, a brave group of crusaders including both women and children face battles in Tripoli--the area known as Lebanon today. Believe it or not, I was once trapped in a war zone in Lebanon with my children. I'm not sure that I was quite as brave as the characters in my book, but I wanted to share that story with you anyway.
Trapped in a War Zone
(As seen on Inkwell Inspirations, January 18, 2010)
|My kids and I enjoying Lebanon|
the summer of 2006 I was in Lebanon with my husband and three children
visiting family. We were having a lovely vacation filled with mountains,
beaches, caves, waterfalls, sunsets, rainbows, castles, shopping, and
parties. Then with no warning, a war broke out between Israel and a
terrorist organization (or upstanding, community oriented, political
faction—according to the smiling roadside signs). The closest Hezbollah
camp lay about two miles from my husband’s little Christian village of
Aabra in the heart of the Islamic South where Jesus once walked. Right
away we heard the bombs and felt the house shake.
Life went on.
|Sitting on the balcony drinking coffee|
sat on the porch painting their nails. Some old men dealt cards and
drank coffee. Children played soccer on the sunny streets. This was
Lebanon after all. You could hardly put things on hold for yet another
war, and since neither Hezbollah nor Israel had a gripe with the little
Christian village, people painted nails, played soccer, and drank
Later that evening we went to a party. When we
heard a particularly seismic bang, they told the children someone had
set off fireworks for the birthday celebration. My husband took me aside
and informed me it was the bridge to Beirut. Beirut and the airport.
The way out. They always bombed it first to cut off the South from
supplies. I didn’t enjoy the cake so much. A trapped sensation began to
squeeze my chest.
On the way home I watched red rockets
shoot into the sky. Not in celebration of Clara’s birthday. Teens lined
the streets watching them like fireworks anyway. That’s when I
realized: although no one had a gripe with the neutral little village,
sometimes innocent bystanders get caught in the fray. Hezbollah rockets
flew willy-nilly across the sky after streaking Israeli jets, not at all
concerned where they landed. I watched the flares apex and arch and
spin back down to earth, without a care. The rockets. Not me.
night I kept my children in an interior room of the house. Thank God
Lebanese homes are made of stone. I prayed and sang worship songs and
read Psalms on the vibrating bed to the whistling flute and booming bass
drum of rockets blasts, until I couldn’t take it anymore. My
eleven-year-old daughter Christiana picked up the Bible and continued.
Here is a portion from the scripture she found.
Psalm 140 (The Message Version)
1-5 God, get me out of here, away from this evil; protect me from
these vicious people. All they do is think up new ways to be bad; they
spend their days plotting war games. They practice the sharp rhetoric of
hate and hurt, speak venomous words that maim and kill.
Appropriate don’t you think.
a while the kids fell asleep, but I could not. I struggled to calm my
racing heart, to still my shaking hands, to swallow back my fear. I
stroked their curly heads as they lay in peace, treasuring each child,
each moment, the tranquil features of their small faces. Finally, in the
wee hours of the morning I crawled into my own bed on the side of the
house where the rockets zoomed. I didn’t care anymore. I was desperate
to escape into dreams.
But with the first light of dawn I awoke to my husband’s whispered confession. “They bombed the airport last night.”
panic set in. I could no longer hold it at bay. It seized my heart,
clutching it, cinching tight, threatening to smash the life right out of
it. I could barely find the air to breathe. My husband spent the day on
the computer and the phone. I curled in a ball and cried and tried to
keep the kids from playing soccer on the sunny streets. My daughter read
Where to go? What to do? This was no
child’s game. We were truly trapped. Should we go to Syria? To Jordan?
Take a taxi? Steal a car? I couldn’t spend months in that village
listening to bombs drop. I would never survive. Besides, there were
things waiting for us back home: dance camps and church picnics,
homeschool planning and season tickets to amusement parks.
This was not my life!
good solutions surfaced, but we had to do something. My in-laws wanted
us to stay there in that—can’t eat, can’t sleep, bass drums rumbling,
must keep the kids from playing soccer on the sunny streets—hell. They’d
been through wars before. We’d be trapped but safe. They seemed
certain. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just sit and drink
coffee on the balcony while waiting for my nails to dry. While waiting
for the war to pass and the bombs to cease. Everything within me cried
out to fight.
