Because They Hate: A Survivor of Islamic Terror Warns America (19 page)

Meanwhile in Beirut the MNF would grow to a force of 5,200 French, Italian, British, and American troops. The United States government continued to conduct negotiations between Israel and the newly elected government of Lebanon.
¹

While the negotiations between the Israeli and Lebanese governments were progressing, Hezbollah, the newly formed radical Islamist militia supported by Iran and Syria, introduced a tactic that has become a worldwide plague. Although Yasser Arafat was the father of modern terrorism, it was Hezbollah that pioneered the use of suicide bombers.
²
On April 18, 1983, the driver of a truck packed with explosives detonated his vehicle in the driveway of the United States embassy in Beirut. Sixty-three people were killed and a hundred were wounded. This was Hezbollah’s salutation to the United States.
³

On October 23, Hezbollah struck again, this time both the barracks of the United States Marines and the headquarters of the French MNF contingent, with simultaneous suicide truck bombs. These attacks killed 241 marines and 58 French soldiers. Although the MNF remained for four more months, it was clear that it was not going to be able to maintain order and bring peace to Lebanon. The MNF left Beirut on February 26, 1984.

The fate of Lebanon was left in the hands of power broker Syria. The Islamic world was taking notes on how the mighty U.S. military, having been bloodied, had packed up and left. The lesson was not lost on one Osama bin Laden. America and the civilized world have failed repeatedly to understand the players and the cause of the Middle East conflict. When I heard President Bush speaking after September 11 about the Axis of Evil that included Iran and Syria, I wondered where the American government had been for the last twenty-some years. It was Iran that set up and financed Hezbollah and Syria that protected it. These events in Lebanon laid the groundwork for the war on terror we are fighting today. It sent a clear message to the terrorists that America was blinded by its apathy. Because America was indifferent in dealing with Syria and Iran twenty-five years ago, today we’re trying to stop Iran from developing a nuclear bomb and Syria from allowing insurgents into Iraq, not to mention Syria’s possibly harboring Saddam’s nukes. According to the number-two official in Saddam Hussein’s air force, General Georges Sada, Iraq moved weapons of mass destruction into Syria before the war by loading the weapons into civilian aircraft in which the passenger seats were removed. “There are weapons of mass destruction gone out from Iraq to Syria, and they must be found and returned to safe hands,” Mr. Sada said. The flights—fifty-six in total, according to Sada—attracted little notice because they were thought to be civilian flights providing relief from Iraq to Syria, which had suffered a flood after a dam collapse in June of 2002.
⁴

As the exportation of Islamic fundamentalism from Iran began taking hold in Lebanon, I knew that I had no future in the country of my birth. My only hope to escape from the seemingly endless hell of Lebanon was to concentrate on my studies, especially English. I signed up for a typing course to learn how to type English so that I could get a job with a company that dealt with Israelis or Americans. I looked forward to my lessons two hours a week at the YWCA downtown. With each keystroke, I felt I was getting closer to my dream: to work in a company where I would meet people who were going to respect me for my character, for my abilities, for my mind and what I had to offer the world, not for my looks, my clothing, or the shallow “honor” between my legs.

As I matured, I occupied my mind and kept busy by becoming involved in the community and my church. I was a member of the art club and acted in two plays. I was in charge of eighty Scouts, girls and boys aged ten to thirteen. I supervised their involvement in the festivities in town during the holidays, and trained and directed them during the parades and community events. I was one of the founders of the Red Cross in our region. With the help of two people in the choir, we recruited and organized a volunteer force for Red Cross headquarters in Marjayoun. I also graduated from high school. But I had no chance to go to college. As the only child of aging parents, I could not leave them to travel to college in Beirut. And there was no money— every lira had been spent on helping me attain my high school degree.

As I started evaluating my life and the two others that depended on me, I decided to take a one-year business administration course in the business school at the YWCA. Three of the board of directors of the school respected my parents and knew our financial situation, so they gave me a break on the tuition. I enjoyed the course tremendously. My days were spent in school and my evenings at the church.

