing (Munajat Ali), from the Alawite Society, Sydney.

1993 - The Phoenician Ship Shield, Bint Jbeil Charitable Society, Sydney

1993 - A leather plaque representing me holding my first collection of poems (Adolescence), from the Lebanese community on the occasion of his silver jubilee.

1994 - First Prize of Appreciation for Diaspora Literature, from the Middle East Daoudia School, Sydney.

2000 - The Prince of Lebanese Writers in the Diaspora Award, from the Continental Council of the Lebanese Cultural in the World, North America, headed by Dr. Joseph Hayek.

2001 - A plaque of appreciation commemorating his honour by the Federation of Lebanese Associations in the St. George's area, Sydney.

2001 - A plaque of appreciation commemorating me honour on the anniversary of the founding of the Maronite Sisters of the Holy Family Congregation, presented to me by Sister Irene Bou Ghosn, President of the Institute of Our Lady of Lebanon.

2002 - Prince of Lebanese Poets in the Diaspora Award, from the Continental Council of the Lebanese Cultural Union in the World, North America, chaired by Dr. Joseph Hayek.

2012 - Appreciation Award from the Iraqi Media Foundation.

2014 - Appreciation Award from the Al-Sawaki Cultural Foundation.

2014 - Appreciation Award from the Lebanese Community Council.

2014 - Shield of the Lebanese Ministry of Culture, signed by Minister Raymond Araiji. This shield caused a media uproar that led Minister Araiji to withdraw it. However, Dr. Bahia Abu Hamad, the originator of the idea, did not accept it, but rather presented it at her salon during the term of Minister Ghattas Khoury on April 22, 2017.

2015 - Shield of the Association of the Great Poet Abdul Wahab Al-Bayati.

2015 - Shield of the Australian Arab Patriots Gathering.

2015 - Al-Bayati Award for Classical Poetry, Second Al-Bayati Evening.

2015 - Appreciation Shield from the Consul General of Lebanon in Sydney, Mr. George Bitar Ghanem.

2016 - Certificate of Appreciation from the Australian Lebanese Youth Club, Victoria.

2016 - Appreciation Shield from the President of the Poetry and Heritage Development Association, Dr. Bahia Abu Hamad.

2016 - Appreciation Shield from the Consulate General of Lebanon in Sydney bearing the logo of the Lebanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

2016 - Certificate of Appreciation from the President of the Labour Party in New South Wales, Mr. Luke Foley.

2016 - Honourary Shield from the Cultural Arts House in South Australia, Adelaide, represented by its President, Mr. Ahmed Mahdi.

2016 - Certificate of Appreciation from the Syndicate of Zajal Poets in Lebanon, represented by its President, poet George Abu Antoun.

2016 - Certificate of Appreciation from Senator Shaoquett Muslimani in the New South Wales Parliament.

2016 - Certificate of Appreciation from Stratford University, Virginia, USA.

2016 - Certificate of Appreciation from the Australian MP of Lebanese origin, Jihad Dib.

2017 - Shield of Appreciation from the Mejdlaya Charitable Society, Sydney.

2017 - Shield of Appreciation from the President of the Poetry and Heritage Development Association, Dr. Bahia Abu Hamad, as an encouragement to other poets to publish their works.

2018 - Dr. Bahia Abu Hamad awarded him the "Malaysian Horoscope" Shield in recognition of his literary contributions.

2018 - The Ramadan Medal from the Iraqi Renaissance Association, headed by Mr. Ghassan Al-Asadi.

2018 - Certificate of Appreciation from Senator Shaoquett Muslimani on the occasion of his Golden Jubilee.

2019 - Certificate of Appreciation from the Lebanese Community Council on the occasion of Harmony Day.

2019 - Certificate of Appreciation from the Iraqi Renaissance Association on the occasion of Harmony Day.

2019 - Certificate of Appreciation from the Haq wa Adala Movement, Lebanon.

2020 - Appreciation Award from Senator Shaoquett Muslimani.

2021 - A 120 cm round wooden sculpture of the Charbel Baini Award medallion, created by the chisel of the world-renowned sculptor Toufic Mourad.

2022 - Appreciation Award from the head of the Lebanese Zajal Syndicate, poet George Abu Antoun.

2023 - Appreciation Award from the Lebanese Ministry of Culture, represented by Minister Mohammad Wissam Al-Mortada.

2023 - Appreciation Award from the President of the Mejdlaya Association in Sydney, Mr. Anthony Khoury.

2023 - Shield of Creativity from the writer Sami Mazloum, Melbourne.

2023 - Certificate of Appreciation from the President of the Council of Arab Ambassadors in the Australian capital, Canberra, Jordanian Ambassador Dr. Ali Krishan, on the day of the book signing of Dr. Bahia Abu Hamad's book "Charbel Baini the glow of literature" in the Federal Parliament, Canberra. 2023 - A gilded Lebanese cedar from the Abdullah Shahada Cultural Forum, presented by poet and writer Mireille Shahada Haddad.

2023: An appreciation shield from the Poetry and Heritage Development Association, presented by its president, Dr. Bahia Abu Hamad.

2023 - A cedar made of immortal cedar wood, presented by Miss Nancy Akar.

2023 - An artistic painting representing Tripolitanian heritage, presented by artist Bassam Mallouk.

2023 - A certificate of appreciation from the University Students Association in the North, presented by its president, Ghassan Abdulrahman Al-Hussami.

**

Retirement Pension

   When I turned 65 in 2016, I had to, if I wanted to, take a break and stop working, and that's what I did.

   At 9:00 a.m., I entered the government employment and retirement office in Merrylands and waited for my turn. More than seven people from the Afghan community entered before me. I didn't find a single Lebanese person there seeking work. I was very happy because, thank God, unemployment is no longer widespread in our community.

   Suddenly, a female employee called me, welcomed me, and began asking questions and writing down:

- What is your name?

- Charle Baini.

   This is the name chosen for me by an elderly French employee when I obtained Australian citizenship in 1973. The name Charbel was rare, unlike today, when it has become one of the most popular names in Australia.

   That day, I asked the elderly French employee to spell my name as it is: Charbel. But she answered me angrily:

- What is this strange name? I'll give you the name 'Charle' after President Charles de Gaulle."

- But my name is Charbel...

- From now on, your name will be 'Charle'.

   I told you all this so you'd understand where the name 'Charle', which was imposed on me, came from.

   Now, let's return to the pension officer, who asked me:

- In what year did you come to Australia?

- In 1971...

- Have you lived here that long?

- Yes...

- But I can't find anything about you in government offices...

- Because I was a good citizen...

- Didn't you receive any pension from the government employment office during that time?

- No... I lived off my own hard work...

- When you arrived in Australia, didn't you receive any government assistance?

- No...

- Didn't you enter any hospital for treatment?

- No, I'm in good health, thank God.

- Didn't you enter a police station?

- No.

   After extensive contact with the federal office in Canberra, they confirmed the validity of what I had said, and that I had lived all these years in Australia without being spotted by any government radar, due to my excellent behaviour. At that point, she turned to me and said, smiling:

- Why are you here?

- I want my retirement pension.

- Listen to me, don't demand it.

- why?

- So that we can declare you the best Lebanese citizen to have entered Australia.

   Like that, literally.

   This employee's words didn't express praise for me, but rather a humiliating rebuke for my belonging to a community whose image has been disfigured by many of its children. Who among us doesn't remember the Lebanese backache that shook the Australian courts and entered the English language dictionaries?

   Who among us hasn't seen hundreds of members of the community imprisoned for drug use or trafficking?

   Who among us hasn't felt sad when a Lebanese citizen is accused of stealing from the Australian state after reaching the highest positions?

   Haven't our young people, who were born, raised, and educated here, travelled here to join terrorist organizations?

   This woman didn't even compliment me. Instead, she wanted to say, without shame:

- I was truly surprised to find a good Lebanese in this country.

   The sadness that gripped me as I returned home wasn't caused by this employee's words, but by the humiliation of many Lebanese who emigrated to this country to escape oppression, only to be transformed into oppressors. They forgot that they had stood humiliated in front of the Australian embassy in Beirut, seeking a visa that would allow them to come to a country that is as close to heaven as can be, offering them free housing, education, healthcare, end-of-service pensions, and much more.

   Anyone entering Australia must shed all the faults they brought with them from Lebanon, or whatever country they came from, because they have significant debts there, and it is their duty to repay these debts with good conduct.

**

The Publishing Mill

   "I have devoted my money to the service of my literature, and I have enlisted my literature in the service of humanity. So, help me God to possess the truth."

   I wrote and published these words first in the collection "God and a Drop of Oil," and then in the book "Thoughts," because I fully believe in every word in it. I have published dozens of books and distributed them free of charge to anyone who wishes to read them, and to numerous public libraries in Australia, Lebanon, and many other countries. Believing that the talent that came to me freely from God, I must give its fruits freely to people.

   The poet Fouad Naaman Al-Khoury describes me as a "publishing mill," as I was the first to publish a poetry collection in Australia, which I called "Maniacs." It is true that the poets Issam Melki and Simon Zaiter had distributed their books before me, but of course, the books were printed in Lebanon, not Australia.

