Love Thy Neighbour

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

Slightly taken aback by this somewhat incongruous opening line, I rack my brains for the remnants of my now long-distant A* at GCSE German.

"Ja, ein bischen. Warum?"
"Bist du Deutsch?"
"Nein, Ich bin Englisch"
"Well why dintcha say so ya Pommie bastard?! Ya don't look like a Pom anyway. Spose that's a good thing right mate?"

At this point, I think I did well not to have a heart attack. Here in a small mountain town in northern Lebanon, I am being (playfully) abused by a fair dinkum Aussie bloke. Life is truly full of surprises.

Fred is Lebanese, born here in Bcharre, but spent 27 years living in Sydney. He speaks English fluently, with a strongly Antipodean accent. It turns out he's by no means alone around here. Bcharre is the stronghold of Christianity in Lebanon, the historic seat of the Maronite sect who have ruled this tiny country for almost all of its short history since independence from the French. When the bloody civil war, initially at least fought on sectarian lines, exploded in 1975, thousands of people from this area fled Down Under. Now, after 17 years of peace, they're back. Indeed, there are so many of them that "G'day mate" seems a more common greeting than the "Salaam aleikum" or "Bonjour" usually heard in Lebanon. There are so many of them in fact, that Bcharre, a small yet staggeringly beautiful town overlooking the Qadisha Valley, even boasts its own "Kangaroo Supermarket".

Fred invites me to walk with him. We stop at the Kangaroo to pick up a chocolate bar.

"I'm diabetic ya see. Must be all them barbecues! Nah mate, let me get it, it's my shout."

We stroll the length and breadth of the town, taking in the spectacular views, munching our Galaxy bars and talking: sport, politics, history. Like almost everyone in this area, Fred is a Christian. His views on his Muslim compatriots, while not as hostile as some I'll encounter today, do not imply a harmonious future for this divided country. The treatment of women, the ascetic eschewal of the good life so beloved of many Lebanese Christians, the huge families: these will become familiar anti-Islamic refrains as I meet the people of the Qadisha Valley.

Yet it is not easy to stereotype these views in one way or another; political and religious feeling here is a complex and multi-faceted phenomenon. Fred is no Christian proselytiser; his condemnation of Islam's inequities is mirrored by a deep distrust of the Church. Despite his own personal faith in God, he disdains organised religion as "brainwashing", and rails against those who would twist peaceful teachings into instruments of war and violence. However, this condemnation of violence, specifically suicide bombers, does not preclude a deep sympathy for the plight of the Palestinians and a visceral hatred of the many iniquities visited on them by the Israeli occupation. Unlike those in the south of Lebanon, for whom Israeli incursions have proved a very painful reality, however, Fred is more sanguine about Lebanon's belligerent neighbour.

"This country has a choice ya see, either we go with the Americans and the British and the Israelis, or we go with the Syrians and the Iranians. It's quite simple really. And I tell you what, I don't like what the Israelis are doing to the Palestinians, and I don't like what the Americans are doing in Iraq, but I know who I'd rather live like."

Fred's relatively pro-Israeli symptahies are by no means unique in this area. He introduces me to a good friend of his, "Ron", who "lost his arm in the War, fighting with Samir Geagea and those boys". In "From The Holy Mountain", author William Dalrymple comments on his sudden realisation that the friendly and hopsitable people he met in Bcharre were doubtless among the perpetrators of the infamous massacres of thousands of Palestinians in the Beirut refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila in 1982. Now I know how he felt: Geagea's Lebanese Forces militia were among those implicated in the Israeli-orchestrated atrocities.

After chatting about his Brazilian wife over a strong sweet coffee in his living room, I left Fred to go explore the major local tourist attraction, the gallery and museum of renowned Lebanese poet, artist and mystic Khalil Gibran. Some 200 surreal paintings later, the naked female form featuring prominently in most, I emerged into the sunlight, and walked back towards the main square to catch the bus to Tripoli, from where I would return to Beirut. I had only gone a few paces, when a car pulled up.

"Bonjour! Ca va? Tu es Francais?"

"Bonjour, ca va bien. Je suis Anglais"

"Ah, English, very good! I'm going to Beirut, you want a ride?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?"

And so I met Pierre, another local Christian, and another member of the Australian connection; his girlfriend, while of Lebanese extraction, hails from Sydney. Despite the distance, he is convinced she is the one for him - she visits a couple of times a year, and speakl for at least four hours a day on the phone. How sweet. Pierre's faith is so devout, he insists on visiting a local shrine before we depart; after much self-crossing and prostration we head off down the mountains. The sign of the cross makes a couple more appearances - each time we pass a Church in fact - but before the fears of kidnap at the hands of an evangelical grow too large, conversation turns to some rather unChristian topics. Had I, for instance, yet visited a "super nightclub" in Beirut? Thinking that BO18 was indeed "super", I replied in the affirmative, whence I quickly discovered that "a super nighclub" is in fact Lebanese code for what we Brits rather less euphemistically call, "a brothel". For a mere US$250 it seems that one can procure the services of a charming Russian or Ukrainian lady for a full six hours, which Pierre assured me would be the best six hours of my life. And to think I'd settled for a retracting roof and loud trance music!

Pierre, however, despite living the good life like any Lebanese Christian, also has a serious side. He works as a "detective" for the Ministry of the Interior, specifically "looking after" prisoners. I don't push for more details, though he does conspirationally share with me the rather dubious statistic that 90% of Lebanese prisoners are Muslims, of which most have committed heinous crimes of rape, murder, secual abuse etc. Of those few Christians currently doing bird in Lebanon, the vast majority are guilty of only "minor things, less than 10 years in jail like". There then follows the familiar invective about mistreatment of women, unrestrained procreation, and predisposition to violence.

Like Fred, Pierre fears for the future. Rather ominously he warns me that "Lebanese Christians are nice people, very friendly and kind, but if you try to fight them, they will never forget, never let you go." As I drink a graciously-offerred free beer, while enjoying a free lift back to Beirut (a journey of some two hours), and reflect on a day of unparallelled, humbling hospitality at the hands of Bcharre's Maronites, I think back to one-armed Ron and the massacres at Sabra and Shatila. If it comes to war - and after the Presidential election in a few weeks it just might - the Christians of Lebanon will not shirk a fight.

You couldn't hope to meet nicer people anywhere. But you wouldn't want to cross them.