I graduated from my business course on June 15, 1984, and brought my degree home and showed it to my parents, who were very happy for me. They hoped that I would find a job (and a husband) at the same time. That week I was consumed with thoughts about my limited options in Marjayoun. I decided to go up to the army base and speak to the Israeli general who was in charge of the security zone, and apply to be his secretary. I had heard about him from our neighbors who worked at the army base. His name was Shlomo.

It was a crazy thought for a girl in my culture to go into to the heart of a military fortress alone and ask to speak to the general. How absurd! But I had no other choice. If I wanted to do something with my life, I had to take charge, be creative, and explore all the possibilities, no matter what. In the middle of a war and being in Marjayoun, the options were few. I figured the worst thing he could do was laugh at me and ask me to leave. So I got up one morning and worked up the courage to go see him.

I started walking up the hill to the army base. The route Chuck had used was now a regular shortcut used by the soldiers. Even though it was only a hundred yards from my house, because of the shelling it was the first time I had been there in eight years. The hill was a mess, with barbed wire all over the place. Even with the path, I had to find my way. Tanks and jeeps were parked on both sides of the entrance. I walked straight to the Israeli soldier guarding the gate. He looked at me and did not know what to think. I asked if he spoke English. He smiled, which encouraged me, and answered, “Of course. How can I help you?” I told him, “I am here to see General Shlomo.” A bit shocked, he nevertheless politely guided me in the direction to the general’s office.

I was on my own and out of my element. I was the only woman in the army base and the recipient of all sorts of looks from the military personnel. I was nervous. My only strength was derived from the thought of my old parents. I thought of their lives, their health, and how proud they would be if I got a job working for the general. When I got to General Shlomo’s office, I took a deep breath and said a prayer. The door was just a hair open. I knocked on it twice, and heard a voice say
"ken”
which is “yes” in Hebrew. I opened the door and said in English, “Is this General Shlomo’s office?” Surprised, he replied in English with a smile, “Yes. How can I help you? I’m Shlomo.” He was by himself sitting behind a big desk covered with papers. On the side was another desk attached to his with telephones and electronic devices. I asked him if I could come in.

He invited me in, gestured to a seat in front of his desk, and asked, “What can I do for you?"

I said, “My name is Brigitte Gabriel. I heard you are the general of this army base. I wanted to see you about the possibility of working for you as your secretary. I can write, read, and type English, French, and Arabic.” I stopped talking and waited for his reply.

He said, “Brigitte, where are you from?"

"From here. I live in the apartment complex down the hill from this army base."

He said, “You must have incredible courage to come up here to see me and ask me for a job."

I did not know what to make of this comment. I said, “General Shlomo, I am an only child. My parents are in their seventies. We lost everything during the war and I have to support them. I am good and I learn fast. If you hire me for any position, I promise you that you’ll never regret it."

He looked me in the eye for what seemed a lifetime, then said, “Brigitte, I admire your courage, but as you see, we don’t have ladies in here. My secretary is a soldier. I will not be able to use your services. But if I ever need a secretary, I will keep you in mind."

Then I asked him about the hospital. He said they were not hiring at that time, but assured me that he’d keep me in mind for that, too. I thanked him for talking with me, since I’d arrived unannounced. He said, “You’re very welcome. I hope you do find something."

In the following weeks I applied at the UN headquarters for our region, met with the general there, and got the same answer General Shlomo had given me. I also applied at a television studio in my town being built by Middle East Television. They were in the beginning stages and not yet hiring. I knew I was not going to find a job easily, but I knew I had better credentials than anybody in our area, as not many people spoke English, and no one else knew how to type it. I was the only one in school who took the English typing course. Everybody else took the French one, because there were more French companies in Lebanon than English or American ones.

One day when I arrived home, my parents told me that General Shlomo had sent a soldier looking for me. He asked to see me at the military base.