   Every book I have published has been reprinted several times. Here is a list of the titles and dates of the books I have published, with God's help:

1. Adolescence, eight editions, 1968, 1983, 1987, 1989, 2010, 2016-2018, 2020

2. Scattered Poems, three editions, 1970, 2010, 2016

3. Maniacs, seven editions, 1976, 1986, 2002, 2010, 1993, 2016, 2020

4. My God, New to You, three editions, 1982, 2010, 2016

5. Walk with Me, three editions, 1982, 2010, 2016

6. Rubaiyat, four editions, 1983 1986, 2010, 2016

7. Rural Poems, four editions, 1983, 1986, 2010, 2016

8. A Hair from Every Chin, five editions, 1984, 1986, 1990, 2010, 2016

9. From Charbel Baini's Treasury, three editions, 1985, 1986, 2016

10. The Long Exile, five editions, 1985, 1992, 2010, 2002, 2016

11. Ripen Grain, four editions, 1987, 1988, 2010, 2016

12. God and a Drop of Oil, three editions, 1988, 2010 2016

13. Lest We Forget Boutros Andari, 1988

14. Love Melody, three editions, 1989, 2010, 2016

15. Beloved, three editions, 1990, 2010, 2016

16. Mounajat Ali, four editions, 1991, 1992, 2010, 2016

17. Disgust, three editions, 1993, 2010, 2016

18. Love Song for Australia, three editions, 2005, 2010, 2016

19. Shadows, 2010, 2018

20. Sing, Children, two editions, 2010, 2016

21. Blind World, two editions, 2010 2016

22. Singers, three editions, 2010, 2016, 2022

23. Confessional Papers, two editions, 2010, 2016

24. My Occasions, two editions, 2010, 2016

25. Joyful Ululations, three editions, 2010, 2016, and 2022

26. My Tears, two editions, 2010, 2016, and 2022

27. Our Weddings, two editions, 2010, 2016

28. Thoughts, two editions, 2010, 2016

29. Diaries of a Foreign Correspondent in the Middle East, three editions, 2008, 2010, and 2016

30. When Poets Die, two editions 2010, 2016

31. Laugh for Free, two editions, 2010, 2016

32. Writings on the Wall of Exile, two editions, 2010, 2016

33. Stronger Than Sex, two editions, 2010, 2016

34. Entertaining Poems, two editions, 2010, 2016

35. Lebanon Only, two editions, 2010, 2016

36. Our Nightingales, two editions, 2010, 2016

37. Our Big names, two editions, 2010, 2016

38. Ibn Mejdlaya, 2010, 2016, 2022

39. Fafi, 2013

40. The Miracles of Our Mother the Virgin Mary (translated from colloquial Arabic to classical Arabic). 2015

41 - Ishtaqna, two editions: 2015, 2018

42 - Awzan, 2016, 2023

43 - Abla, 2016

44 - Taraneem, 2016 with CD by Mirna Nehme

45 - Believe It or Not, 2016

46 - The Tree Fairy, 2018

47 - Scattered Leaves, 2018

48 - Sons of Glory, 2018

49 - Love Quintets, 2018, 2020

50 - Mishwar, 2019

51 - I Love You, 2020

52 - Star of Poetry, 2020

53 - Kingdom of Storytelling, 2020

54 - Charbel Baini's Plays, 4 parts, 2020

55 Tomorrow, I Will Leave 2021

56 - Once Upon a Time 2022

57 - The Path of Lovers 2022

58 - Why Did I Love You 2022

59 – Charbel Baini's Poems, 10 Parts 2022

60 – Charbel Baini's Articles, 4 Parts 2022

61 - Embers Remain 2021-2023

62 - When the Rhymes Flow 2023

63 – Charbel Baini's Complete Works - Part One - 2003

Contains the following books: God and a Drop of Oil, Ali's Conversations, Madmen, The Long Exile, A Love Song for Australia, and A Blind World.

64 – Charbel Baini's Complete Works - Part Two - 2003

Contains the following books: Love Melody, Adolescence, Walk with Me, Quatrains, and Lovers

65 - Charbel Baini's Complete Works - Part Three - 2003

Contains the following books: Disgust, Fannan, Sing, Children, and Ululations of Joy.

   Some people used to wonder:

   Where does Charbel Baini get the money to print his books, given that he distributes them for free? He even mails them to anyone who wants them, paying for the stamps himself.

   Dr. Issam Haddad once said:

- If Charbel Baini had saved up the cost of printing his books, he would have bought a building in Beirut.

   Because he knows that the cost of printing is very high, let alone the cost of distributing these books for free to anyone who requests them, regardless of the country they live in.

   As for where the money came from, the answer is simple: I don't gamble, like many people, nor do I drink alcohol, nor do I even smoke cigarettes. If we calculate the money a gambler loses, the money a drunkard spends on alcohol, and the number of packs of tobacco a smoker buys per month, you'd find me luckier than them. I'd be able to save a lot of money even after printing my books.

    If you're wondering why I printed all these books that didn't generate any financial profit, the answer is my fear that my Arabic literature would be lost in a foreign land where everyone speaks English.

   My nephews and nieces don't read Arabic, so who will collect my literature after my death? Who will distribute it worldwide as I did? Now I can depart with peace of mind that what I wrote will be read everywhere.

   Fortunately, many translators have admired some of my works and translated them from Arabic into other languages. I wouldn't call them international, because the world is more like a small village with the internet.

   Among the books that have been translated, I mention:

1. In Praise of Ali in English, translated by Naji Murad, Elias Shaanin, and Joe Al-Yamouni, two editions: 1992, 1995

2. Invocation d'Ali in French, translated by Abdullah Kheder

3. Invocación de Alí in Spanish, translated by Ibrahim Saad

4. Mounajat Ali In Urdu, translated by Shabbir Balkrami.

5. Quartets: 1993, translated by Dr. Emile Chidiac, English

6. God and a Drop of Oil: 1997, translated by Maha Abdel-Ahad, English

7. Love Song to Australia: 2005, translated by Paula Abdel-Ahad, English

8. A Blind World: 2005, translated by Paula Abdel-Ahad, English

9. Charbel Baini and the Suffering of Migration: 2015, translated by Nizar Hanna al-Dirani, Syriac

 10. Joys and Tears: 2015, translated by Elie Shaanin, English

11. The Long Exile: 2017-2018, translated by Mirna Nehme, English

   There are several psalms from "Mounajat Ali" that have been translated into Persian, but I don't know if they have been compiled into a book.

**

The Painting, the Award, and the Statue

   My good treatment of people has always brought me luck. I have opened the doors of my heart, before my home, to all who seek me out. Some of them entered like a thief seeking to profit and escape, while others entered with dignity, love, and lasting friendship.

   Out of this sincere love, the international artist Randa Abdel Ahad Baini gifted me with a painting that represents me in an amazing way that words cannot describe. It measures 90 cm high and 70 cm wide. She also allowed me to display her artwork on the covers of most of my books, beautifying them both inside and out.

   Another who entered with dignity was the sculptor Tawfiq Murad. I wrote an apology article about him, as I hadn't visited his exhibition until half a century after my arrival in Australia.

   Apparently, he liked the article, and he began to return the favour with something better. Only a few weeks later, he invited me to his museum exhibition to unveil a wooden sculpture of the Charbel Baini Award Medal.

   When I saw the medal sculpture, I wrote:

   I confess before you now that I have been honoured several times, received dozens of awards, and have had poems, articles, and books written about me, but I never dreamed that I would be carved by the chisel of a world-class, creative sculptor named Tawfiq Murad.

   On Tuesday, March 9, 2021, the esteemed son of Tannourine invited me, along with Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad, President of the Poetry and Heritage Development Association, to visit his magnificent museum. As we entered the paradise of precious sculptures, Tawfiq surprised us with a sculpture that truly astonished us. When he asked me for my opinion of it, I replied, holding back my tears: 

- It has immortalized me.

   When he asked Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad for her opinion, she replied:

- It almost speaks.

   The sculpture represents the Charbel Baini Award medal. It is circular in shape, approximately 120 cm in diameter, and weighs over 40 kg.

   The question that puzzled me, and I was afraid to ask, was:

- How long did the sculptor Tawfiq Murad spend carving the wood to produce this breathtakingly beautiful sculpture?

   Thank you, my dear son of Lebanon, my great friend Tawfiq Murad, so let me kiss your chisel.

   Meanwhile, the sculptor Nayef Alwan visited me whenever he visited Sydney. He whispered in my ear that the statue of Charbel Baini would soon see the light of day. I begged him to leave the matter of the statue until after my death, then I wouldn't be able to object.

   For the record, I remember that the sculptor Fouad Al-Warhani, before Tawfiq and Nayef, had asked me to give me a bronze statue. He told me that the process of making it was very easy, and that all I had to do was accept the mask that would cover my face to accurately depict his features. I replied:

- The statue will be made after the poet's death, so please wait.

   Fouad is still waiting, even though he originally came up with the idea for the statue of Charbel Baini.

   So why did I agree? Why did I travel and participate? I truly believe that statues are not for humans, but for saints. Yet, I broke my faith, because the person who would sculpt my statue had previously sculpted statues of hundreds of saints. It is a sacred chisel, so I have no fear of the Day of Judgment.

   On August 19, 2023, the statue saw the light of day in a grand ceremony sponsored by the Lebanese Minister of Culture and supported by the municipality and the parish. Speaking at the ceremony, which was introduced by the writer Walid Mikhael Farah, were:

 - The writer and poet Mireille Chehade, who gave me the most beautiful Lebanese cedar tree.

- Dr. Mostapha Helwe

- Mr. Sami Mazloum

- Mayor Joumana Baini

- The writer Suzan Baini

- The parish priest, Father Abboud Gebrael, who gave me a rare manuscript of poems I wrote in my teenage years.

   In addition, two letters arrived from Australia: the first from Dr. Bahia Abou Hamad, who presented me with a literary shield presented to me by Dr. Mostapha Helwe, and the second from the President of the Mejdlaya Association in Australia, Mr. Anthony Khoury.

   Finally, I recited two poems in classical and colloquial Arabic.

   Upon my return to Australia, I was warmly welcomed by members of the Mejdlaya Charitable Association at the home of President Anthony and Nabiha Khoury.

