The day I was born

The day I was born

I was born in kuferyassif, a village that once stood on a hill south of Haifa in the holly land. Back then it was in Palestine and today it belongs to Israel. The name has since vanished and the village lost its generic character. Probably was added to a casserole of lands with a new identity and to describe me I’m not Jewish or a Philistine.   
Both of my parents are of Lebanese decent from a border village in the most southern tip of Lebanon and north of Israel called Yaroun.
The short distance from Yaroun to Haifa is less than twenty miles and before the state of Israel was created, villagers were permitted to cross and travel freely anywhere in Palestine.
Palestine was an open window of opportunity to southern Lebanese villages. Men from the villages scattered along the border traveled to Palestine in search of work.
Life in the south was slow and the inhabitants had binding to the earth. The only work warranted was farming. The take home after the harvest was in commodities and mainly basic necessity to sustain and survive.
At age sixteen seeking a better life and not satisfied with the predictable life of a farmer my father crossed the border with old cloth and twenty liras in his pocket, trusting his capacity for improvement and venturing in pursuit of his dreams.
The years passed and while my father was a single man traveled all over the holly land doing odd jobs until fate placed him in Kuferyassif where he resided.

In later years my maternal grandparents moved to Kuferyassif from Yaroun. My grandfather who at young age served in the British army sought the opportunity to make money and opened a blacksmith shop and most of his work was fixing and welding armaments for the British army and since my father and my grandparents lived in the same village my father met my mother and married her.

At the time of my birth, my father worked for I.P.C. “Iraqi Petroleum Company”. Owned and managed by the British government. The pipelines starting point was from the oil drilling fields in Iraq and ran through Syria and Jordan territories into its final destination to the oil refineries on the port city of Haifa. The oil was loaded on oil tankers and transported to its final distributions.
Coincidently I was born in no man’s land and no one’s country, right in between, not tied to Palestine or welcomed by Israel only involved but not committed.

Enduring the holocaust and brutality of the Nazi regime in world war two, the winds of wars carried the Jews in their exodus to the holly land expediting The Zionist Movement.
At that time in history Harry Truman was the American president and it is documented in a video take in the oval office showing president Truman engaged in a conversation in reference to creating Israel, Truman voluntarily referred himself to be Cyrus the great and champion of the Jews and at a later date publicly announced his support in a speech demanding the creation of the state of Israel.
1947 the U.N. made its final decision to establish the state of Israel, by then Haganah the war of independence in the underground was at its peak in the holy land.

Claiming the God of the Bible promised them the holly land. The tribes of Israel regrouped its divisions from the four corners of the world. Reclaiming to have jurisdiction and marched towards the promised land of Moses, the land of milk and honey as noted in the Old Testament. The Palestinians opposed the Jews in their undertaking and resisted the notion for Palestine to be partitioned. With help from neighboring Arabs, declared to fight and took up arms to defend Palestine.

During the troubling time while I was in my mother’s womb my father had no choice but to keep on working to sustain my older sister and a pregnant wife and every day at the crack of dawn was driven to earn a living and left for work traveling on foot.
The refineries were heavily protected by the British army and working condition was not interrupted by the outside violence. Some workers were provided sleeping quarters and had a choice to leave, reenter or stay.
Two days prior to my birth my father was working inside the compound, the fighting escalated while the Arabs and the Jews took it to the streets sniping at each other and since it was dangerous to travel or walk the street my father temporarily decided to take shelter in the I.P.C. compound weathering the storm and confident that my grandparents lived across the street keeping a watchful eyes in case my mother needed assistance.


Two day after my birth a coworker and a neighbor managed to reach the I.P.C. compound in Haifa at sunset and upon seeing my father in the courtyard yelled,
  “Semaan I bring you good news” smiled and adduced, “Your wife gave birth to a baby boy”
That moment my father was stunned by the news, stormed out of the sheltered confinement and started toward Kuferyassif on foot.
All around the sound of blasting guns and mortars was deafening. Black cloud of smoke filled the air. Fighter planes hovered above roaring as thunder and the ground shook in tremor.
Father was at a hyper state of spirit, anxious to see me, his first male born child.
Cautious and unyielding to such extreme danger, crossing the street, shots were fired, he felt the whistling sound of bullets behind his head, dove to the ground and crawled to safety inside an abandoned building. Withdrew realizing it was time to take cover from shellfire. Mean while darkness crept amid deadly hazard, closed his eyes and rested till morning staying out of harm’s way.

