Blessed Among the Faces
By Margie Kiefer
Photo by Jeff Silker
The ancient people of Lebanon, the Phoenicians, were celebrated for their resilient and adaptable strength through the legend of the phoenix, a bird consumed by fire only to regenerate and rise from the ashes. When I met Najwa Massad years ago, her depth captured me. I was curious to know the mystery behind her understated wisdom. Her light shines like an innocent child’s, a woman filled with hope and love. There is a quiet strength in her spirit. Her warm smile reveals nothing of the horrors she has lived. Her sparkling eyes bare no evidence of the darkness they have seen. Like the phoenix, she survives the fire and rises from the ashes, her life force renewed, brilliant and unbroken.
Najwa is one of Mankato, Minnesota’s most celebrated restaurant owners. Her delicacies, as expressive as her eyes, have a Middle Eastern flair that warms the palate to glorious satisfaction. Her personality has the same flair: warm, genuine and unforgettable.
The family-owned business has a rich tradition that began in Lebanon decades ago and continues today. The Massad family own Massad’s at the River Hills Mall, Najwa’s Catering at the Alltel Center and Olives restaurant in the Garden Inn Hilton Hotel in Mankato. Nawja takes great pride in working with her daughters Meray and Karla and watching them carry on the family tradition. These very capable business women are a bend in tradition from the male dominated family restaurants of Lebanon. Meray and Karla strive to keep the family tradition alive by preserving the reputation of their parents, if not, exceeding it just a little.
Nawja’s drive is the key to her success. She credits her husband John as her mentor and support. She has had no formal business training; she however, has had an abundance of life experience.
When Najwa and John left Lebanon 23 years ago they said good-bye to the irreplaceable support of their extensive family. They sailed away from the security of a generation of family-owned restaurants and fled a country that Najwa refers to as “the most beautiful place on earth.” They left to escape the madness of war and life where bombs are as common as the sunrise.
To truly understand Najwa’s life we must start at the beginning. Her story is expressed with dancing hands, gracefully choreographed to the hypnotic rhythm of her voice. The past unfolds through her animated face and sparkling brown eyes as she shares the amazing journey of her family.
In January of 1978 we were called to Lebanon. John’s family had opened a new restaurant and needed John to manage it. The civil war had quieted down, so we took Meray and our new baby Karla home to Lebanon.
Then in 1980 the war ignited, tensions rose as Syrian troops surrounded our hometown. One day when the girls were at school, the bombing started. In seconds the electricity went out. Mothers flooded the streets, frantically racing to collect their children from school.
John immediately came home. He explained what he had learned from his political contacts. The bombing would continue for three months. I began to cry and told him I wanted to leave. He said, “We don’t have time for you to cry. This is life! This is the way it’s going to be, so that’s it. Pull yourself together!”
For three months we stayed in the small ground floor apartment, electricity off, phone lines dead. When the water reserve tank emptied, I hauled water from the spring in five-gallon pails. Neighbors on the floors above were told what John had learned. When the bombing was heavy they came downstairs to our apartment. Twelve of us hid in the bathroom. My girls and the other children sheltered in the cupboard under the sink. The elderly lady sat on the commode, the rest crowded together on the floor.
The children quickly learned to discern the incoming bombs from the outgoing. They could hear the difference. “No, no, no that’s us hitting them” or “now it’s coming towards us.” It was pathetic; children should run barefoot in the sunshine, play games and walk to church on Sunday. These children were locked indoors, huddled together in fear, learning the sounds of war.
John insisted on keeping the restaurant open. “How can you keep it open?” I argued. “How will the girls and I survive with you gone?”
“How will my employees survive if they can’t work?” he countered. “The army needs to eat. We will barricade the restaurant with sand bags and it will stay open. This is how we will all survive!”
And so it went for three long months. John cooked and served for our army, employed his workers and battled the Syrians from inside his restaurant. I rationed food, water and propane while comforting our babies behind four bathroom walls.
At times the bombing stopped for five or six hours, but you never knew. The neighbors came and went; my door was always open. John was never home. For three months we stayed inside. A sniper’s bullet came through our window and hit the couch. My brother-in-law brought me a machine gun and grenades. “Take these! If the Syrians come into your house you must protect your children.”
“Are you nuts? I won’t have them in my house. What if the children get a hold of them?” We argued back and forth. He left with the grenades. I kept the gun.
John promised me that the Syrians wouldn’t get past our boys, wouldn’t enter our homes. The threat remained. Bombs and sniper bullets killed people on the street; their bodies were put in garbage bags. No funeral, no burial, nothing. Buildings were blown up. With every explosion the apartment shook. The women gossiped that the Syrians were getting closer. I learned to live like this. You can go into hysterics, sit in a corner and cry. It doesn’t change anything.
John came home one day and I lost my composure. His soothing presence softened my resolve. I cursed and shook my fist at the peaceful face of the huge statue of the Blessed Mother, The Queen of Lebanon, she stands on the hill keeping watch over the valley. The Syrians were stationed at this holy site, mocking her, destroying her children. Their bombs rained down on us from behind the outstretched arms of our precious mother.
John said, “You don’t talk to the Blessed Mother that way. What does she have to do with it?”
“She is supposed to protect my children.” I yelled these angry words and they tore at my heart for many years until a nun’s words finally eased my mind. “A mother’s love is unspoiled by the pain she endures for her child.”
An American marine fighting with our boys told me this. “Najwa you’ll go back to the States and tell people what you lived through. They will listen and feel your pain, but days later it will be like a movie they saw. People must live this for it to be real, for it to have a lasting affect. It changes you forever.”
The Syrians finally backed down. Their government took over part of the country. They patrolled the streets and bullied us. Their people worked while ours sat unemployed. There was no recourse for the greedy soldier forcing his snakelike face into your car to steal your family’s dinner.