I called my kids and husband to the
interior room. It was the most peaceful place in the house. We sang and
prayed some more. I asked the children if any of them had a word from
God. Lord knew I was far too much of a mess to hear. Adam, not quite
four-years-old, piped up. “I do,” he said in his squeaky little voice.
|Adam, not quite four, waiting for refuge|
proceeded to tell us the story of a boy who wandered away from home and
ended up in a library. As he described it, we could picture the two
sets of double doors and the foyer in between. The boy entered the first
set and got stuck there. He couldn’t go in, and he couldn’t get out.
didn’t know at the time that back home people were experiencing similar
visions and dreams. But when Adam told us the story, we felt we
understood. The library represented man’s wisdom. If we did what seemed
wise and tried to flee the country, we would be trapped. I couldn’t be trapped again. I couldn’t stay
trapped in that village any longer.
My husband said, “So, let’s go north to Beirut.”
you have to understand traveling north to Beirut was the stupidest
thing we could have done. The Israelis were on a mission to bomb out all
the bridges and shut down transportation, and to get to Beirut would
mean crossing many, many bridges.
as my husband spoke those words, a peace settled over the room like a
soft snuggly blanket. We knew. We had our answer. I knew. I wasn’t
trapped. My mourning was done. The world was light and bright again, and
I didn’t care about the crashing bass drums.
washed off my tears and went to eat some food for the first time that
day. My mother-in-law was furious and shouting at me in Arabic. “Don’t
leave. Stay here. It’s safer here.” Mafais shi, she said in her own language. It’s nothing.
had been married for thirteen years at this point, and I always
pretended I didn’t understand my mother-in-law in such moments. But this
time I stood up and yelled back. In Arabic no less. “This is the right
thing to do. I know it. Look at me. I’m not crying. I can eat. I’m
happy. This is my family. These are my children. We’re leaving. And you
can’t stop us.” I’m sure my Arabic was broken, and I messed half of it
up. I’m probably not remembering the words quite right. But you get the
point. And so did she.
|Dina and Jonny posing on the broken down car|
up our suitcases, we smashed into an old car along with two of my
nieces who longed to return to their parents in the city. We drove up
and down the mountains looking for paths where bridges still crossed the
streams. As we gazed at the sky and listened for whistling rocket
flutes before speeding over each one—I felt free. Free and at peace with
God and the world. Oh, and the car broke down for a few minutes
somewhere along the way, but I didn't mind. I just sat on the hood and
four-year-old Adam was right. If we tried to get out of the country we
would have been trapped at the border for days. And the borders were
we piled into a two-bedroom apartment with my brother-in-law’s family
in Beirut. It was crowded, but I felt free. I spent the next week
hanging out at the local hamburger joint with a play place, swimming at
an uncle’s high rise luxury condo, and watching my favorite American
television shows in English or French.
|Crammed onto the refugee boat taking us to the larger ship|
the while, I tried to convince my parents back home that we were fine.
Because, you see, over 1,200 civilians died during the war in Lebanon in
the summer of 2006. Understandably, my parents were trapped in their
own—can’t eat, can’t sleep, bass drums rumbling, must keep the kids from
playing soccer on the sunny streets—hell. Thousands of Americans were
praying for us by this time. I got emails from old college buddies. My
mother became close friends with our local congresswoman, Thelma Drake.
Hi, Thelma. What’s up?
although I empathized with my parents back home, I had discovered a
secret in the midst of the war. Sometimes in the middle of being
trapped, you can wind up feeling oddly…free.
US government finally announced they would send refugee ships, we were a
five-minute drive from the departure spot, precisely where we needed to
be. Adam’s vision proved true yet again. God had spoken. God is always
speaking if only we will stop and listen. He had been our hiding place.
Our refuge in that storm.
I have more great stories
about mobs and two days roasting on a concrete bridge and my kids being
passed over the heads of US Marines. But finally, we sat on the deck of the USS
Nashville watching the Lebanese skyline slip past. Feeling the cool
Mediterranean breeze under the clear blue sky. We slept right on the
deck under the stars. That might be my favorite night ever.
something great about living through a war. The next year when my then
twelve-year-old daughter asked to go on a foreign mission trip, we said
to ourselves, “She survived a war in Lebanon; she’ll survive this.” And when we decided to put the kids in public school we said, “They survived a war in Lebanon; they’ll survive public school.”
There’s something great about being trapped in a war. Something that leaves you oddly…free.
Back safe in the states!
For more info on the 2006 War in Lebanon visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2006_Lebanon_War