   Everything was fine there, until some envious people began fabricating rumors about the statue. I accepted them with open arms, except for one, which made me laugh a lot.

   As I was walking down the street, a sick man approached me, being pulled by his son in a wheelchair, and said, "Is it true that you slapped the sculptor Nayef Alwan when you saw the statue so small?"

- Yes, I slapped him with two beautiful poems in honour of this rare masterpiece. I wish you a speedy recovery, provided you stop gossiping.

   As for the other chatterers, I slapped them in the face with this article:

    Many congratulations have been sent to me from Arab writers and poets from around the world, but the most beautiful congratulation came from the trainer of the Cedars of Lebanon Folklore Ensemble, Mr. Elie Akouri. He called me not to congratulate me on the statue, but on the love the people of Mejdlaya have for their son Charbel.

   Many believe that erecting a memorial monument in a town is easy without the generosity and love of the people, as well as the municipality, parish, and cultural associations.

   Everyone knows that I hadn't intended to travel to Lebanon due to the events that unfolded at the time, before the statue's unveiling. But the people of Mejdlaya encouraged me to travel, and so it was. I found a large workshop of bulldozers, architects, painters, blacksmiths, and others working to construct a base befitting the statue that the world-famous sculptor Nayef Alwan had gifted me. Father Abboud Gebrael the village priest, supervised the work 24 hours a day, ensuring that the building prepared to house the statue was worthy of the people of Mejdlaya before it was worthy of Charbel Baini.

   This great sacrifice was noted by Mr. Akouri, especially when the president and members of the Mejdlaya Association in Sydney welcomed me with open arms upon my return from Lebanon.

   I heard a lot of gossip upon my arrival in Australia. To these people, I say: Even if you had all the wealth in the world but not the love of the people, you wouldn't have a stake in your village to sit on.

   I loved my people in Mejdlaya, and they loved me so much that they tried to prevent me from traveling.

   A thousand thanks to the mayor and members of the Mejdlaya Municipality, a thousand thanks to the Mejdlaya parish and its beloved priest, Father Abboud Gebrael, "I've tired you out, Father." A thousand thanks to the people of Mejdlaya in Lebanon, Sydney, and the diaspora, and to everyone who spoke, honored, congratulated, and worked hard to ensure the project's success. The greatest thanks go to the statue's creator, sculptor Nayef Alwan. I wish he'd listened to me and left it until after my death, but he insisted that I unveil it myself.

   As for the chatterers, and how many and how malicious they are, they will one day stand before heaven's justice... and woe to them.

   It remains to be mentioned that the statue's neighbour, Mr. David Sarkis Toubia, is the one who takes care of it, cleans it, guards it, and talks to it so that it doesn't get bored in its solitude. A thousand thanks to him.

**

My First and Second Love

   My first love, in Tripoli when I was seventeen, almost threw me into a filthy pool of water in front of Al-Haddadin High School in Abi Samra, even made me swim in a pool of mud during military training.

   My second love, in Australia, threw me out of bed and kicked me out of my girlfriend's house because of her hymen.

   That was the day I started working at the Supertax knitting factory. I was responsible for eight machines. Shirley supervised the loading of the spools of thread so they wouldn't stop. She had celebrated her eighteenth birthday with us at the factory, and suddenly she began flirting with me, giving me chocolates and other things. She was, to be honest, very beautiful, and I fell in love with her.

   One day, she asked me to take her to her house near the factory, and I agreed without hesitation. When we arrived, she invited me for a cup of tea, whispering in my ear:

- My mom isn't home... come in.

   So, I entered, and she disappeared for a moment, then returned wearing transparent clothing. Without my noticing, she grabbed my hand and led me into the bedroom, saying:

- Show me your manhood, young Lebanese man.

- But...

- Huh... not a word.

- You caught me off guard. I didn't expect this from you...

   How could I expect this, when she attacked my lips and muttered:

- I've waited a long time for this moment...

- This isn't right. You're a single girl...

- And you're a single young man. Show me your manhood...

   At that, thoughts began to swirl in my head, and I recalled the words of my village old women who warned us against toying with the hearts of girls and harming them:

- Whoever violates a girl's virginity must marry her, or he'll go to prison.

- Oh my God...

   I cried to myself:

- How can I marry this girl when I'm a fresh expatriate? No, no, I have to act.

   So, I said, kneeling over her:

- I want to ask you something... Are you a virgin?

   As soon as I finished my damned sentence, she kicked me in the chest like a raging bull and threw me out of bed, shouting:

- Do you think you're the only man who's ever been impressed by me? I, you failed Lebanese, am an attractive girl who's had sex with many since I was fifteen, and I've only regretted it this hour. Get out of my house. I don't want to see your face again.

   That's when I realized that a girl's virginity is worthless in Australia, and that the phrase "Are you a virgin?" is forbidden to ever utter, or else you'll fly out of bed like I did. Sex has become permissible. They view it as a desperate need to relieve the body, just like hunger relieves the stomach, unlike the East, which considers it the vice of vices.

   Every time I told this story, I remembered my schoolgirl neighbor who confessed to her father that she was pregnant by one of her schoolmates. He then asked her:

- How many guys have you had sex with?

- With three guys...

- I want to talk to them. Bring them here.

   His screams reached my ears without me eavesdropping.

   One day, I was drinking coffee with my mother in the front garden when I saw three young men standing in front of the neighbour's house on the street, with the pregnant girl standing in front of them. Her father approached her and asked:

- Which of them is the father of the fetus in your womb?

   She directed him to one of the young men. He looked at him and said:

- Bring your parents. We need to arrange the wedding.

   He flinched and shouted:

- It's not me. It could be this one, that one, or someone else. Your daughter was very easy.

   The girl shouted:

- It's you. This fetus is yours.

   The young man lost consciousness and fell to the ground in shock. How could he get married while wearing his school uniform? He was still a junior.

   Believe me, I laughed when the young man fell to the ground. I remembered the advice of the old women of my town, Mejdlaya, when they warned us that anyone who played with girls' hearts and undermined their honour would inevitably marry them. My neighbour, of British origin, had carried out their ruling to the letter. And where? In Australia.

   My mother wasn't pleased with what she heard and saw. She turned to me and said:

- This is the difference between East and West, between honour and prostitution... between modesty and debauchery. Take me back to Mejdlaya so I can marry you to the most beautiful and delicate girl in the village. Then you will know that the fetus is from you, not from this or that. Have mercy on me, O Lord.

   So, I kissed her on her pure forehead and whispered in her ear:

- There is no longer East or West, Mother. The universe has become a small village, and whatever happens in the North is known to the South, East, and West the moment it happens. 

   Sexual instinct drives a person and doesn't give them a choice. It wreaks havoc on the body until it reaches orgasm.

   Apparently, my mother didn't understand this. Instead, she kept repeating every time the pregnant girl passed by:

- This, this, or this," as if the fetus were being sold at auction!

   As for that teenage student, whom they forced to marry my neighbor, she gave birth to a daughter, but the divorce occurred several months after the birth. Didn't the popular proverb say: "A country ruled by a boy will never be inhabited by anyone, and so will a family?"

**

She became a doctor

   My relationship with my students was more than solid, and I experienced incredible stories with them. I will mention one of them to avoid being too long-winded.

   In 1980, I began teaching full-time at Our Lady of Lebanon School in Harris Park. I had joined the institute part-time in 1979. As a result, the students began to recognize me and listen to me as I told them short stories in the Lebanese dialect before lesson. My stories had a magical effect on the students, and they even went on to tell them to their parents.

   My stories weren't chaotic; they contained moral lessons in a humorous way. My primary concern was to educate the children so that they would become the shining face of the Lebanese community. On the other hand, I forced them to listen to every word in the Lebanese dialect, since what good was a student who reads classical Arabic but doesn't speak his mother tongue?

   The year I began teaching full-time, Samia, a displaced student from southern Lebanon, entered the fifth grade. I would see her sitting alone, sad, with tears welling up in her eyes every day, not speaking to anyone or approaching anyone. So, I decided to break down her wall of silence and begin by greeting her:

- Hello, you know my name, right?

- Yes, Mr. Baini.

- Tell me, Samia, why are you sad and crying?

- Because they killed my father, and I became an orphan in a country whose language I don't understand.

- And how did your father, may God have mercy on him, use to call you when he spoils you?

- Dr. Samia... He wanted me to become a doctor.

- So, you will become a doctor, and you will gladden your father's heart in his heavenly kingdom.

- I wish so with all my heart...

- Do you need additional English lessons?

- And where will I get the money to pay for a private tutor?

- You say yes, and I'll take care of it.

- Yes, and thank you.

   I immediately went to the room of the great, caring teacher, Miss " Sue Monday," who, in her spare time, has enabled many immigrant students to speak English as if it were their mother tongue, without charging a single dollar.

   I entered her class room, and she welcomed me as usual. She said, laughing:

- Who's the victim this time?

- It's Samia, the new girl in fifth grade. Look at her sitting alone, tears in her eyes. Can you help her, as you've done with dozens of children?

- Wait for me here. I'll go get her, and you translate for me.

   A few moments later, she returned with Samia, laughing and saying:

- Samia speaks, reads, and writes French. She's a successful English language project. No need for translation. We'll get along well.

   After a few weeks, Samia's grief subsided, her withdrawal faded, and she began speaking English with her classmates. She even ranked first in her class. In 1981, she moved to the sixth grade, taught by Sue Monday.

   In those days, students at Our Lady of Lebanon School, completing sixth grade, had to transfer to an Australian high school. Our Lady of Lebanon High School had yet to be built, so I no longer knew or heard anything about Samia.

   One day, my brother Joseph and I went to Avalon Beach, where I wrote the poems for "Love Melody," which was published in 1989. While I was eating, my tooth swelled violently, and the pain nearly knocked me to the ground. I asked my brother to ask the people around us about a dental surgery, and they directed us to one nearby.

