Driven: From MudHouse To Mansion

By Raafat Zaiter

Driven is a true story about the human drive to achieve greatness while armed with only a dream and an obsession to succeed.
This is a memoir that shows the power of imagination, determination and focus. It tells of a journey that inspires. It is filled with emotions, ups and downs, laughter, pain, heartache, loneliness, love, familial bonds, and what it takes to climb the ladder of success while building it.
This is the story of a little boy from a small village in Lebanon who was torn between his love for his village and his burning desire to discover what’s beyond the horizon. He was driven by a craving to see the world behind the mountains, by his obsession with higher education, his different actions to achieve the same goal his focus on what’s important in life, and his drive to succeed.
The Author’s guiding power to fulfill his dream was his love for education and his promise to himself to achieve success. The deep-rooted desire that kept him going without letting external elements he faced tarnish his quest for success. He takes you into a fascinating journey that all began in a small village in Lebanon with a big dream, learning great lessons over the years, wrapped in an inspirational memoir that shows a fascinating way to become successful.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raafat Zaiter
• Release date: Jun 11, 2019

Book preview

Part I

The Mudhouse

1

Ibit my lip as I darted past the dreaded Rottweiler on my way to school. If I had the time to saunter by the Salloum property, I wouldn’t be forced to risk life and limb in a mad race for my life. The dog ignored slow passersby. He was only intrigued by worthy prey, sprinting children.

However, if I’d left any earlier, I would have missed the second Tannour roll that mother had cooked that morning. Plucking the delicious smoky bread from the walls of the clay cylindrical oven was too big a temptation for my hungry stomach. It was worth the predicament I found myself in at that moment.

The race was on. Adrenaline raced through me as I imagined the dog’s claws ripping my cotton shirt, marring my back with angry welts. When I reached a safe distance and could no longer hear its bark, I gave a quick glance behind me to confirm he’d lost interest. It made sense. After all, every dog knew the scents of its own boundaries. They instinctively know never to go past that invisible barrier into a new, unknown territory. I hoped never to be so confined.

Panting, I slowed to a more comfortable pace. The elementary and middle school of my village, Hadath Baalbek, was perched in the middle of a mountain called Areed. It was the only place I’d ever really known. The view stretched out beyond the dozens of homes in our village, beyond the beautiful tiled mosques and churches. To me, the landscape seemed to cover all of Lebanon. It was my favorite view, because it reminded me that there was a huge world out there to conquer.

Speed walking past a small mud house on the right, I smiled at my friend Ghazwan, who was waving at me. Raafat, wait up! he called.

We’re late, I said with a quick shake of my head. I refused to break stride. We can’t miss the anthem.

He jogged to catch up. Today’s the big day. You must be excited!

I grinned. I can’t wait to get home. Imagine running water—in the house!

"Wait! Does that mean you’ll have an indoor toilet?"

I nodded. No more trips to the outhouse with ants and spiders crawling up your legs as you try to do your business.

You’re so lucky!

And we’ll have electricity, too.

He gasped. You mean lights that turn on and off with a switch?

Yeah.

Wow.

He continued to pepper me with questions about the new house, as we walked down the paved street my father had built just four years prior. My father had diligently saved his money from that project, along with the cash he’d made cleverly exporting products to Jordan the previous year. With that money, he could realize his dream and finally build a huge home next to his father’s place.

The half-mile journey ended in the large playground in the front of the school, where most of the children were already lined up in the fine dirt. I was thankful it hadn’t rained, so we wouldn’t need to stand in the mud. As it was, the bottoms of my khakis would get dirty, but that was a small price to pay to demonstrate my undying love for my country through the anthem. We all belted the words with joy in our hearts.

I loved my classes, knowing that with each bit of knowledge that I gained, I was one step closer to my goal of studying medicine in Beirut. I turned in my homework, thinking how it would be different to study tonight with electric lights. Last night I had to push the book right under the oil lamp burner, which emitted so much soot that I always found myself blowing black gunk from my nose in the morning.

Oil Lamp Burner

We all filed into our classroom and took up a seat at a desk. Pulling out our books, we sat quietly waiting for the day to begin. Mr. Ali Sakr collected all the homework before he handed out the graded papers from the previous day’s work.

Raafat, good job, he said, giving me a pat on the head.

Thank you, I murmured, pleased by the compliment.

My father told me that our school was rated top in the country, acknowledged because of the director’s masterful approach to education. Teacher Elias was strict but caring and always knew about the welfare and progress of each student.

