Among those whom I taught Arabic there was a fair-faced American lady with a gracious silhouette. I loved her. She introduced me to the managing director of the orphanages who used to work for the US Relief Foundation established in the aftermath of the war to provide assistance to the orphans and the economically and educationally disadvantaged. Mr. Brown was a kind-hearted man who always kept a clear conscience. The American beauty was his secretary.

“Would you have a summer job for me?”, I asked him one day. “I need to make some money to cover my tuition fees for the next fall.” No sooner had I finished my question than he replied: “I certainly have. The administration is considering the possibility of teaching Arabic to the Armenian children as it seems that they will be settling in Lebanon and they will be better off learning spoken Arabic alongside a profession that would earn them a living. What do you say? We are currently looking for Arabic teachers and there is no one more suited for the job than you are. Classes will start on July 5 at the orphanages of Byblos and Sidon, in Miye w Miye in particular, where the US mission has unoccupied buildings.” God answered my prayers and my worries seemed to have faded away at once.

I voiced my approval without hesitation. “We will seal the deal tomorrow at 10:00 am,” he said. The next day, I was at his door at 9:50 am.

“The secretary has highly recommended your skills and style in teaching Arabic. I have requested the administration to pay you USD 150 for two and a half months.” A decent salary. I will put aside USD 85 for the first semester’s tuition charges and spend the rest on rent and lunch at the Faisal 2 restaurant. He added, “I called the head of the orphanage in Byblos and gave him your name. He will take care of your accommodation and food expenses. You should be there on the 5th of July.”

I headed to Ras el-Matn to visit my parents and impart the good news to Uncle Bou Najm. “Did I not tell you that God is the provider?”, he said.

I packed my luggage and with the grace of God set out for Byblos. The orphanage consisted of several wooden buildings stretching along a fine sandy beach, abuzz with Armenian folks between 5 and 20 years of age.