“If he said he was Jesus, would you have believed him?” Jon’s father asked as he shook his head.
We both paused and then I shrugged. “I mean I agree it wasn’t the smartest thing to do but… it did turn out pretty cool.”
Only an hour earlier, we had left the hotel in the Lebanese countryside and drove down into the town of Aley. It was the first and only time we had been able to venture out on our own. And where did we decide to stop? Outside a bombed out mansion that was currently serving as an outdoor plant store. It was such an odd thing to see that I needed to get a few pictures. But obviously someone taking random photos on the side of the road attracted questions and it wasn’t long until a man appeared from inside the building and started a conversation with us.
“If you like taking pictures of architecture, let me show you my house just up the hill.” He offered after we had exchanged a few pleasantries.
I hesitated at the shady offer but he continued. “It’s just up there, a few hundred feet from us. It’s very old, all handmade. It’s been in my family for generations. Come.”
We cautiously followed him a few feet, while our car and the road were still in sight. As we walked he asked where we were from, offered a few comments on the current state of the U.S. and then began to expound upon the effects the civil war had on his house and the neighboring mansion.
“It was all very beautiful here. This mansion was very famous. But everyone left when things got really bad and most didn’t return. I, myself, didn’t return until the mid-nineties.”
At this point we had reached the edge of the road and he had begun to follow a dirt path through the trees. When we hesitated again he turned, smiled and motioned us forward.
“It’s only a few more feet past these trees. No, no you’ll be fine.” He promised.
Jon and I looked at each other, acutely aware that it was dusk, and that no one knew where exactly we had gone off to.
“Come. Come.” He said
We hesitated a moment longer and then we cautiously followed a few more feet, our pace noticeably slower.
But the man simply repeated “come” one more time, pushed aside a few branches and within a matter of moments we could see ahead of us an old stone house.
As we approached the front entrance he explained how the family of an old friend of his was currently living here. The friend had since passed but his family had escaped from Syria and were now living there as refugees.
“They are all women”, he explained, ” so I must tell them first to cover up for us or go hide.”
“Oh we don’t need to bother…” I began. But before I could stop him he stepped inside.
When he reappeared he energetically waved us in. “Come in, come in.”
As we stepped inside a few women popped their heads around the corner, their smiles friendly but equally confused. But the man paid their confusion no heed and proceeded to instead turn our attention to the stones that made up the walls of the home.
“When this was built no mortar was needed. The stones were fitted together so perfectly that we did not use it. No mortar.” he said proudly.
“And in here,” he pulled us into another room. On the floor were four thin mattresses, each made up neatly. A stack of clothes occupied the corner.
“See here this arch? When it was made, they used no mortar. But during the war, a bomb hit this side of the wall and since then, the stones have moved just a little and now we need to use mortar. We have had to use mortar everywhere since the war to make everything more secure.”
The man patted the wall proudly while Jon and I looked impressively at the arch. The house must have been beautiful in it’s glory days. I had to agree that the stonework was stunning and from the doorway I could see the valley that the house looked out over. Above our heads sat a large balcony intended to enjoy that view. It was indeed grand.
“If he said he was Jesus would you have believed him?” Jon’s father asked us.
Jon shrugged, “No. And we definitely shouldn’t have followed him. But I’m pretty glad we did.”