Take note, as you walk down the street, he told us countless times. If you find a piece of paper with writing on it, pick it up and read it!

I took his advice to heart and read as much as I could. About anything. No matter the lighting. As a result, I was at the top of my class and planned to always hold that spot.

When school let out, Ghazwan followed me back to the new house along with a number of curious kids. Our new home was an exciting event for this small village. Everyone had watched the structure go up over the last few months and I imagine it was the topic of conversation in quite a few households. After all, most homes were made of mud, not concrete and most had neither running water nor electricity.

This is the clay cylindrical oven that my mother cooked the delicious smoky bread on its walls.

We’d all watched my father, Mohammad, direct the workers, who toiled diligently. Each day, when I returned from school, I’d look for the changes—a new column, a new batch of concrete poured, a new window formed. The process of building a house from scratch fascinated me! Over the last few days, thirty men poured in to put the finishing touches on the structure. I couldn’t wait to see the result!

As I approached, I marveled at the clean lines and the beautiful triple arches. It was the most stunning home in all of Hadath Baalbek. I glanced over at Ghazwan, who was mesmerized by the house in front of him. Smiling, I welcomed him through the front door.

There were various people touring through the large rooms, admiring the high ceilings, tiled floor and newly painted walls. Just last night, I’d slept in a one-room house (with a back area for supplies) just a couple hundred feet away. Now, my home was a two-bedroom palatial estate with a great room and a family room, plus a kitchen and a bathroom. It reminded me of faded photos I’d seen in my second-hand textbooks of the Beit ed-Dine Palace, the ancient home of long-ago ruler of Lebanon, Emir Bashir Shihab II.

Raafat, you’re home, my mother, Haji, cried, giving me a warm embrace. Come, see your room!

"Your room?" Ghazwan mouthed, looking as though I’d just turned into a prince overnight.

Walking in, I felt the warm embrace of gratitude. I’d be technically sharing with my brother Sami, but he wouldn’t be home much, because he was studying in Beirut. To have my own room at age eleven, complete with a closet, was incredible. It meant I would have a place to store books there, creating my own little library. Plus, I could use exercise freely and keep fit.

Ghazwan looked at the ceiling. You won’t need to press the roof with a roller to keep the mud together when it rains.

I grinned. And guess who won’t have to add hay to the mud roof to keep it together anymore?

You are the luckiest guy around, Ghazwan breathed. I could tell that my friend wasn’t jealous, but he was impressed and very happy for me.

After an hour all the guests politely left to give us a chance to prepare for dinner and enjoy our new home in peace. When it got dark, Father gathered us all around.

This is a moment to remember, he said as he flipped a switch on the wall. Suddenly the room was bathed in a soft light. We’d all seen artificial light before, but never in our own home, under our control. It was a thing of wonder! Gone were the days of reading by a kerosene lantern, lighting it, listening to its eerie hiss. No longer would I need to blow my nose of the soot all morning from the previous night’s study. We all took turns flicking the lights on and off, dancing and shouting with joy for a good part of the evening.

2

The next morning, I woke up with a start. It took me a moment to remember where I was, alone in my own room in our new house. I jumped out of bed and switched on the light. Then off, then on. I knew that would never get boring. Grinning, I put on my shoes and readied myself to go out to the outhouse. Then I remembered…

We have a bathroom!

I took my shoes back off and padded over to the bathroom. I needed to walk through the large family room, where my father and brother, Hussein, still lay fast asleep. I could hear my mother moving around in the kitchen, probably preparing breakfast.

Walking into the bathroom, I felt an awe come over me. As I relieved myself, I looked at the shower. I couldn’t help but wonder what that experience would feel like. Quickly, I stripped from my pajamas and stepped into the stall. Turning on the water, I gasped as the cold water showered my head. Then I quickly adjusted the knob to make the water warm, marveling at the smooth transition. It was incredible how the temperature remained consistent.

I allowed the water to run over me like a light rain falling from the sky. I closed my eyes and sighed. I could get used to this. It was only a couple of days ago that my mother had demanded that I bathe. I remember clearly whining and complaining about the whole ordeal, because it was so unpleasant in the mud house. Bending down, using a bucket and scoop, was so awkward and always offered inconvenient variations in temperature. No matter the season, we had to keep clean, but I hated it.

