AN EXPLOSION THAT ROCKED

AN EXPLOSION THAT ROCKED

In the olden days, and before portable clocks and watches were invented, time of the day could only be observed through a main clock usually erected in the town center on top of a tower for all to see. The time for  each  clock was  reset daily as per the position of the sun on that particular day for that particular town. 12:00 for high-noon. High-noon is that time of the day when the shade of a stick, planted vertically in the ground, reaches its smallest length. A very simple benchmark to determine high-noon for any location anywhere. That was before radios were common and international time zones were introduced.

So every town was its own time zone. An island unto itself. One could know the time of the day only by looking at the clock tower when it was within sight or by hearing it's chimes at the top of the hour, when  out of site. Clocks and their towers became a familiar, common, everyday feature of the town and a center of attention and attraction for the town dwellers. Builders  and clockmakers would lavish the utmost of their craftsmanship to turn their clock and it's tower into an icon worthy of their city.

That's what College Hall Tower Clock was to Ras Beirut.

As a note on the side, when College Hall was first built, the clock was not on the very top of the tower. There was an arcade above it. Eventually, and for obvious reasons, the clock switched places with the arcade and was raised to the top.

I remember myself as a young child walking with my grandfather (Jiddi Abou Yousif) on Bliss street  in the direction towards the University. As soon as the College Hall tower clock came to sight, Jiddi would take out his pocket watch with its beautiful gold chain from his vest pocket, look up at the tower clock, set his watch to it and place it back in his pocket with the satisfaction that it was now in accord with the clock of the greatest institution of learning in the world . He was on the top of the hour of the world.

Much later, as a young boy, going down Jean D'Arc street, reaching Bliss, I would always look to the right first before turning to the left on my way to IC. The tower clock was always there, to bid me  good morning and point out the time left for me to get to class.

Later, as a young man, and from the same location, I would look up to the right and there was the clock, urging me to quicken my steps through the Main Gate to get on time to the the lower campus  before the start of the  class session.

During our class sessions, we could always count on the  ten to the hour sound of its  bell urging an over zealous teacher to give us a break and let us out at last.

When we sat in the Green Field Grandstand cheering our home team, the clock was always up there, in full view, to fan the flame of loyalty to our Alma Mater.

Walking on the Beirut Cornish on a sunny day, I would look up and there was the clock, on top of a green hill,  towering against the blue sky, surrounded by some strands of white clouds, added as a final touch-up to a master painting by a Master Painter

Later, I joined AUB in February 1991as  Director of Physical Plant. Lived in my own house on the Manara area for two years then moved to live on campus in a beautiful house that was later demolished to make way for the present Charles  Hostler Student Center.

The  position I held  provided me with the privilege of having College Hall clock placed in my custody.

She was now my baby.

With the memory of my grandfather's faith in the tower clock still vivid in my mind, I took it upon myself to see to it that it was still worthy of his confidence. So every Monday morning I would set my wristwatch to the BBC time signal at six o'clock. Then on my way to the office, I would first go to the upper floor of College Hall, climb the wooden ladder to the top of the tower and reset the clock accordingly.

At six o'clock on the morning of Friday November 8, 1991, I woke up and turned on the radio to listen to the BBC news, as was my habit, before I start my day. Somewhere along the way, the newscaster interrupted himself to announce  a statement in a single sentence. "An explosion has rocked the main administration building of the American University of Beirut," and went on with whatever piece of news he had interrupted.

.........

........

Did I really hear what I just heard?

Living in the Manara area we should have heard the explosion, and we heard nothing

Did he say specifically the American University of Beirut?

What did he mean by "the main administration building?"

Could that be .... College Hall.

How ironic that, as custodian of the University buildings, living a mere five minutes walk away, to be informed of this devastating piece of news from a source as far away as London.

So, hurriedly, and without going through my morning ritual of shower and coffee, put on my clothes, got on Bliss street and started heading for the Main Gate. Brisk steps at first.

As I was getting nearer and nearer, my pace slowed down and my heart started pounding, at the realization of what could be waiting for me.

My eyes would refuse to look up afraid of what I might see, or actually what I might not see.

When I reached the Jean D'Ark junction, my habitual vantage point, I gathered all the courage and looked up ....

She was not there

She was there