I knocked at the door. I heard Shlomo’s voice say
"ken.”
I opened the door and said, “Hello. You asked for me?” He looked at me and smiled a big smile. He said, “Finally you are here. I need you to do some work for me.” He told me that he was hiring Lebanese doctors to work in the hospital. He needed me to type their contracts.

I typed papers that evening until about six thirty. We resumed the next day. I found out that the whole area reported to him; Israeli and Lebanese commanders had meetings with him that Friday. Israeli and Lebanese men would walk by his office and glance at me working beside him. Nobody understood how a Lebanese girl could be working with Shlomo at the military base. My presence there was a mystery, and I am sure the talk of the army base. I worked without asking him a word about payment or a position at the hospital. I just did whatever task he gave me, the best that I could do it.

I was down to my last two contracts that Friday afternoon. Shlomo was getting ready to return to Israel for the Sabbath. As I picked up the last piece of paper and slid it into the typewriter, I saw my name. It was my contract for a position of administrative secretary. Shlomo looked at me, smiled, and said, “You will be the best secretary that hospital ever had. This is my gift to you. I am finishing my term here and will be leaving Lebanon for good. I wish you the best in your life.” I thanked him with tears in my eyes, shook his hand, and left.

My work at the hospital was a learning and enjoyable experience. The administration office, where I worked, was huge. My desk was to the side of the director’s desk. Across from our desks were conference chairs because that’s where the doctors held their meetings and lounged on their coffee breaks.

My position and location gave me further experience in comparing Arabs and Israelis. It was an opportunity to observe and socialize with Arab and Israeli doctors. Listening to their conversations and discovering their interests gave me deeper insight into the differences in cultures.

The Israeli doctors lived in the doctors' quarters at the hospital, and came from different parts of the world. I met doctors whose backgrounds were Russian, Polish, French, and Swiss. It was intriguing listening to them. They would talk about the books they were reading. They would discuss the story and the author’s writing style and the effectiveness of the delivery of details. Sometimes they would discuss art. One of them loved oil painting, and art filled his time after his shift at the hospital. They consistently had good things to say about the nurses and the Lebanese doctors. They commented on the good work the nurses did, and how great the doctors were. They spoke about the nice favors that some of the nurses did for the patients, and made sure they complimented the nurses on their work.

I looked forward to when the Israeli doctors would come for a break. Out of politeness they tried to speak as much as they could in English, since I did not speak Hebrew. It was their behavior that taught me how to show respect to others from a different society.

When the Lebanese doctors got together, they talked about politics of course, and about the doctors they worked with. Each one of them criticized the others about something behind their back. There was no honesty in their relationships with each other, and none of them trusted the others. They would talk about the nurses in a most unflattering way. Not about their performance, mind, or ability, but about their looks, clothing, and social behavior. Then they would discuss how respectable Mr. So and So was because he was such a bully and he deserved the money he got because he knew how to use the system. Power and money bought titles for people without ability or experience, and that was to be admired. The Lebanese doctors had the highest respect for the biggest jerk or crook depending on his situation or title. People were shown respect because of their title no matter how unworthy a human being. I used to wonder how they talked about me after I left work in the afternoon.

My work in the small hospital put me at the center of what was happening in the area. The emergency room was just a few doors down the hallway. I could hear the sirens of the ambulances and the screams of the mothers meeting their wounded soldier sons or younger children in the emergency room. I used to go in and have a look at who had been brought in to find out if it was one of my friends, or simply to learn what happened. It was depressing seeing the blood and suffering every day.

Through my work in the administration office I got to meet a lot of visitors. One in particular changed the course of my future. David walked into the waiting room one day with his wife and two young children. I saw them from my window and knew they were Americans. Since I spoke English, I went out and asked if they needed any help. David told me that their youngest child had developed a rash all over his body and they needed to see a doctor. I went to the emergency room and arranged for a doctor to see them. While waiting for the doctor I got to know David and his wife, Shoshana.