   I entered the clinic and asked for a quick appointment, as the pain was unbelievable. The secretary refused my request and urged me to come again after obtaining a formal appointment.

   Just as she was finishing trying to expel me, the phone rang. She stared at me and said:

- Please, sit over there. I'll let you in in a moment.

   I entered, and a tall, beautiful girl stood in front of me, wearing safety goggles and a medical mask. She asked me in English to sit down and open my mouth.

   I hesitated a lot before opening my mouth, looking at the many tools in the clinic. She asked:

- Are you scared?

- Yes.

- Don't be afraid. I won't use an anesthetic needle.

   - Thank you.

   After she finished fixing my ailing tooth, I asked her how much I had to pay. She said:

   - I want a kiss.

   - What?! Are you crazy?

   - I won't let you leave before I kiss you.

   - Please let me go. Here's my wallet. Take as much money as you want.

   Here, she spoke in a Lebanese dialect and said:

   - Welcome, Mr. Charbel Baini. Are you still suffering from a phobia of anesthesia needles and "kharbar"?

   - Who are you, for heaven's sake?

   - Samia... Dr. Samia... and all the credit goes to you, my teacher.

   - But your last name is foreign.

   - I met an Australian doctor at university. I loved him, and he loved me. We got married about a year ago.

   - If I'd known about your wedding, I would have come.

   I wanted you to take me into the church in place of my late father, but my wedding was a quick one. Now, turn your right and left cheeks so I can kiss them. The kiss on the right cheek is for you, and the one on the left is for Teacher Sue Monday. Give her my regards.

   Before I left, she said:

- I remember the story you told us in sixth grade about running away from the dentist's surgery. There are many like you who suffer from this phobia."

- I should have been more careful when you told me, upon entering, that you wouldn't use the anesthetic needle."

- I told this story to the students at university, and everyone laughed. It's one of the most beautiful stories you told us to endear us to the Arabic language.

- You made me live the most beautiful day of my life.

- Me too...

      Here, she put her hand on my arm and said:

- Let me walk with you.

   As we approached the front door, she turned to the secretary and exclaimed happily:

- This is my teacher I told you about: Mr. Charbel Baini.

**

Expulsion from the Hotel

   As I had many beautiful days with the students, there were also painful ones. In 1994, I accompanied my Year 6 students on a trip to Canberra. They were able to learn about their country's capital and write a photo report about the places they would visit, as a school assignment.

   After a journey of more than three hours by bus, we arrived at a city designed by Walter Burley Griffin in 1911. It sits amidst three hills (Black Mountain, Mount Ainslie, and Moga Moga) north and south of a decorative lake consisting of a series of interconnected ponds.

   The children began running around to take pictures, moving from the Federal Parliament, to the Military Museum, to the Telstra Tower, to the National Library, without getting tired—how tired they are, with joy filling their hearts.

   At five o'clock in the evening, we arrived at a hotel with separate rooms spread over a large area. As we entered the dining room for dinner, I discovered that tenth-grade high school students were sharing rooms with us. My heart sank, and I felt something bad was about to happen.

   During dinner, teacher Sue Monday distributed the room keys and gave me a list of the room numbers. Almost every hour, I would leave my room and check on our children's rooms. If I found one of them frightened, I would let them hear my voice to reassure them and help them go to sleep.

   Canberra was extremely cold that night, accompanied by light rain that began to fall. It was nearly 3:00 a.m., and I hadn't slept a wink yet. I decided to go out and check on our rooms, the numbers of which I had kept. I found one of them lit up and heard our girls crying. I approached very cautiously, only to find two young men trying to enter the room through the back window. I attacked them, grabbing one of them, while the other ran away. When the frightened girls heard my voice, they opened the door and came out, trembling with fear. I stopped the young man in the middle of the hotel courtyard and shouted loudly:

- Wake up... Yes, wake up... Now, now...

   The lights in the rooms began to shine, and everyone began to emerge from them: their teachers, our teachers, their students, our students. They gathered around me in a circle, while I held onto that naughty young man. I shouted:

- How can you sleep when your students are trying to assault little girls? This student and his friend tried to enter our girls' room through the back window. Look at these four girls, how they were trembling with fear.

   Then the hotel manager approached the young man and said:

- If you and your friend don't apologize, I will send you to prison on charges of assaulting underage girls.

   They shouted in unison:

- We just wanted to joke... Forgive us. We apologize, and by God, we meant no harm.

   The hotel manager turned to the teachers and said:

- While you were fast asleep, this teacher was watching over his students. You are expelled from my hotel. Go to your rooms, bring your belongings, and get out of my sight. You will never enter my hotel again.

   They boarded the bus and left at 3:30 a.m. Only the students from Our Lady of Lebanon Institute remained in the hotel. I turned to them and said:

- Now, I can sleep. Go to your rooms and enjoy sweet dreams.

   A week after our return, the school administration received an apology letter from the principal of that Public School. I believe the letter is still preserved in the school archives.

**

The Lost Medal

   Thank God, I have grown accustomed to the methods of warfare employed by some ignorant people against me. As soon as they learned that I had been awarded a medal on International Day of Older Persons, in appreciation for my donation of an entire library to the Arab Elderly Center in Punchbowl, adorned with interesting and useful Arabic books that could provide them with solace and knowledge in their tedious exile, they were honoured.

   As soon as the head of the Arab Elderly, Mr. Rashed Al-Hallab, learned of the approval to award me the medal, he widely circulated the news through the media, which fueled the jealousy of some fools, who acted quickly to prevent the medal from arriving. And that is exactly what happened.

   In 1990, on the appointed day for the medals to be presented, which was a workday, my dear sisters, Constance Basha and Madeleine Bou Rjeili, agreed to accompany me, ignoring their schoolwork. It was enough for them to be with their brother Charbel Baini on the day of his honoring.

   People gathered in the hall, most of them elderly. Today was their day, and they had the right to celebrate. As soon as they began distributing the medals to those who deserved them, names began to shine, and applause grew, without my name being mentioned among them.

   With lightning speed, the head of the Arab Elderly Association stepped onto the stage and shouted:

- Where is Mr. Charbel Baini's medal?

- It's not here!

- There's something wrong... This is a disgrace to the Arab Elderly Association, and to the one who gifted them the most beautiful Arabic library.

- See the ministry.

   Instead of being sad, I was happy, because I knew in advance that this was what would happen. Ambassador Latif Abu al-Housn had submitted a request to award me the Order of the Cedar, but the request was rejected.

- Mr. Nabil Qaddoumi promised to deliver a gift from Palestinian President Yasser Arafat, but the gift never arrived.

   I've grown accustomed to the treachery of fools, indeed, I've been inoculated against it. Therefore, I didn't care much for honours and awards, because the literature I leave behind is what will immortalize me.

   Let's return to the story of the fugitive medal. The representative of the Lakemba region, "Wiz Davron," sent me a letter of thanks and appreciation for my charitable work in the interest of the Arab elderly.

   The diaspora press published a statement, the text of which was quoted from Sada Lubnan, Issue 685, March 13, 1990:

    We say it like this, without obligation or titles... because you are truly a friend of the Arab Elderly Association as a whole, and a friend of its president and media director. You have always been among the first to encourage the association in every beneficial work it undertakes, and you never miss an opportunity to speak and praise this association and its management. This is a testimony worth a thousand words. But there is one thing we want everyone to know about your generosity: the Arab Elderly Library, whose existence you were the source of, providing it with valuable literary, poetic, and cultural books. You spared no effort in reminding your Lebanese and Arab writer, literary, and poet friends to donate their literary, intellectual, cultural, and poetic output to this library. Its shelves were filled, and Arab elders began to draw abundantly from its cultural fountainhead. Boredom, their primary enemy, lurked between the pages of every book they read.

   The Assembly, O innovator and inexhaustible poet, extends its profound thanks to you, acknowledges your generosity, and extends its gratitude and appreciation to every writer and poet who has honoured you by donating a book to the Arab Elderly Library.

   May God reward you, my friend Charbel, the saint after whom you are named, and we see you following in his footsteps and path.

   May God bless us, Lebanon, and the Arabs in you. May your hands be safe. Thank you.

Head of the Arab Elderly Gathering

Rashid Al-Hallab

**

   The war did not end there. Rather, it continued to expand and spread after many representatives from various parties intervened in the matter. The Arab Elderly Gathering did not acknowledge the insult directed at it through the Charbel Baini Medal. The answer came:

- The medal will reach Charbel Baini by mail, so stop pursuing it.

   The home phone rang daily, and the caller asked:

- Has the medal reached you?

- It hasn't arrived yet.

   And so far, the medal has not arrived. Those who died have died, and those who lived have lived. The honest word alone, yes, alone, remains proud of all medals.

**

Singers Introductions

   My journey with singers’ introductions is long and interesting. I've introduced dozens of male and female singers from Lebanon, the Arab world, and the Australian diaspora. I've gained considerable experience in dealing with the artistic community, which is unfortunately morally flawed.

   The first singer I introduced poetically was my hometown's late son, Elias Hanna Al-Moqdisi, who composed a collection of my most beautiful songs. I believe this poetic introduction to an artist in 1969 was the first of its kind, and other poets followed suit. Here's what I said:

I saw the girl sleeping on the silk.

I told her, "Girl, don't sleep."

A prince is coming to you from the land of art.

His voice is beautiful, and his oud notes are sacred.

She asked, "What's his name?" she was embarrassed, so I told her:

Don't be ashamed of Elias Hanna al-Moqdisi.