Relishing in the water sprinkling over my head, I realized all that had changed. Lost in reverie, I jumped when I heard the harsh tones of my mother.

What are you doing? she shouted through the closed door. Turn off that water or we won’t have enough for everyone to shower.

I quickly obeyed and turned off the knob. Sorry, Mama!

Water was scarce, which is why Father had designed a water tank for the roof to collect water overnight from the weak trickle that came in from the village water tower. It was far too light to use immediately. In addition, the hot water tank didn’t hold too many gallons at a time, so with seven people in the house, we would need to coordinate our showers and make sure not to waste precious water.

I finished up quickly, only turning on the water when it was necessary to rinse. Then I toweled myself off and walked into the kitchen. Mother looked so happy at her brand-new white stove.

"Quite a difference from the Baboor, isn’t it?" I asked. All my life, my mother had to use an open fire or the kerosene Baboor stove to prepare our meals. Both gave off an undesirable smell. With this new home, she had a modern four-burner stove that used propane. It was much safer and cleaner.

Baboor

She turned around to give me a soft smile. I much prefer cooking without trying to balance a pot precariously on a single open flame.

It is wonderful, I said.

Sit, she said, gesturing to the table. I’ll bring you a plate.

She put a small porcelain bowl of labneh, a creamy dried yogurt, along with green olives in front of me. I tore off pieces of pita bread and scooped up the creamy spread. It tasted better knowing that I’d helped Mother make the labneh a few days prior. Together, we’d strung up yogurt in cheesecloth, tying it high. Over the days the excess liquid had dripped out until the labneh was ready.

Labneh in a cloth bag

Don’t forget to study this weekend? she asked as she flipped the eggs on the stove.

Of course, I will,

There’s nothing more important than your education, she said. Mother had zero formal education, but she was one of the most brilliant people I knew. She learned from experience and never made the same mistake twice.

I know, Mama, I replied warmly. I’d heard that message every day of my life, but I didn’t mind. She was right.

Do you need help? I can tell Ali to work with you.

No, I have it down.

That’s my boy, she said fondly, as she pulled the frying pan off the stove and dumped a pile of potatoes and eggs on my waiting plate. Maybe you can help Hussein with his reading?

I nodded. Sure thing! I’ll track him down right after I water the garden.

When I’d eaten my fill, I put my dishes in the sink, gave my mother a quick thank you kiss on the cheek and ran out to do my chores.

---

Walking a kilometer to babysit a dozen sheep wasn’t my idea of fun. I always carried a stick in my right hand and a book in my left. Mind you, it wasn’t hard work, as the sheep needed no guidance from me. All I had to do was loosely direct them to the meadow then make sure they didn’t get into trouble.

Still, I couldn’t stop from worrying about messing up and losing a member of the flock. My imagination took flight as I feared a thief might try to take a few. It never happened, of course, but it didn’t stop my heart from beating a little faster.

What if a sheep got sick on my watch?

What if one got lost and wandered off?

These thoughts plagued me, as I shooed them along. After all, sheep were an important part of our livelihood. We’d use their milk for yogurt and each year Mother would overstuff one, getting it fatter than the rest. Then, after a couple of months, Father would slaughter it, so that mother could make awarma. She would boil down the fat with pieces of lamb until the meat darkened. Then she’d cool it down and store it in a large tin container in the back room, using it for cooking fat for most meals. That one sheep would help feed our family deliciously for an entire year, even during the winter months when the village became cut off from the heavy snows.

When the sheep arrived at the meadow, I found a beautiful willow tree where I could read my book in peace. I took out a snack I’d brought with me and looked around. Two plump quail flew overhead, circling each other happily. Maybe Father and I would be able to go hunting later in the day.

I loved that time with him; I always felt like a man, providing for my family. Father taught me numerous tricks for flushing out the game birds. He was a crack shot, so the trip was always a success. Then when we brought the birds home, Mother would clasp her hands together with joy and extoll our prowess. Thinking about how she’d prepare the fowl made my mouth water.

Before I began reading my novel, I glanced out at the sheep. They were grazing happily, emitting sounds of satisfaction, safe and content. And I had a good book to read. Maybe this chore wasn’t so bad.

---

As the weeks rolled by, we all became accustomed to the luxuries of our new home. Suddenly, it seemed odd to continue using the mountain of Areed for our bathroom during school hours, taking scraps of whatever we could find with us as toilet paper. I kept this opinion to myself, though, not wanting to appear boastful.