Months after my birth, the war was taking an exhausting turn of violence. The bloodshed reached the streets of Kuferyassif. We were isolated, confined and secluded from the outside world. Whenever possible my father went out searching for food not knowing if he’ll return back alive. The courage of his personality drove him to face fear head on and many times came home with some food and shared with my grandparents and vice versa. 

One morning after weeks of fighting it was calm and quiet. My father went out to search for food and in the process encountered an old childhood friend from his village. The man told my father he was taking his wife and three children back to Lebanon via the Mediterranean on the boat that he had purchased from a fisherman in Haifa then suggested to my father if he was interested in doing the same he will refer him to the fisherman and find a candidate who’s interested in selling his boat.
Father questioned why not cross the mountains. The man explained his hesitation to take the mountain trails and impending danger, commenting horrific stories of people killed by random fire from both sides and from land mines.
Given concern, father told the man that he did not know how to swim and the sea gave him awful jitters. 

Hell broke loose and Palestine was under siege. The resistant Jewish fighters controlled the battles and had the upper hand. Their superior training and underground tactical maneuvers, gave them an edge over their Arab counterpart.
Palestine expired and that invited a shift change. Palestinian became refugees. The country is gone, lost of possessions and freedom. The Jews took concession and inhibited the land fitting to their reclaimed inheritance.
While the Arabs still mounted on horsebacks like cowboys of the desserts lacking military superiority, faced an arsenal of western military technology.
The Arabs were isolated by not keeping pace with progress, were defeated and the state of Israel was born on May 14, 1948.

Listening to a radio broadcast announcing the Jews are winning the war and in seizure of Palestine my father traveled on foot down to the refineries and met his boss Mr. Fulton.
Mr. Fulton advised my father that the situation was dim to stay employed by I.P.C. knowing my father was a Lebanese citizen in a foreign land will be expelled from the holly land once the new Israeli government lay down the law.
Mr. Fulton encouraged my father to apply for a position at I.P.C. refineries in northern Lebanon in the coastal city of Tripoli and wrote a letter of recommendation. 
Shaking hands before parting, my father thanked Mr. Fulton and proudly said,
  “Friend, I named my new born son Johnny”
Mr. Fulton smiled and said,
  “That’s an English name”
And that was my first introduction to western civilization.

On his way back home father noticed the graffiti of the Star of David scribbled on the walls of buildings and the Jews celebrating and chanting in the streets. 
The triumph of one nation and the sorrow bewilder the defeated. History repeating and mankind bewitched. You live by the sword, you die by the sword. You live by the book and you die by the words. It’s an endless struggle, the way to foolish death and futility of war of religions.
The war ended, my grandfather rented a truck and loaded both his and our belongings and all of us moved back to Yaroun the village of my ancestors.


The years went by and mother bore seven children including me. Only the twin did not survive. Father worked six days of the week and insisted that we all be present for lunch on Sundays and demanded that Sunday is the family day and the only day he cherished the most in having all his children in his presence. It became a custom the whole family sat for a while around the dining table almost every Sunday.  In those days my father was happy when we shared bread together, his eyes glittered with joy and his heart was an open book and many times he told stories.
I remember one of those Sundays my father was recounting how it took him two days to reach our house when our neighbor announced my birth.
Treading carefully avoiding being killed by blind bullets, hiding behind walls describing how the streets were filled with dead bodies left unclaimed surrounded by ravenous dogs, no walkers in sight, the streets deserted in fearful silence and the town appeared ghostly and cursed by death. 

Sitting across the table, mother was smiling then exalted how my father gallantly went out the house a week after my birth when things were calm and came back with a bag of mixed roasted nuts, sugarcoated almonds and assorted candies. Invited all the kids of the neighbors and passed on the goods celebrating my birth.
No cigars were offered and quoting Mark Twain, it wasn’t the Hailey’s comet either. Trick or treat, it sounded as if I was born October 31 in a merrymaking of Halloween with blasting firework.     
After all these years, no one seem to know the where about of the man who took the boat fleeing with his wife and three children. They vanished from the face of the earth, maybe swollen by the sea.