   During Melhem Barakat's first concert at the Ukrainian Hall in the Lidcombe area in 1989, something happened that scared me. Melhem attacked one of the musicians, who was elderly. He left his seat and headed backstage towards me, crying and cursing his luck. I approached him and tried to comfort him with some kind words. He grabbed my arm and said:

- Have you heard about the leaders of the checkpoints in Lebanon?

- I heard...

- They are more merciful than Melhem Barakat...

- But you were off-key, and he has every right to be angry...

- Wouldn't it be better if he spoke to me kindly...

- What he said to you, I've heard similar things in dozens of concerts I've performed, so don't let things get worse. Go back to your seat and play without off-key, and I'm certain that Melhem will kiss your forehead after the concert is over.

   Melhem's concert was a success, but I decided not to perform the rest of his concerts, even though I'm infatuated with his art to the point of intoxication. This was not for any reason, but rather to avoid losing my love and respect for him.

   When his concert promoter, Mr. Jean Semaan, learned that I wouldn't be performing the remaining concerts, he went berserk. He was a close friend of mine. He came to the Our Lady of Lebanon school and stood in my way, shouting:

- You'll perform the rest of the concerts. I won't allow you to treat me with disrespect, even though you're my friend and the teacher of my children.

- Arrange for another emcee. I have my own circumstances."

   In 1990, artist Aida Abu Jaoude visited Australia and gave her first concert at the Ukrainian Hall in the Lidcombe area. After her performance, she began dancing rapidly. I was watching her from backstage when something resembling a ball flew through the air, heading towards me. I quickly grabbed it, and with amazing agility, she snatched it from my hand and placed it back in her chest, saying:

- Thank you... don't hold it against me.

   As for her second concert, I escaped with my life, because I discovered that the contractor had assembled a host of stooges from the Lebanese political factions at war in the country. The situation nearly exploded several times, had I not been able to restrain the audience to prevent injuries, as had happened at her second concert in the hall of Our Lady of Lebanon Church, where what I feared happened, and dozens of wounded were taken to hospitals.

   In 1988, artist Pascale Sakr appeared at the invitation of impresario Michel Sakr. She gave a very successful concert, but she asked me for something no artist had ever asked before: to thoroughly wipe the microphone with tissue to prevent her from picking up germs. As I complied, I found her watching me from backstage to ensure the mission was a success.

   I must admit that my admiration for Pascale was intense, and a friendship began to grow between us. While I was transporting her in my car, she told me that the agreed-upon amount had not yet arrived in her account:

- Michel hasn't paid yet...

- Are you sure? He's a respectable man...

- The amount hasn't reached me yet...

   I knew the impresario well, so I met with him and convinced him to pay the full amount. Pascale was delighted and thanked me, but she told me that she had more than 200 recordings and didn't know how to dispose of them.

- I will buy it from you and, in your name, present it to the Sisters of the Holy Family at Our Lady of Lebanon school.

- How will that be?

- This Sunday, a fundraising event will be held to support the school. We will sell the tapes, and the proceeds will go to the nuns.

   And so, it was.

   In 1988, the artist Julia Boutros visited us, and a concert was held for her at the Sports Center in the Homebush area. After I introduced her with a wonderful poem, I found her afraid as she went up on stage. I asked my friend Tony Saad, who had brought her to Our Lady of Lebanon school to ask me to host her concert. He said:

- I don't know what happened to her backstage. I was afraid for her when I saw her trembling before meeting her audience.

- This fear affects everyone, and it has affected me many times.

   - It's true that she broke down at the beginning of her song "Ya Jnoub," but she recovered and returned to her normal self.

   - No, she succeeded and excelled.

   As for the artist Tony Hanna, I don't remember the year I introduced him in Australia, but I will never forget the moment he approached me while he was singing at the White House in Granville, intending to honour me by taking a sip from my glass. Suddenly, he shouted in my ear:

- What's this? Do you only drink Coke?

   He placed the glass back on the table, laughing, but he didn't hear me when I said:

- I never drink alcohol. It hurts my stomach.

   Tony Hanna was an artist in every sense of the word, and I believe, indeed I am certain, that he was the only one, out of the hundreds of artists I've introduced, who called to thank me before boarding the plane.

   There are many stories that happened to me, and I'll skip them to avoid making them too long. But I have to tell you, and I swear, that I never received a single dollar from any of the concerts I performed. In fact, I paid for the admission ticket to help both the contractor and the artist.

**

My Journey with the Nuns

   I have dedicated nearly half my life to Our Lady of Lebanon School in Harris Park. From the moment I entered it, I vowed to be a civil monk who extends a helping hand to my virtuous sister nuns.

   The first nun who entered my heart and has never left it to this day was Sister Constance Basha. I remember the day her brother departed for the heavenly kingdom, how she turned to me and said:

- Do you want to be my brother?

- You will be my sister, and only death will separate us.

   Sister Constance was dedicated to many songs sung by the children of the institute in 1995. Among these are:

1.

I have a flower I raised.

And the tears of my eyes watered it.

I want to present it as a gift.

To the sister I love.

2.

Constance... who gave us a gift.

The most beautiful appearance... and we loved it.

Oh flower, adorn her hand.

Her hand always lifted us up.

   I also dealt with Sister Madeleine Bou Rjeili, the owner of the golden hand. She collected money to build the monastery without touching it or paying attention to it.

   I remember the day I took her in my car to Melbourne to visit her niece. Along the long road were the most beautiful green meadows. I turned to her and said:

- Look, sister, how beautiful this nature is.

   She replied:

- The kingdom of heaven is much more beautiful, and that's what I aspire to.

   Sister Madeleine was dedicated to many songs sung by children in 1995, some of which I chose:

-1-

Once upon a time, there was a nun

Dreaming of Lebanon

And there was exile

torturing the human being

-2-

Eyes waited for her

Hearts loved her

O Lady of Lebanon

Madeleine will never be forgotten

Don't think that the building

can reach her height

   After them, Sister Irene Boughosn appeared and met a nun working to defend her monastery. She was with the truth, because the truth is stronger than Falsehood, so she gave everyone their due. I loved her sincere strength, derived from her Christian faith, which says:

- Whatever you do to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you do with me.

   During her time, I produced my most beautiful plays. She believed that children's theatre was a school in itself, through whose dialogues expatriate children learn to speak their mother tongue. To prove her point, she also acted with children in the play "The School" in 1996. In fact, she was the only nun to honour me in 2001 on the occasion of Teachers' Day in Australia.

   I also dedicated to Sister Irene many songs sung by children in 1995, some of which I chose:

1.

Welcome, sister Irene

Welcome.

Your name is the harvest of the fields

And your drawing doesn't need coloعring

More beautiful than roses

2.

We offer you, in the land of abandonment, 

Bouquets of holiness and faith

Oh cedar, Lebanon has loved you

Oh sister, you have engaged to Jesus

Welcome.

   And if I forget I will never forget Patriarch Mar Nasrallah Boutros Sfeir's visit to the school in 1993, and how the children welcomed him with songs I wrote. I chose from these:

-1-

The Patriarch Has Arrived... The Greatest Patriarch

Mar Nasrallah, the Beloved

O Our school, Gather Your Flowers

So that we may sprinkle it on his path

Antioch and all the East are under his shadow

And all are hidden in his heart

-2-

Welcome, our Patriarch, welcome

With your presence, we are happy

And our exile becomes beautiful

You are glorified in the East Glorified

Yes, we love you, our Patriarch

Tears have flowed from our eyes

-3-

We are small, and you are great

Let your hands shade

the child you love so much

The love of a mother with her father

We waited and perfumed ourselves in our exile

In which our eyes were crucified

  Thirty years I have spent at the school, and it feels like just one day, but the memory will live on forever, and I am proud that my name is engraved on one of the stones of Our Lady of Lebanon School in Harris Park, commemorating my fruitful and joyful time there.

**

My School Books

   When I joined the Our Lady of Lebanon school in 1980 as an Arabic language teacher, I couldn't find any books to rely on for all the elementary school levels. The Lebanese civil war at the time was distancing us from our homeland psychologically and practically, and it was difficult to import many diverse books, even as the situation there was deteriorating.

   What should I do?

   I asked Sister Madeleine Bou Rjeili, and she threw some of the materials she had prepared herself into my hands. I was delighted, but they were far from sufficient. I decided to start from scratch, preparing the books I would teach in the sixth, fifth, and fourth grades. I was lucky, and indeed, the school was lucky, when I learned that the New South Wales Department of Education had begun to take an interest in and supervise Arabic language books, with the goal of printing and distributing them free of charge to schools in the state.

   "Easy Reading" was my first book, published by the Ministry in 1984 and reprinted in 1995. It was intended for sixth grade students.

   Most of the stories in this book actually happened to me during my first visit to Brisbane, particularly the surfers paradise area. I wrote them in a way that would engage students, even delight them.

   In the same year, 1984, the Ministry approved the printing of my book " Sammy and Houda," intended for fifth grade students. It was reprinted in 2000.

   This book contains Arabic grammar rules. I tried to simplify them through a dialogue between a brother and his sister, so as not to alienate expatriate students.

   In 1985, the Ministry published "My Dictionary," which contained hundreds of images drawn by the illustrator Walter Lamos, the creator of the illustrations for most of my books. Each image bore its name in both Arabic and English. It was reprinted in 1987.

   In 1990, the Ministry approved the printing of "Modern Reading," in addition to "My Arabic easy reader workbook," which contained exercises for the sixth grade.

   In 1991, the Ministry published "Reading Routes," intended for fourth-grade students.

   In 1992, the Ministry published "Yes, I Can Read Arabic," intended for third-grade students.

   I was struck by a statement written by the teacher who reviewed this book: "The texts in this book are predominantly poetic, filled with beautiful poetic imagery, and I hope third-grade children will understand them."

