May Ziadeh’s ‘The Memory of Baalbek’s Temple’

Translator Dana Al Shahbari’s introduces — and thinks with — this chapter from May Ziadeh’s A Young Woman’s Musings in her introduction, “Reflections on ‘The Memory of Baalbek’s Temple.'”

The Memory of Baalbek’s Temple

By May Ziadeh

Translated and introduced by Dana Al Shahbari

A temple of secrets arose,

Yet its making remains the greatest of secrets

-Khalil Mutran

 

It was morning when the train set off from Beirut station, roaring and thundering and disgorging a thick cloud of smoke that weighed down the air and spilled across the surface of the waves, clouding their clarity. Its mighty roar, like that of a lion, echoed through the open skies and almost  reached the ruins of Baalbek,where it whispered:

‘O ghosts of decay, I have outpaced the others to mock you, to mock you in my scorn for those who use me—I, the marvel of modern invention—to visit you, the sands of bygone nights and remnants of ancient days!’

The train sped along, twisting its way between the trees, as though its anger had calmed by the soft kisses of the mountain breeze. Gradually, its roar subsided as the train climbed the shoulders of Lebanon, leaving one station behind and passing through another, until it stopped at Sawfar, the highest point above the valley of Hammana, the valley Lamartine once called the most beautiful of all the valleys of the ancient world. There, the hills fold like silks and stretch out to caress the skirts of the surrounding mountains, arranged in harmonious circles that are shaded by trees and scattered with villages, their white houses crowned with red-tiled roofs. And there, on the far shore, the hills recline like lions, guarding a sea that spreads its deep blue before them and rises at the horizon, as if drawing a divine, heaven-sent blessing, while Beirut rests at the edge of the sea: a queen upon her throne.

Then the train began its descent  into the plains of the Beqaa, hugged on either side by the twin ranges of Mount Lebanon and Anti-Lebanon, which stood as the Walls of Eternity, enclosing the Meadows of Infinity. After traveling across Bekaa for nearly three hours while the afternoon waned, the specter of the city of “Baal” appeared before us, encircled by a shimmering belt of fruit trees and poplars, their leaves trembling. Rising above its houses and gardens were the columns of the Temple of the Sun, standing tall and majestic. Only six columns remain intact amid the surrounding ruins, and, from the depths of their desolation, they seemed to call out to the traveler, saying: “Come, look at me, O passerby—have you ever known a sorrow so deep as mine?”

A great remnant of a bygone greatness—before it, even the tallest trees appear as mere grass. That is the ghost of the past striving to immortalize its once-worshipped idols. And the snows of Lebanon, which once looked down upon the soaring towers of the City of the Sun in their splendor, now gaze down from the heights of Famm al-Mīzāb and Dhahr al-Qaḍīb, questioning the secret behind the destruction of temples and towers.

For thousands of years, snow has massed upon these peaks. The sun rises and sets, summer comes, winter goes, and the temple of Baalbek remains desolate in its shattered grandeur. Meanwhile, the snows of Lebanon gaze down upon it, wondering what has gone wrong, yet they cannot understand.

*

My sorrow knelt at the threshold of the fortress, weeping. I do not know whether I wept for the wonder of the ages or the desolation brought by the sight of those steps, carved by the stranger’s hand.

At the entrance to this temple, whose foundations were laid by Eastern peoples, the foreigner has come to dig steps that lead to the temples of the ancient East. The scene filled my soul with sorrow. I felt the stones weighing heavily upon me, proof of the West’s interference in our ancient and modern history—a sign of their greedy desire to occupy our lands. It would have been better for them to leave us, our soils, and our precious temple untouched, rather than set their hands to meddling under the guise of restoration and repair, desecrating what centuries of hardship had sanctified and what time itself had made sacred.

I entered, walking slowly and gently among piles of ruins and remnants of buildings, between columns toppled to the ground like fallen giants and lion heads embracing each other in their shattered state, as if in an eternal embrace. I walked among the traces of a later nation mingling with those of an ancient one, while dust accumulated everywhere, gathering in crushed friezes and engraved carvings. I walked through a deformed world of artistic marvels, stunned at how time had ravaged it, like a forest struck by a storm that broke its trees, tore out their roots, and left their branches scattered, drawing their last breaths.

