My Dad was born in Beirut, Lebanon, and moved to Australia with his family in 1985. He is the definition of a master-of-all-trades and beekeeping was among the constellation of hobbies he picked up and perfected.
Marouf Rammal, who sat on the board of the Beekeepers’ Union in South Lebanon and sourced bee strains across the south of the country, was killed by the Israeli occupation in a drone strike on April 7.
Marouf’s murder haunts me; I cannot help but be reminded of my Dad.
Every Palestinian and Lebanese person in the Diaspora knows the feeling of seeing yourself and your family mirrored in every martyr, every injured and displaced person. A crying child who looks like your sibling; a hostage bears your mother’s maiden name; and a martyr has features eerily similar to your own.
I learnt a lot when Dad was a beekeeper. I learnt that all worker bees are female, working tirelessly in perfect synchrony their whole lives to generate roughly one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey. Bees recognise humans; they grew to recognise Dad. I’m sure they recognised Marouf too.
Bees communicate by dancing and they have one of the most finely-tuned internal compasses and navigation systems on the planet.
Mostly, I learnt about beekeepers themselves.
I know that beekeeping takes patience, which Marouf doubtlessly had in spades. Maintaining a hive generation to generation takes a careful and particular eye for the perfect queen. Nearly every apiary in the South had queen bee strains hand-picked by Marouf.
I also know beekeepers are generous; Dad gifting what surely amounted to hundreds of kilos of honey to every family member and every friend.
How many people enjoyed Marouf’s honey?
How many people received Marouf’s generosity?
I tear up at the thought of these two Lebanese men, who never met, sharing a homeland and a love for the small creatures of this world, for our earth’s daily miracles.
I picture Dad gleefully opening his palm at the dinner table to reveal a hidden queen bee (to Mum’s alarm) and imagine Marouf joyfully doing the same with his family.
More than anything, I am tortured by the possibility that Marouf heard the buzzing of the drone that struck him down, and was briefly reminded of the buzz of a bee.
The veil separating Dad and Marouf, two beekeepers on opposite sides of the world, is made only of chance.
For me, Marouf’s death hits particularly close to home, because I know that Marouf cared for the environment as only an Indigenous person can, spoke for his fellow workers as a union representative and tended quietly to the miraculous little creatures, which themselves tend to our earth, just like my Dad.
Arab men aren’t afforded the privilege of empathy, of grief when they are martyred. They are scrutinised and falsely accused instead.
Please take a moment for Marouf. Please remember that our martyrs are not numbers; they are people with inner universes just as rich as yours, with interests and hobbies and passions, including a love of bees.
For Marouf. Allah yerhamo.
[Hannah Jamal delivered this short eulogy to Marouf Rammal at a vigil for Lebanon on Gadigal Country/Sydney on April 15, organised by Lebanon Action Group.]