   In 1996, the Ministry published "Let's Write," an exercise book for the fifth grade.

   In 1997, the Ministry refused to print the book "My Second Reading," intended for second-grade students. The reason, according to the university professor who oversaw its review, was that it contained the phrase "red shoes." Unfortunately, he insisted that there were no red shoes on the market. So, I went to a children's shoe store, took several photos of the red shoes displayed in the window, and sent them to the Ministry, along with a letter in which I wrote: "Tell this university professor to get married so he can have children and buy them such beautiful red shoes as you see in the photos." The Ministry immediately agreed to print the book.

   In 1998, the Ministry printed "My First Book," intended for first-grade students.

   With this, I have, with God's help, completed all the books that meet the educational needs of students in all elementary grades.

   As the Australian government began to focus on spreading the Arabic language and teaching it in all its schools, demand for my books increased. I asked the institute's administration to purchase a small printing press, which I placed in my office, which I moved to in 1995 after the construction of the department dedicated to the grades I supervised: sixth, fifth, and fourth.

   I began printing the books in my office and selling them to teachers in government schools. The money, of course, went to the nuns. God is my witness that I never received a single dollar from these books. My sole concern was to spread knowledge, help students, and financially support the monastery.

**

Pioneer of Children's Theatre

   From my first encounter with our expatriate children, I realized that it was impossible to introduce Modern Standard Arabic into their minds, given that their minds only contained a few colloquial words, such as "mama," "baba," "sitti," and "jiddi."

   So how could I teach them a language whose grammar is so unknown to most Arabs that they have even replaced it with English due to its ease and rapid global spread?

   So, what should I do? After much thought, I realized that the only way out of this problem was through theatre. A child who speaks with his mother's tongue will understand, albeit with difficulty, the vocabulary of Modern Standard Arabic.

   In 1987, I decided to embark on an adventure that might not end well, especially since I was going to involve more than 300 students, both male and female, between the ages of 6 and 12. I wrote and directed the play "Chapters from the Lebanese War," which was a resounding success, even astounding critics with the speed with which the children moved on stage, as if they were professional actors.

   Here is what Mr. Boutros Andari wrote in his newspaper, "An-Nahar," Issue 547, July 9, 1987, under the title: "Charbel Baini, the Successful Playwright with Children":

   The Holy Family Sisters School presented a play entitled "Chapters from the Lebanese War" on the stage of Our Lady of Lebanon Church Hall. The play was prepared, written, and directed by the poet Charbel Baini.

Ghost Village

   Approximately 300 students participated in the performance, a significant event in itself. The large hall was noticeably crowded with over a thousand people.

   The play featured various scenes, recounting the innocence of childhood and the injustices inflicted on innocent Lebanese children, and how events led to delinquency, chaos, and violence.

    The lively scenes were interspersed with social criticism in a literary style, while all the roles and performances were dedicated to Lebanon, the people and the peaceful, peace-loving nation.

   Baini did not forget to direct the large group of students toward a unifying Lebanese goal, rejecting the logic of sects, clans, and regions.

   It was noted that the two-hour play required significant effort to prepare and perform. Furthermore, the children's costumes were unique to the play, and were expensive and time-consuming to prepare.

   This spontaneous play brought joy to the children's hearts, transporting them to the atmosphere of their homeland. It also delighted and impressed all those in attendance.

   It is important to note the strong personalities of some of the students as they performed their roles. It is essential to encourage some of these individuals to pursue theatrical work, which is still primitive in our community.

   Congratulations to the nuns of the family and Charbel Baini on this joyful success.

   Yes, this success prompted me in 1988 to write and direct a new play titled "Hello, Australia." It was also a success, praise be to God, just like its predecessor. Here is some of what Mr. Afif Nakfour wrote in "The Telegraph - Issue 1787 - July 8, 1988":

   Under the patronage of Lebanon's Consul General, Dr. Gilbert Aoun, and in the presence of the school's principal, Sister Constance Basha, the head of Saint Charbel Monastery, Father Antoine Tohme, a large number of monks and nuns, and a large audience of parents, the students of Our Lady of Lebanon School presented the play "Hello, Australia."

Al-Tarboush

   The play, written by the poet Charbel Baini, tells the story of the Lebanese immigrant through action and words. The children succeeded in performing the roles and embodying the characters. This work is a microcosm of the efforts of the nuns and teachers in preparing the Lebanese youth to the best of their ability, and instilling knowledge, taste, civility, and a patriotic spirit in the souls of the rising generations.

   The theatrical production was a success, and the party was the epitome of organization and taste. Here, we must extend a word of thanks to the nuns, and the teaching staff for their extraordinary care for our children, for the sound patriotic education they instil in them, and for the message of intellectual giving they foster in the souls of the rising Lebanese generations in this country.

   After the success of two consecutive plays, I gained more experience with the children. In fact, the children began asking me for a new play, especially since they had begun speaking to each other in the playground in the Lebanese dialect.

   Yes, I broke their fear barrier after I forced them to memorize the entire script of the play. They would compete by memorizing it and reciting it to each other. Once the time for the performance arrived, everyone was ready. If one of them fell ill, someone would step in and play their part.

   In 1989, the play "Al-Tarboush" (The hat) was released, increasing the number of actors from 300 to 600 children, effectively transforming them into an entire army of children. The play successfully managed to bring them on stage with astonishing speed, astonishing the audience. Here is some of what Mr. Antonius Bou Rizk wrote in "Sada Lubnan" newspaper, issue 677, December 19, 1989:

   "Al-Tarboush" is considered a significant theatrical achievement in the diaspora in general, and Australia in particular, for the following reasons:

- The large number of actors and actresses, exceeding 600, regardless of the marginal role played by the majority of students, who were limited at the end of the play to appearing and carrying flags and banners.

- Age: All participants in the play are from elementary school.

- Birth and Upbringing: The majority of the students are Australian by birth and upbringing. If we look at the voice, pronunciation, and performance, we realize the credit the parents and school have shown in preserving and developing the Lebanese language among this generation.

- Dances and Dabkeh: These were designed by the students themselves and were distinguished by their harmony with the music, on the one hand, and by the cohesion between the members of the Dabkeh troupe, on the other.

   Finally, we must thank the play's writer and director, poet Charbel Baini, who created an annual tradition at Our Lady of Lebanon Theatre that everyone eagerly awaits every year. He has contributed and continues to contribute to the development of the artistic sense of the students, who are destined to play a significant role in the world of art, dance, and acting.

   After three successful plays, I decided to raise the theatrical bar a little. In 1990, I wrote and directed the play "Ghost Village." As soon as the artist Duraid Lahham saw it on video, he said:

- I challenge all ministries of education in the Arab world to come up with something similar.

   That was the day he visited the school accompanied by actress Najwa Assi. He asked the nuns about the institute's artistic activities. Sister Madeleine Bou Rjeili showed a video of the play on television, and he sighed and said:

- In one of my films, I brought six or seven children to act, and they drove me crazy. Now I see hundreds of children running around on stage in an amazing way, talking, singing, and dancing like absolute professionals.

   In 1991, I produced the play "Indians of Lebanon," which I won't discuss for the sake of brevity. In 1993, the children performed brilliantly in the play "Ya Aib Al-Shoum, (Shame on you)" especially when one of them urinated (i.e., emptied his bladder) at the table of honour, to thunderous applause from the audience.

Kids acting

   Here are some of the pieces written by Mr. Antonius Bou Rizk in Al-Alam Al-Arabi newspaper, Issue 30, June 25, 1993:

   Whenever society lacks theatre, it lacks a censor, a guide, and a critic. The closer theatre is to lived reality, the more it connects to the soul, heart, and conscience.

   One of the major theatrical productions witnessed by the community this year was the play "Ya Aib Al-Shoum," written and directed by poet Charbel Baini. Approximately 300 students from the elementary classes at the Maronite Sisters of the Holy Family School in Harris Park participated in the performance.

   The play, which was performed last Friday evening, June 18, 1993, in the auditorium of Our Lady of Lebanon Church, and was attended by over 1,000 people, was truly a wake-up call for the community to address the tragic and deplorable situation it is experiencing.

   The play "Ya Aib Al-Shoum" is truly a profound piece of theatrical art, delving into issues never before addressed, whether due to a lack of ability or familiarity with the theatre, or a lack of courage and bravery.

   "Ya Aib Al-Shoum" is a play that shines a light on our society, exposing its flaws and shortcomings, and the dangers that await it if it does not return to itself, its roots, its customs, and its traditions.

   It depicted the state of dissolution that afflicted the Lebanese family in particular, and the Arab family in general, as it began to unravel little by little as a result of its gradual departure from the morals from which it originated. It depicted how the husband spends his money on horse racing, and the wife tries to convince him to stop. When she fails, instead of caring for her children, she takes the opposite approach, frequenting nightclubs and squandering money on "poker machines." Thus, the children find themselves alone in the house, threatened by the spectre of cold, fear, and darkness. The children then stray from the right path, and the eldest daughter falls into the arms of prostitution and debauchery at the King's Cross. However, at the end of the play, the family reunites.

   The play also succeeds in presenting a humorous and heart-breaking portrait of the wealthy man who earned his wealth through illegal means, and how his will after his death was to provide his coffin with all means of comfort and entertainment, such as a television, telephone, and air conditioning.

   Writers, poets, and singers were not spared from harsh criticism, as literature, poetry, and art became a profession for financial gain. Singers would steal their songs and deny their authorship, poets would steal their poetry, and so-called writers would attack other writers, claiming they could dwarf them and wipe the floor with them.

   The press also received its share of criticism, straying from its mission and becoming a press devoted to social events and material matters, nothing more.

   Associations and gatherings also received their share of criticism, and the play revealed their true colours: each association was divided against itself and became two or more, with positions and posts serving individuals rather than the other way around.