While I was practicing crawling, my father left to Tripoli alone, temporarily leaving me, my older sister and mother behind in the village, aspiring to rejoin I.P.C.
After being accepted, father rented a house in Tripoli and came for us to the mountain.

Without a shred of doubt, there seem to be no burden of proof to my identity. In later years I found out my parents registered my date of birth as of September 10, 1948 instead of January 31. And when I obtained a legal birth certificate, it claimed I was born in Yaroun in Lebanon not in Kuferyassif in the holly land.
Without documentation a ghost proof was sufficient enough to register me as a soldier of Christ and a member of the Roman Catholic congregation in Yaroun. 
Oddly enough my parents had no choice and to give me an identity resorted to recondite the truth. I was baptized repelling my future sins. A white dove replaced the crow above my head. Little they know I need a divine Hazmat gears to obstruct my hazardous transparencies.

Looking at old pictures, a photo of me was taken while being baptized held by my parents, standing in a stone tub on a pedestal, the priest pouring water over my head, naked and crying I was exposed by my human frailty.
With a little tiding from my father and a home made jug of wine from my grandpa. The vicar of the village was satisfied and continued his devotion with a glass of wine, raised his cup saluting the Alter for his happy drunken days, asking for forgiveness for forging Christian documents and merrily to say, it is to be true when the wine goes in the truth comes out.

All the cards fell in place and I caught an ace on the river. Legally I became a Lebanese national, a Catholic product and was issued a “Tazkara” a local I.D. and proof of citizenship.
I guess it’s all right. I’m back to my roots and it makes no difference to me if I ‘m a true Aquarius or an adopted Virgo and I don’t care if I was an air, fire or a water sign. The zodiac is not one of my games. I don’t even give a hoot if Jupiter or Saturn is my astrological high grounds. All I know that earth is my planet and farfetched from reality I’m not an alien riding a winged unicorn chasing after Pegasus.

As a custom in my culture being the firstborn male, I inherited my paternal grandfather’s name with a western flair.
To bestow dignity to my paternal grandfather in antiquity fashion, and in his memory my parents named me Johnny, a substitute to his biblical equivalent Hanna.

It is baffling how such a simple name like Johnny given to someone like me creates a multi cultural confusion.
My own grandmother pronounced my name Jounei. My Cuban friends in Miami called me Yani. Even legally when I was a Lebanese citizen, I was issued a passport and my name was spelled Joni and it is the name I kept when I became naturalized American citizen.
Oddly enough I still receive mail addressing me as a female in gender, Miss Joni. Little they know I was never kept in a closet and I’m masculine in gender.
On many occasions when I introduce myself as Johnny to my fellow Yanks people tend to ask,
  “what is your real name?”
Knowing I came from the Middle East, I’m expected to be an Ali or a Moustafa and resemble a terrorist look alike, hauling a big nose and looking like a hairy Sasquatch. Well the proof is in the pudding, none of such profile fit my image, I have slick shiny hair, olives complexion, my nose is average and my tongue is sharper than a raiser blade.
Walking the street of Miami I look Latin and I’m saluted “que pasa amigo”.
When I visited the big apple, some one asked,
  “yo paisan, are you Italian?”
I laughed and answered,
  “no goomba, I’m Jovani from Beirut”.
I live with two Boston Terriers. I speak to them in English and I wonder if they consider me an Anglo. Had I known how deceiving I looked and sound, I could have joined the C.I.A. as a double agent.

I was born dynamically Catholic. I do not kiss the Pope’s hand or confess my sins to a priest and I’m not looking for a cockamamie absolution. On the other hand I love to tango with a nun for fun. One day I would love to play all in, head to head with Saint Pete and win my entry prize to paradise while the chorus chants and the organ sounds.
If I loose, I’m still a winner. I already hit the jackpot the day I was born.
My prize was granted by the miracle of birth. The rest is destiny up my alley spinning with the winds of time.