By 1982 we were in danger as John’s name was added to their hit list. I didn’t want to leave. I’d heard stories of people attempting to leave the country, mysteriously disappearing on the road to Beirut.
We watched dog fights between Israel and the Syrians from our balcony; it was surreal, like watching television, airplanes eluding each other, one explosion, one swift escape and a floating parachute.
The tensions were mounting with increased Israeli pressure. Syria focused its defense and abandoned the check points on the road to Beirut. We fled the country in the middle of the night. Boarding a livestock boat with 250 people, we began a 24-hour trip to Cyprus. The lingering stench of animal manure mingled with the vomit of seasick passengers was almost insignificant amidst the hopelessness of the people around me. Empty faces of people shoved together like cattle. The unforgettable face of despair.
We finally docked in Cyprus. The gentle Mediterranean breezes renewed my strength and lifted my gaze to the most magnificent sight. Rising up from the shore’s edge was an American flag. It was the only flag. Proudly waving the promise of freedom, its peaceful sway began to ease the pain in my heart. It was my flag, and I was going home.
We came home to America, to Mankato, Minnesota. John and I opened our own restaurant, Meray’s, in 1984. It was a wonderful new beginning, every day a gift. I know what it means to love your country, to walk down a peaceful street. I honor the brave soldier, his life given in sacrifice. I honor them all by cherishing my freedom. The marine’s words ring true; the imagination can’t replace the experience. To live with bombs and death, tormented by fear, powerless at the hand of violence, is to know in the depth of your soul, the glory of freedom.
Lebanon experienced many changes. The Arabs invested money in restoring their “jewel of the Middle East” with its lush terrain and privileged position at the crossroads of three continents. The Lebanese army took over the posts that the Syrians had claimed for years. By the summer of 2006 we felt secure taking our younger daughter, Karla, to visit Lebanon.
For three weeks our relatives showered us with hospitality as we basked in the cool, dry mountain air, the legendary cedars all around us. We were captivated by the majestic view of the Mediterranean Sea from atop the snow-capped mountains, my daughter agreed with me. It is the most beautiful place on earth. It was a phenomenal three weeks, and then in a matter of seconds it ended.
I awoke to the news on CNN. The airport was bombed. A bomb had hit the runways and all flights were canceled. The next day they bombed the bridge on the road to Beirut. Bombs again. My mind filled with memories, the buildings shaking, the nerve-rattling blasts, thunderous explosions and constant fear. I was immersed in panic.
Pamphlets fell from the sky, explaining the Israeli effort to stop ammunition supplies getting to Hezbollah and warning of further bombings to roads and bridges. A ten-dollar taxi ride to Syria quickly rose to one hundred dollars. Thousands of Lebanese citizens filled the streets; their belongings strapped to their back in 102 degree heat, old people and children, women carrying babies. The struggle to escape was overshadowed by the unknown future. The justification for the violence is forever lost amid their innocent faces.
John called his old friend Charles Jabra for help. Charles is an entrepreneur and owns many businesses in Lebanon. He lived in Mankato years ago. He is very well connected and told John not to worry. He’d take care of everything. He had Saudi and Canadian employees who wanted to leave the country, and they’d take care of us.
A young Arab-speaking woman at our hotel was frantically trying to get documents to leave with her three small children and go home to her husband in Texas. She handed John her cell phone. Her husband was on the line; he pleaded for John’s help. She didn’t have the resources to get out of the country alone. I didn’t have the energy or the patience for this concern. My mind was on my own children. John saw in her face and the faces of her children the plight of all of us. He wouldn’t leave the country without them. He insisted Charles get them on the bus. Enmeshed in our panicked and chaotic arrangements, she left with us 15 minutes after we met her.
We said good-bye to John’s mother and left with only a moment’s notice. We piled into a big air-conditioned bus while bombs exploded in the background. The privilege of this bus seat cost Charles one thousand dollars per person. We said “Good-bye” to Charles and thanked him.
Our driver listened on his two-way radio. Our route continuously changed as we heard news of destroyed roads and bridges. Our fate, life or death, was determined by our driver’s attentive ear and instinctive gut. The back roads were rough and bumpy. We’d cross over a bridge, moments later we’d watch it explode. Few words were spoken. We rode in silent prayer, forced to drive through Syria to get to Jordan. I was crazy with fear.
A bomb hit a bus traveling in front of us. It was a massive explosion. The bus was filled with Canadians, and CNN reported no survivors. Our daughter Meray, back in Mankato, knew we were on a bus with Canadians. She was hysterical and had no way to reach us. It tortured me that our family was split up. If the three of us died, Meray would be alone. I imagined my daughter, belonging to no one, and understood the pain on my mother’s face as she waved good-bye to me so many years ago.
The traffic caused the fifteen-mile drive through Syria to crawl along for six hours. The intensity of the exploding bombs slowly faded to pops and distant smoke as we approached Jordan. We crossed the border with hearts rejoicing and loud cheers of celebration. Our nightmare was over.
Charles had arranged our stay in a five-star hotel, the woman and her three children included. We are all very fortunate. More than 1,400 people were killed, mostly Lebanese citizens. Charles did all he could to save our lives. The Blessed Mother did the rest.
With renewed love for both our countries, we returned to the safety of Mankato. John runs his restaurant. I run the catering business. I cleverly steal his customers. He firmly conceals his famous marinade recipe. We banter and compete, playfully enjoying the blessings of life without war. Life in the beautiful valley my grandmother found so many years ago.
The miracle that brought them home to Mankato was, in Najwa’s words, “a gift from the Blessed Mother through the prayers of the people of this town. I felt those prayers through all that horror and I believe they’re the reason we survived.”
Subscribe today! |