   However, the scene that managed to steal the show was the table of honour, which truly expressed the disease of prestige and appearances that had afflicted the community. Everyone wanted a place at the table of honour, and this table began to grow and grow until it "occupied" the entire hall.

   No matter how much we talk about this monumental theatrical work, we cannot do it justice. All we can say is that "Ya Aib Al-Shoum" was a tremendous success.

   It is worth mentioning in this brief statement that this theatrical work is the sixth of its kind, written and directed by the poet Charbel Baini, and performed by students of the Maronite sisters of the Holy Family.

   Congratulations to the community for the Sisters of Our Lady of Lebanon, righteous shepherds who lead the flock to safety.

   Congratulations to the community for such intelligent buds blossoming in this corner of the earth.

   Congratulations to the poet Charbel Baini for this masterpiece, and may he continue to succeed. Congratulations!

Sister Irene acting

   The play "Allah Bidbir" (God will help) is an outlier. I wrote and directed it in 1995, and it was performed at the St. Maron School in Dulwich Hill to mark the 50th anniversary of the Maronite sisters of the Holy Family' presence in Australia.

   In 1996, my new play, "The School," returned to its source, the Our Lady of Lebanon school. It's worth noting that Sister Irene Boughosn participated in the acting with the children, believing in the educational benefits that theatre offers.

   In 1997, the play "Lebanese Street" almost stopped two days before its scheduled showing. A measles outbreak among the children forced more than half of the young actors and actresses to miss the night of the show. Nevertheless, the play was performed and enjoyed remarkable success. The secret lies in the way all the children memorized the entire dialogue of the play, so if one of them was absent, someone else would replace them.

   In 1998, we performed the play "Our neighbour is Aboriginal," employing a performance troupe from the indigenous people to teach the children how to perform the traditional Aboriginal dances in the play.

   In 2000, we performed the play "Here come the migrants," and in 2002, we performed the play "Gangs Only." Allow me not to discuss these two topics, but I will direct you to Dr. Ali Bazzi's e-book "Charbel Baini Pioneer of Children's Theatre, 2022" so you can learn everything written about my plays.

   In 2004, the Our Lady of Lebanon School Theatre was completed, and I decided to bless it with a religious play titled "Ya Mar Charbel. (O, Saint Charbel)" However, the official opening would take place months later. I asked sister Irene Boughosn to allow me to precede the official opening with an artistic opening, and she agreed.

   My last play was "The magical treasure" in 2005, after which I began to feel that my journey with children's theatre at Our Lady of Lebanon school was over, and the encouragement I had received had vanished. The administration had changed, and with it everything else.

**

Diaspora Media

Leila Magazine

   In 1974, I decided to publish a free newspaper bearing the name of my record label, "Voice of the Cedars." However, it didn't last long, dying immediately after the first issue.

   At the time, I used a typewriter to write its articles, just like all other Arab newspapers published at that time. The principle of "slit and stick" applied to all of us as journalists. We waited for a newspaper to arrive from Lebanon so we could play with its news with scissors to our liking. I believe, indeed, I am certain, that this approach made me reluctant to continue publishing the newspaper.

   In November 1995, I published the print magazine "Leila." It lasted for more than four years, ending its run at the height of its glory due to a psychological crisis I suffered the day my mother died in my car, while we were returning from a family visit in 1999.

   The proverb "Behind every great man is a woman" applies perfectly to my mother, Petrounella. She was my greatest supporter in my journey with the word. She even urged me not to stop giving, because I was created for it.

   But I stopped at the hour of her death. Indeed, all my dreams, hopes, and aspirations collapsed. I secluded myself in my room for a long time, avoiding literary and social engagements. Her grave became my daily destination, to which I make pilgrimages and weep:

1.

You've been absent for years... and you're still a moon.

Oh, my mum... and your satisfaction is still in my ears.

The sound of your footsteps still leaves a trace.

I hear... hoping you'll return.

2.

Motherhood's Day is a new arrival from a journey.

I no longer have a holiday. I've become unconscious.

I visited your grave under the rain showers.

I wanted to hide my tears that burned my eyes.

3.

You left behind a pain that fate hadn't anticipated.

I'm afraid to tell you what's wrong with me 

So, you don't feel hurt.

From how much I've hit my head against a stone,

Oh, my dear, the stone has begun to cry with me.  

Leila

   The reason for the success and popularity of "Leila" magazine is its publication of news from members of the Arab communities. In Australia, first and foremost, their pictures were the only ones that graced the magazine's cover. Had I not experienced that painful psychological state, the magazine would have continued to be published to this day, thanks to the community's support for it. How could it not, when it was from them and for them?

   The great poet Nizar Qabbani even began to encourage the magazine, which he received monthly in London. He allowed me to publish his last poems without consulting him. When God took him in July 1988, I published issue 33, titled "And Nizar Qabbani Goes." Prominent figures from all over the world mourned his passing. This special issue commemorating his passing was historic in every sense of the word.

   In one of my calls, I asked Dr. Issam Haddad to allow me to personally distribute the Charbel Prize in Australia. He graciously agreed. I then distributed nomination coupons to readers and asked them to choose their own winners.

   In 1996, the award was distributed at a huge public festival held at the Orien Centre in Campsie. Its distribution has not ceased to this day.

Sawt Al-Arz

   While publishing the magazine, I would travel each year to different countries, hoping to find a correspondent to provide me with news about the Arab communities there. However, I was never successful, so I decided to write articles about those countries myself and publish them in instalments, as if a correspondent were providing them monthly.

   A few months after the print magazine ceased publication, I decided to return to journalism via the internet, publishing the electronic "Leila." A few years later, I discontinued it for personal reasons, and in 2009, I began publishing "Al-Ghorba," which has embraced, and continues to embrace, the most honourable, powerful, and honest writers from all over the Arab world and the world.

   I believe, as journalist Boutros Andary said, that I was a pioneer in the field of electronic publishing, having preceded many Arab and foreign newspapers in Australia and the Arab world by years.

   It is sufficient that I introduced television broadcasting to "Al-Ghorba," conducting hundreds of interviews with figures from the homeland and abroad. This is something no one before me had done until the rise of social media, and the situation became blurry. We no longer knew who was a journalist and who was being manipulated.

**

The Emirate of Poetry

Dr. Joseph Hayek

   In 2000, Dr. Joseph Hayek, President of the Lebanese Cultural Association - North America, bestowed upon me the title of "Prince of Literature." He followed this up in 2001 with the title of "Prince of Poets Abroad." I testify before God and before you that I do not know Dr. Hayek, nor have I met him personally. All he has learned about my literature is through the books I have distributed for free everywhere, through my e-books, and through social media. These two titles caused a stir, and some began to insult me and accuse me of having bought the titles. Many honourable people jumped to my defines, to the point that the poet Shawqi Moslamani dedicated the cover of issue 12 of the magazine "Amira", which he supervised, in honour of the prince. He asked many members of the community for their opinion of my poetic emirate, under the title "Amira Asks About Prince Charbel Baini." They approved of the step taken against our diaspora literature, which provoked the ire of one of the poets, who attacked me in a column he wrote in one of the diaspora newspapers.

   In the Arabic version, I published the poet's name with the articles in which he attacked me, because they were documented and worthy of attention and preservation. However, the English version was devoid of all of this, in order to save face in front of foreign readers.

   This poet wasn't the only one who attacked me; others aided him in his quest for fame, so I won't mention them; I'll just throw them out of my life. 

   Here is what Dr. Joseph Hayek kindly granted me:

First Patent - 2000

   Whereas, for more than a quarter of a century, Poet Charbel Baini has been and remains the master of words and pens in the world of publishing.

   Whereas, Mr. Charbel Baini has devoted his life and pen to educating generations and enriched public libraries with his literature and writings.

Whereas, Mr. Charbel Baini has published more than 25 books and elevated language, literature, education, and teaching to the highest levels of the alphabet, becoming the second Cadmus in the intellectual, cultural, and civilizational heritage he has given to the world, a gift that pales in comparison to all other gifts. Whereas the writer Charbel Baaini, through his literary, intellectual, and educational contributions, provided humanity with the means of pride and dignity, his anthem was "The Letter and the Word," and creative thought reigned supreme on his throne, and the borders of his land had become too narrow for his capabilities, so he began to expand his borders to the moons of the world, emigrating from Lebanon to Australia in 1971.

   Whereas the great writer of the homeland of the cedars, Mr. Charbel Baini, opened the pages of history and let those pages speak, becoming the music of virgins in the mouths of the prophets, who bowed their heads before the greatness of literature, thought, and the word. Mr. Baini has been awarded more than 20 medals and decorations by thinkers, writers, poets, and masters of cultural and intellectual heritage, including the Lebanese government, as a token of respect and admiration for his high literary level. For these honourable reasons, these towering literary assets, and this sublime cultural level, we, at the Continental Council of the Lebanese Cultural Association in the World, were proud, with all due pride, to elect, from among 41 candidates among the finest Lebanese writers, Mr. Charbel Baini, the Prince of Lebanese Writers Abroad. President Dr. Joseph Hayek

**

Second Patent - 2001

   Whereas Mr. Charbel Baini was and remains the master of platforms, whose poetry touches the depths of the soul and addresses the hardships, troubles, and calamities that humanity suffers from...

   Whereas Charbel Baini, the inspiring genius, for more than three decades of goodness and giving, has dedicated his life to the sweetness of poetry, taking refuge in the tranquillity of the soul, sipping from a creative imagination, from an epic nourishment for the soul, and from a poetic effervescence devoid of embellishment or effacement...

