Easter heat

This Easter, I expected to witness intense Christian fervor and devotion. Instead I found a rather unexpected source of regional tourism.

Riding up the mountainous road that leads to Harissa this past Sunday, I encountered few cars. I anxiously wondered whether I had been misadvised. One of my guides indicated that the small town hosted lively and passionate processions and celebrations during this religious holiday. My worries grew even stronger when I arrived at the church’s entrance. There was no soul in sight. Was I too early or too late? Still I made my way around the church, towards the statue of the Virgin Mary I had caught a glimpse at on the way up. Slowly, I started hearing rumors. People were here, at the feet of what is advertised as the “tallest statue of Mary in the Middle East”. The white effigy stood atop a conic pedestal circled by narrow stairs, crowded with devotes wanted to praise and thank the holy lady. All around, black silhouettes contrasted with the white rock. Everywhere women veiled, dressed in black cloths stood in small groups, children running in their skirts. When they walked, the wind would catch in underneath their garbs, making them resemble black birds. Since you couldn’t see their feet, it truly seemed as if they were flying. This sight was rendered poetic both by its aestheticism and its strangeness. Here I was, standing at the feet of the Virgin, on Easter Sunday, surrounded by what seemed like burqas. Surely, this had to be part of some local religious tradition. Perhaps, when mourning the Christ, some followers hide themselves under black cloths and keep their heads down to pay respect to the mother of the deceased before celebrating its resurrection.

For three hours, I walked amidst them, subtly trying to take their portrait attempting to capture the contrast between them, and other Lebanese women, dressed in festive attires, bare backs, shorts skirts and high heels. Yet, despite the appearance, these women, were not the most devout. They were outdone by tiny women from Sri Lanka, India Philippines, etc. who would walk up the dizzying stairs carrying offerings. Once at the top, many of them would bow their head and let their tears wet the feet of their idol. Rather than being annoyed by my camera, they offered themselves to it, exaggerating their expressions of religious zeal. One came up carrying two white doves to be freed at the top. She saw my camera, smiled. Turned her head to the sky, towards the kind face of Mary, and let each dove go, a tear strolling on her cheek. Once done, she looked once more at me, smiling, making sure I had caught her gesture on film.

Having managed to take a few good photographs and dehydrated by hours of standing in the hot sun, I stopped at a small snack bar right outside the gate. When the owner sat down with me, I seized my chance to ask him about the town and its customs; especially when it came to Easter.

What a fool had I been! Not only did I miss the processions which, anyone would know, happen on Good Friday, but the women covered in black cloths were not here to mourn the Christ. They were not even Christians. The owner of the snack bar pointed to the row of tour buses and laughed as he explained that they were Iranian tourists. They flow in every weekend to see the “tallest statue of the Virgin Mary in the Middle East” and admire the view from the mountain. They then proceed to the Jeita Cavern (after, as I witnessed the same day enjoying a lunch at KFC or Dunkin Donuts) and Bourj Hammoud (where they shop for bargains); before heading back to Iran via Syria. I was so eager to witness Christian zeal that I interpreted everything I saw in that sense... or perhaps it was just the effect of the heat and the sun.