My journey to Mount Lebanon was a pilgrimage to a land both old and new, familiar and freshly found. I had lived here in the 12th-century village of Chemlan for eight years in a new house constructed of cut stone, wood and floor tiles taken from a missionary school built exactly a century earlier. We used to roam the wooded slopes, swim in the fast flowing Damour River below the Jisr al-Qadi (the Bridge of the Judge), picnic on olive terraces where pale pink cyclamen grew between the stones in the sagging walls.
This time I went not in search of the past, bent out of shape by 15 years of civil war, but to assess the present and future of a dramatically beautiful, rich region "cleansed" of 45,000 Christians during the darkest days of the conflict. They have been displaced for between 16 and 23 years, not a matter of months like the ethnic Albanians of Kosovo. All Lebanon's displaced have, in theory, been permitted to return since 1992 when the government launched its programme of reconciliation and reconstruction. So far, only half of those from Mount Lebanon have applied for the programme and about one-third have returned. They did not flood back as soon as peace reigned, as did the Kosovars.
My journey was arranged by Walid Jumblatt, the former Lebanese minister of the displaced and feudal chieftain of the secretive, mystical Druze sect which dominates this part of the Mountain. His father, Kamal Jumblatt, a true feudal lord, socialist and mystic, was Lebanon's most prominent nationalist politician until his assassination in 1977. As long as he was alive there was no communal cleansing in his mountain domain. In fact, among the first people cleansed were Maronite Christians living in the area where he was killed, who were blamed by angry Druze militiamen for his assassination.
Walid Jumblatt received me at his tall mauve and white villa in Beirut rather than the family palace at Mukhtara in the Chouf. "Eighty per cent of those who want to return are back," he said. "I did my best to pave the way from the political point of view by clearing confessional animosities . . . The elderly died, adults found employment elsewhere and youngsters don't want to go back and take care of olives and vegetables."
My guide was Walid Attallah, a young man from the ministry responsible for rebuilding the area and returning the "displaced" to their villages. We began our climb into the hills just north of the port city of Sidon. We paused at the Convent of St Saviour at Joun, a mixed village of Shia Muslims and Maronite Christians put on the tourist map of Lebanon by its most famous resident, the 19th-century eccentric who dabbled in political intrigue, Lady Hester Stanhope. "All 235 Christian families are back," Walid said proudly. Along the roadside white concrete boxes had sprung up like airbrushed dragons' teeth. Gone are the elegant, four-square stone houses with arches and red-tile pent roofs.
"The ministry establishes an office in every sector, and staffs it with engineers and field workers. Villagers can ask the engineers to draw up plans for their houses. The field workers help them to resettle." The government has established a central fund to assist returnees, giving priority to older refugees. "We have a problem with compensation if they were living on church-owned land," he said. "A lot of the land is owned by the Maronite and Orthodox Churches." Habitat, the United Nations Development Programme, the European Union and US AID finance specific projects. In villages where there were major battles, local politicians stage formal "reconciliations". The army maintains a firm presence to keep communal peace.
The road takes us along the border of the Jezzine enclave from which Israel's surrogate "South Lebanon Army" militia withdrew in June. It is a wild and beautifully rugged landscape of wooded mountains falling steeply away to deep valleys where shining streams meander through green fields. "This was the smugglers route to Israel," Walid remarked.
We drove from Druze village to Christian village to Muslim village and through those which are mixed. The area is a communal patchwork. "Houses abandoned by their owners which are in good shape had refugees in them," Walid said, pointing to a row of traditional mountain homes, their gardens shaded by mature grapevines and figs. We stopped and inspected newly-built churches and schools. "We provide the schools with personal computers so children will have the same opportunities to learn that those in Beirut have," he said, pointing out a model dairy farm financed by US AID. We turned off the road and plunged into an orchard where we each plucked a peach and washed it in the rush of cold water in an irrigation channel, repaired by the ministry. "We're allowed to steal one or two to eat," he remarked biting into the slightly crisp fruit. "The EU contributed 100 beehives to farmers in this area."
He knows precisely how many displaced families have returned to each and every village. At Mazmoura, "totally destroyed, 42 out of 90 families have come back". At Bsaba, the site of fierce fighting, the local member of parliament held a reconciliation: 120 families have resettled in new blocks.
I had been to Bsaba before, in 1993, a few weeks after the reconciliation ceremony. At that time many houses were burnt-out shells, like those in Kosovo, or ruins, blown up so upper slabs of concrete pancaked onto the ground floor. Most of the rubble has been cleared away, but on the edge of the village a sad empty stone structure stands in a field of golden grass, a monument to those who will never return.
We made for Bhamdoun, a town on the Damascus highway which was a popular resort before the civil war. It was badly smashed up during a battle in 1976 between the Syrian army and Palestinian guerrillas when Damascus was called upon to intervene by then president, Suleiman Frangie. There has been a good deal of reconstruction. The mosque built for Gulf tourists has been repaired. Several hotels are operating, shops and restaurants are open, traffic is heavy. "The season was just starting when the Israelis bombed the power plants," Walid said. "The Gulf tourists have gone."
Only 15 per cent of the displaced have returned to Aley, the major town on the highway. The market where I used to shop has been tidied up. But most of the gutted shops remain closed. The emirate of Qatar has donated funds for the restoration of St Antony's Church on the main road where we stop to buy a snack. In the village of Souq al-Gharb (Market of the West), from where the Maronite militia shelled Beirut, only the Orthodox church has been rebuilt.
A FEW minutes later we arrived in Chemlan - battered, broken and mostly deserted. We sold our house before the 1982 Israeli invasion, and before their Maronite militia allies attacked the Druze and precipitated the cleansing of the Christians in this part of the mountain. All Chemlanis were Maronites.
Selim's butchery is a shell graced by arches. The main street is empty. But there are signs of life. A workman is buying a cold drink at Nimr's shop. The Beiruti doctor who bought our house and twice rebuilt it is having a family reunion. And the house next door has been repaired.
Cliff House, our local restaurant restored several years ago, was serving lunch to city slickers seeking the quiet of the hills. I asked a young waiter if he knew what had happened to Tewfiq Tabib, our builder. Chemlan only had 40 families before the troubles, so everyone knew everyone else.
"He's my father, I'm Lewis." He had been a boy the last time I saw him. Now he is a large young man with short fair hair. "They live on the other side now." In the Maronite mountain. He told me that only 35 Chemlanis had come home. Lewis is the son of our local Romeo and Juliet. His mother is a Hitti, the more refined clan which settled in the lower village in the 12th century; his father, one of the cruder, robust Tabibs, 15th-century newcomers. Naturally the Hittis never spoke to the Tabibs. Now that there is peace perhaps more of them will return so they can resume their feuding at home.