   Whereas Mr. Charbel Baini, with all admiration, respect, and reverence, has been sung by poets and admirers, written by writers and thinkers, praised by intellectuals and journalists, and the Lebanese government and a number of free countries have bestowed upon him more than 20 gilded medals...

   Whereas the master of poets and writers, Mr. Charbel Baini, has... His homeland, Lebanon, became too limited for him, so he emigrated to Australia in 1971. He expanded his classical poetry, extracting fervent words from his depths, distinguished by his national loyalty and diaspora nostalgia. He enriched societies with more than 30 books of his wonderful poetry and refined literature.

Saint George Association 

   And since Poet Baini's style is as sweet as the morning breezes of Lebanon, his flow is as profound, thoughtful, and unified as his construction, his songs are streams of the softness of May, and his music is the sweetness of summer in July...

   For these magical qualities—poetry, literature, and culture—we, at the Continental Council of the Lebanese Cultural Association in the World, were proud to elect, from among 67 candidates, one of the finest Lebanese poets in the world: Mr. Charbel Baaini, the Prince of Lebanese Poets in the Diaspora, for life. 

President Dr. Joseph Hayek

**

   I must mention that the Saint George Association honoured me with the title of Prince of Poets Abroad 2001, with a massive literary and popular celebration. This is something I will never forget for the rest of my life.

**

Dental Phobia

With Dr. Ali Bazzi

   A phobia is the fear of a specific thing. Some people are afraid of closed spaces, such as elevators, for example. We often see this in television series.

   Some people are afraid of heights, to the point that no one with this phobia would buy an apartment in a high-rise building because it would be impossible to sit on its balcony.

   And the strangest thing of all is the fear some people have of cockroaches, which are harmless. In fact, they fear humans more than humans fear them, to the point that cockroach phobia has become the most widespread phobia in the world.

   And if I forget, I will never forget the day I was on my way to the bathroom in Parramatta Mall when a woman emerged from the women's room screaming:

- Cockroach... cockroach... please kill it!

   In her intense fear, she forgot to put on her underwear.

   Some people are afraid of anaesthetic needles and the "khir bir" machine at the dentist. I am, unfortunately, one of them.

    I remember the day my tooth ached unbearably, the second year after I arrived in Sydney, in 1972. There was only one Lebanese dentist who spoke Arabic at the time, living in the Harris Park area. My brother and his wife, George and Antoinette, decided to take me to his clinic. As soon as I entered, he said:

- What's the matter? You look like you're in pain?

   I didn't respond due to the severity of the pain. He sat me down in a special chair and began examining my teeth. Suddenly, he pulled a terrifying anaesthetic needle from the table and asked:

- Which tooth do you want me to pull out?

- I don't want it extracted. I want it filled, please.

- Okay, open your mouth and show me where it is.

   I placed my finger on the aching tooth, and without looking at it, he went out to speak to one of the patients. When he returned, he held a pair of pliers and said:

- I'll relieve it. Open your mouth.

   Intense with fear and pain, I opened my mouth, certain that he was going to remove the decayed tooth. But he placed the pliers on another tooth and said:

- I'll pull it now...

- Stop... You're extracting the healthy tooth without anaesthesia...

- That's my job... Open your mouth...

   Out of my good heart, I complied with his orders and opened my mouth, believing he was joking. But as soon as he grabbed the healthy tooth again, I went berserk. I let out a loud scream, frightening everyone in the clinic. I pushed him away forcefully and ran out of his clinic, with everyone running after me, asking me fearfully:

- What's wrong with you? What happened?

- This isn't a doctor... This is a donkey.

George and Antoinette Baini

   God is my witness. I believe my brother George may forget his own name, but he will never forget this incident, because he always tells me about it with a loud laugh. Since then, I have been terrified whenever the name of any dentist is mentioned, until I met my brother and friend, Dr. Ali Bazzi. He saved me from this irritating phobia with his kindness and humour. As soon as you enter his clinic, he tells you the most beautiful jokes, so you forget the anaesthetic needle and the "khir bir" and hand your mouth over to him, allowing him to play with your teeth as he pleases. You feel extremely happy.

   If it weren't for him, and I tell the truth, I would have used the old methods of our ancestors to get rid of decayed teeth, since there are no doctors or clinics in our mountain villages in Lebanon. I would have avoided seeing the anaesthetic needle or hearing the gurgling sound of the "khir bir" entering my mouth.

   To be honest before history and before you, I admit that I was forced to open my mouth in pain before I met Dr. Bazzi, in the clinic of my student, Dr. Samia. My story of my surprising and joyful encounter with her is included in the chapter "She became a doctor."

   Years later, the phobia doctor closed his clinic in Harris Park. I asked about him, just to check on the health of the other patients. One of them told me that he practices from his home and only receives Lebanese family and friends.

**

The End

   Now, it's time for me to finish recounting the events that have accumulated in my memory, some of which I've memorized and many of which I've forgotten. I hope I've succeeded, because reading other people's life stories is extremely tedious, let alone the journey of a displaced poet from pen to pain.

   I'm not afraid of the future; life will end, and that's the way life is. But I vowed to depart with a smile on my face, just as my brothers departed before me. They trampled over death with their smiles and overwhelming faith.

   In 2016, on January 20, my brother Marcel passed away. Before he passed away, I heard him say:

- I see my mother with Saint Charbel. 

   He smiled at them and gave up his soul.

   He was the child of the family, the youngest of his siblings, who accompanied his parents as they fled from their village of Mejdlaya to Cyprus by sea, that is, by boat. He was the first to meet them in the heavenly kingdom.

   In 2023, on October 24, his seventieth birthday, my brother Michel departed this world, assigning roles to us:

- you, you, you will carry my coffin. 

   He did not choose my brother Joseph to carry it with the others, fearing for his health. As for me, he instructed me to eulogize him with a poem. He was distributing the roles while laughing, even though he knew he would die within hours.

   I looked at him, and my inner voice kept repeating:

- Why would my brother fear death, a believer who committed no sin, but was a loving father, a caring brother, and a loyal friend?

   Only seven months after his death, on June 1, 2024, my brother Antoine passed away, repeating the name of the Virgin Mary over and over again. Every time I looked at him, I saw a halo of light illuminating his face.

   As for my mother, she suffered a fatal heart attack in my car, yet she still prayed for us all, asking me to unite the family as one home, no matter how large and scattered it was, just as she had united it in her father's absence.

   The leukemia my father had suffered from for so long helped, as the professor who supervised his treatment told us, find a cure for this malignant disease. He said:

- As you know, and with your consent, we subjected your father to numerous, and extremely painful, tests and experiments. Yet he never complained or felt any pain. This puzzled and even astonished us as doctors.

   When this professor learned that my father was passing away, he left all his work and came to be with us at this painful moment. How astonished we were when he bowed and kissed his hand.

   Monsignor Youssef Touma was also with us. After he had given him his final anointing, we heard my father say:

- O Lady Mejdlaya, take off your blue robe and throw it over me.

   These were the last words he uttered. At this point, the wailing and crying began. The Monsignor shouted:

- Why are you crying? Your father is a saint. It is not permissible to cry over him. When I came to administer the Sacrament of Holy Communion, I would find him completely unconscious. As soon as I raised the host over his head, he would awaken for a few moments, receive communion, and then return to his coma. This happened every time I visited him. So, stop crying and ask for his intercession.

   On July 24, 2025, my brother and lifelong companion, Joseph Sarkis Baini, passed away with incredible speed, as if he missed his parents and siblings who had preceded him to heaven. But what pained me most, and still pains me, is that I called him on Wednesday morning to take him to the market, as usual, and he said to me:

- Don't come today. I have flu.

   A short time later, my brother's wife, Veronica, called me and said calmly:

- Don't worry. The ambulance has arrived and taken your brother to the hospital."

   The next day, I went to check on him at Westmead Hospital, and as soon as he saw me through the glass, he raised his hand. When I entered the intensive care unit, he said to me in a loud voice:

- Don't come near me, or I'll infect you.

   Yes, since I was little, he has protected me and worried about me. And now, just two hours before his death, he wanted to protect me from illness. How could I not cry for him, how could I not mourn him, when I have lost his overwhelming love, his joyful companionship, and his golden smile, after he departed like an angel and was extinguished like a candle?

   And here I am today, dragging behind me the long years that the Lord has given me. I have decided to live them in His pleasure, obedience, and love, certain that He will forgive me for the sins I have unintentionally committed in the hustle and bustle of life. I apologize to every person who did not understand me and whom I did not understand, and from whom I was forced to distance myself so as not to cause them distress. At the same time, I thank all those who have adorned my life with words and love. May God protect them wherever they may be.

   As for those who have attacked me and accused me of sins I have never committed, I ask for mercy and forgiveness for them, in imitation of the prayer taught to us by Jesus Christ:

- Forgive us our trespasses and our sins, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.

   As I mentioned previously, I began writing at the age of 9 and continued on my path despite the many bumps and pains. Therefore, it is my duty to address the rising generation to practice writing, to express their opinions without fear of anyone, to distance themselves from worldly trivialities, and to immerse themselves in the endless oceans of reading. For books, as they say, will remain the best companions throughout the ages.

   My grave, in Rookwood Cemetery, number 266, in the Maronite Catholic section. Nearby, at number 265, lie the two most precious to my heart: my father and mother. Therefore, I will not feel the coldness of the grave, nor how I feel it when they lie beside me. To remain close to my village, Mejdlaya, after my death, I brought a handful of its soil to be buried with me.

   Now, I will await my departure, fully convinced that those who do good will not be overcome by death. Am I not the one who said in the collection "Rubaiyat"(Quartets):

Death is joy, victory, and pride

and breaking the neck of this world we live in

and freeing ourselves forever

from these sins, sinning every moment.

   I will wait... and I will smile... and I will triumph, God willing.

**