Gus: Son of Martha
From Beirut to Johannesburg
His hard, strong face does not invite you at first. You would think he’s intentionally balancing his wife’s wild and loud side. This South African coconut has the most hardened shell with the sweetest and most tender inside. The Beiruti city boy is essentially a Lebanese strong-handed mountain man. A frowning straight shooter of minimal words. Smile and say hello (Marhaba مرحبا) to him, and the giant would turn into a warm Fondant au Chocolat with a broad, loving, all-giving smile.
Gus (Ghassan) was born (in 1959) in Achrafieh, before the war. He grew up on an old street in a traditional neighborhood of Burj Abi Haidar between Mazraa and Mousaitbeh, specifically, in Hay elRoumi on Bachir Joumblatt Street.
I thought if it’s in Beirut, then it’s close enough. Not to Gus. Every street, every corner, and every tree had a meaning and is a landmark. For a child growing up in Beirut, a street over is like traveling to another world altogether.
Baby Ghassan
The Beirut he knew
In the '60s and early '70s, Beirut still had orchards of prickly pear trees, pastures with pine trees, and enough space for mulberry trees for kids to climb on and eat its fruits. No buildings. Only houses, they had. Grandmother, grandfather, aunts, uncles, and neighbors were all around in homes connected by dirt roads. He remembers when they were building the first bridge. The famous Cola bridge. Houses are no more. Tall buildings won the war.
“I was 15 years old when the war started. We would return from school, play on the streets, then go home. If we were late, we got a spanking. You get used to the spanking. The whole neighborhood played together. Everyone knew everyone.”
Son of Martha in the neighborhood
It was loud at Starbucks that day. He leaned forward and riddled me: “What did people call me? … Ghassan, son of?” I said: “What’s your father’s name?”
“Moussa. But no. They would say Ghassan, son of Martha. We were all called after our mothers. You never know in Beirut. When we were children, we did not understand. Later on, we got it.”
We both cracked a loud laugh.
Palm Sunday family photo (Ghassan 4 years-old)
He had fond memories of the times. If someone got engaged, everyone knew. If someone got sick, everyone knew. When he was 7 or 8, he would walk 500 meters up to St. Elias Church, where he started serving mass at age 9.
The Sayegh siblings
They would walk up to school at 6:30 in the morning and return at 4 pm. Gus would lead the six Sayegh children through a short dirt trail on their walk to school. He looked sideways and started remembering.
“We would cross a lot of prickly pear trees, then by the Korean Embassy. It was an impressive building. They looked different from us. We did that from Kindergarten through ninth grade. Wadih ElKhoury was our principal. He died 6 or 7 years ago.”
They were 3 boys and 3 girls. It was considered a small family.
I experienced the longest pause of our conversation and felt the pain, but decided not to probe further.
“Now, we are 3 and 2. My brothers Elie and George. Elie was killed in Africa. 2006. The price of being an immigrant,” he told me.
We used to throw stones at each other. Fought, then made up. They would get cut, go to the doctor, get sewn, and return with a note to mom to pay 2 liras. There was a lot of love. If you got into trouble with other kids, your whole neighborhood stuck with you, even if you were wrong. His best days were his childhood days.
Downtown Beirut and street food
Downtown (albalad البلد) for him was to the movies (Cinema Roxy, Empire, City Palace). Mostly Empire to watch Koyboy. Then he corrects himself pronouncing cowboy correctly.
I think the little rascal watched more than Koyboy :-). In technicolor, too.
The adventure depleted his 1-Lebanese-Lira weekly allowance by 20 piastres down and 25 piasters back. To save, he would occasionally walk. The Mercedes 180 service taxi driver would know where to drop him off and still manage to fight with his stick shift.
“What did we eat? What did we eat?” he ponders.
A falafel sandwich from Frayha cost him 15 piasters, filling him up for the whole day. He sometimes went to a roastery between Debbas Square and Cinema Empire. He couldn’t finish a 10-piaster bag of roasted pumpkin seeds; if he did, he would learn the hard way of eventual stomach problems. A bottle of Pepsi with a 5-piaster peanut-filled newspaper-wrapped cone was another treat. He can still hear the tall, traditionally dressed Sudanese shouting: “Fistok Sudanee. Sudanee. Fistok Sudanee.”
More food
Every Thursday night, Friday, and Saturday, a seller would come from Tareek Jdeedeh to their neighborhood to sell rectangular sweets (sheaybyat شعيبيات). This street food vendor would chant:
“.شعَيبِيَّاتْنا طَيبِيْن. طازَة وناعْمِينْ. القَطعَةْ بِعَشْر قرُوشْ. والدَزِّينِه بمِيُّة وعِشريِنْ.”
My attempt to translate goes: “Our sweets are fresh and soft. One piece for 10 piasters and the dozen for 120.” A little math lesson goes with it, too. No discount, as you might have calculated. Everyone’s paid. Everyone’s happy. That's what counts. No?
Gus turned to his wife sitting on the other table and said: “He would drive a Peugeot station wagon every Thursday night and would sell at least two huge pans worth.” He continued to tell me that people used to eat and would not start before offering to the people next door.
You could tell if someone was paid that week. Gus’ father was a concrete contractor and got paid every other week. From Saturday until Sunday night, they would eat, drink, sleep, invite people, and eat again. Abou Gus (father of Gus) would drive the whole family in his Peugeot 304 up the Northern coast to Tripoli for another sweet “halawet el Jiben.” When bored going North, they would head South to Sidon for another sweet treat, “Sanioura.” On the way, they’d buy bananas from Damour, a whole comb of bananas, and distribute them to the neighbors.
Nabil, a Syrian from Soueida, would roam and sell corn on the cob. 25 piasters each.
If you got one Lira a week, you had class. He did a lot, always put 10 piasters at church, and still had a balance left for his next Sunday.
Schooling
Due to hard times, his family took him out of private education. He ended up studying in many schools around Beirut and its suburbs. He made friends. One is the current parish priest of “Mar Elias, Msaytbeh” Abouna Atos. Fouad Hakim, the son of Elvira. I visited him the other day. He’s a good man. We went to Ain Remmaneh together. No school would take him for a long time as he wasn’t the studious type. He ended up doing university studies at USJ in business. This set him up very well for South Africa.
Getting to and enjoying South Africa
On December 19, 1985, he took off by boat to South Africa through the port of Jounieh, Cyprus, Greece, Lisbon, and Johannesburg. He knew a distant person there. He was supposed to be gone for two weeks. His mom encouraged him to stay. It took him 4 years to return, then he left again and is still there. He married his lovely Eugenie on April 28, 1991, and has three children. He worked in construction project management in remote areas. He got his break when they needed a site engineer. His experience in construction with his dad did it.
Gus enjoying his gardening. Foul (fava beans) anyone? They’re good with Arak!
Um (mother of) Ghassan aka Martha and Nelson Mandela
Martha would occasionally visit the Sayeghs in South Africa for extended stays. The Lebanese mom raised a beautiful family in Msaitbeh and fed Nelson Mandela’s guards for months. She made Gus buy bigger pots. How could she not offer food to the neighbors? It would have been very un-Beiruti of her.
Three Sayegh boys from two generations with Madiba
One day, Nelson Mandela knocked on their door to thank them for the generosity they extended to his guards.
Ghassan’s Starbucks drink: Grande Latte, skim milk, one sweetener.