What are the palaces and edifices of our age in the face of such grandeur and solidity? They seem like childish playthings built in a moment of idle amusement, where pebbles take the place of stones, where yards substitute for miles.

Nations conspired against this temple, attacking the walls of its glory and destroying its wondrous features. Christians transformed it into a church and raised altars upon the pillars of the temples of idols. Later, the church and its surroundings became an Islamic fortress, until it was struck by earthquakes that shook its foundations and collapsed its walls. After it was overcome by the hand of man, the assaults of nature came to further weaken its former glory.

And yet the traces of Baalbek’s glory endure. The modern soul hesitates before the temples of mythical deities whose names now provoke laughter, caught between mockery and reverence. They are overwhelmed by emotions—fear, empathy, admiration, mockery—only to be ultimately consumed by a singular emotion that subsumes all others: the profound depth of the great secret, the secret of how to endure despite annihilation…

And there, on the high grounds of the Temple of the Sun, stand six columns bearing a frieze like a shattered crown. Underneath it, the heads of the columns bow over the hollow of their crumbled glory. The bowing of these columns is but mourning and elegy—indeed, it is the only eulogy worthy of the Temple of Baalbek.

And the snows of Lebanon, ignorant of what calamity has occurred, gaze down upon the sorrow of these eternal stones. They long to understand the reason behind the collapse of these walls, the columns, and towers—but how could they ever understand?

*

Allow despair to break pens, wipe ink from parchment, silence speaking tongues, and bind hands from writing!

The scent of shrouds wafts up from this sweeping desolation, and the meanings of graves are revealed. The air thickens with the perfume of censers and clouds of incense. Ancient hands return to offer sacrifices upon altars ruined by the hand of time.

Break the pens and tear the parchments, for, in this moment, no elegy can be spoken, none save the sorrow of stone and the anguish of souls.

O sorrow carried by these silent stones, you still break hearts, as long as history continues to throw mighty empires down into the dust of humiliation.

O anguish of the soul—you still burn, as long as lives are cut short and hearts lose their rhythm.

O remnants of life—you still stand tall like the dreamers’ soaring hopes, and like the eyes’ deep black, so long as hope hasn’t faded from those who reflect, and the whiteness of death hasn’t erased the dark beauty of eyes.

O pillars of Baalbek—you remain shattered, silent, bowed, and desolate, as long as hope moves gently through the corners of the soul, and the shadows of pain and sorrow continue to stir within hearts and chests.

*

If time has mocked these impregnable walls, then what do you expect of time? If the foot of time has trampled this formidable strength and crushed it utterly, what meaning remains in the stir of your fragile reeds and the carvings of your fading parchments? Where do they stand within the vastness of distance, and what share do they hold in immortality?

Press your pens to your lips and your parchments to your hearts. Let them speak in despair and love for the temple of Baalbek. Then shatter the pens, even if they are dear; tear the parchments, even if they are fragments of your soul.

Time marches on, and woe to the soil beneath its tread! There, earthquakes tremble, dams collapse, and seas overflow. There, humans stand humbled and find themselves servants to the fleeting moments of fate, realizing that they know nothing of the earth’s secrets but the darkness of night and the brightness of day…

Written at the end of 1911

May Ziadeh (1886-1941) was a Palestinian-Lebanese writer, poet, translator, and founder of a vibrant literary salon in Cairo. While undoubtedly being a  significant turn-of- century intellectual figure, her literary oeuvre has been overshadowed by biographical snares of madness and love with Khalil Gibran.

Dana Al Shahbari is a PhD student in Modern Arabic Literature at the University of Cambridge. Her research focuses on the recovery of May Ziadeh through archival work, critically reassessing and reclaiming Ziadeh’s intellectual contribution to Arab literary history through scholarship and translation.