Our home quickly became a favorite meeting spot for our friends, who made various excuses to stop by for a visit. Our parents enjoyed the friendly chatter as well as the rambunctious games of the children. Outside, I created a new goola court, a large circle in the dirt, where we could play marbles. My pockets often bulged with the small spheres. I was proud that I usually had more marbles than any other kid in the neighborhood, which proved my skill at the sport. After all, whoever knocked a marble out of the goola court, won it as a prize.

Raafat, you’re up, Jires said, squatting next to me.

I pulled out my large golden shooter and rolled it around in my palms before making a big show of flexing my muscles. Everyone laughed. Then I flicked the shooter with my thumb and smiled as it collided with a bunch of speckled marbles in the center of the circle. As they rolled across the boundary, I stood to grab them.

Then, amidst the cheers of my friends, I heard kids screaming at each other thirty meters away, Mustafa! What are you doing with that AK-47? one person shouted.

What? I cried, turning quickly to find what was going on.

Pandemonium broke out as my friends scampered through the circle, scattering marbles in a frantic urge to escape. I pushed against the current of boys, fighting to get to where the fight was. As I got closer, I saw that my friend and neighbor, Mustafa, had his Kalashnikov rifle aimed directly at my friend Rafik’s chest. I paused, then continued forward, willing my feet to move. It was tempting to run away, but I was determined to help.

This is my father, Mohammad Ahmad Zaiter, Sometime around 1970, standing in front of his newly built house carrying his Kalashnikova AK-47 and his binoculars.

Take back what you said. Mustafa gritted through his teeth. "Now!"

I was just teasing. I’m sorry, Rafik said, his eyes trained on the gun. His hands were splayed in front of him and I could see they were trembling. I d-didn’t mean anything b-by it.

I wiped my hands against my khaki pants and took a deep breath in an attempt to settle my nerves. Then I placed what I hoped passed as a serene smile on my face and said gently, Mustafa, please listen to me. Come on, now. Can you put the gun down?

Mustafa’s eyes shifted to me and in that moment, his rage seemed to dissipate. It was as if he woke up from a trance and he lowered his weapon. As soon as he did, Rafik tore into his nearby house and rushed back out, carrying a live hand grenade.

No! I shouted, feeling raw fear rush up my spine.

Rafik ignored me and gave Mustafa a penetrating look as he depressed the lever and pulled out the pin. He waved the grenade menacingly in the air in front of him.

"What do you think of this, Mustafa?" he said.

I inhaled sharply, for in that moment Rafik was gone and in his place was a madman. Looking over at Mustafa, I could tell that he forgot he was holding an assault rifle in his hands. He looked terrified, looking like the young teen he was.

Rafik’s parents rushed over to their son, his mother trying to soothe with her voice. Her words were nonsense, but that didn’t matter. It stayed her son’s arm.

Don’t touch him! I cried out as his father neared Rafik. That thing’s live! Whatever you do, don’t pry open his hands.

I turned to Rafik and said in a calm voice, Please look at me.

When he turned to me, I saw a wild look in his eyes. I held his gaze and said, Rafik, listen to me. Don’t open your hand, ok? Just keep calm. It will be all right.

I quickly glanced back and saw Mustafa’s retreating form. All the other kids had also left. Good, I thought. It’s just me and Rafik’s family. Rafik looked down at his hand and back at me. It was like someone had turned on a light switch, and my friend had returned. He seemed to realize the danger he was in.

As if waking from a bad dream he whispered, What now?

Don’t worry, I said, keeping my voice light. Come on, let’s go out a few meters and throw it. It’ll be fine.

We all followed Rafik as he took a few steps out. Then he took a deep breath and threw the grenade about fifteen meters. I held my breath as I watched it sail through the air, as if in slow motion. When it exploded safely, I sighed in relief as I felt the vibrations through my shoes.

3

As summer turned into winter, I was grateful for the sobias in each room. These diesel-burning heaters did little to warm the room, but if you huddled around one, nearly hugging it, you could escape the bitter cold for a while.

Ali and I disliked tromping through the snow, lugging the fifteen-liter container of fuel home, but it had to be done frequently through the coldest months of the year. We’d balance it in the middle of a strong wooden stick and groan loudly the entire trip back. However, Mother always had a fresh cup of hot tea waiting for us upon our return and would hail us as her heroes for accomplishing our Herculean task, making it all worthwhile.

On the weekends, Father and I would hunt hajal and teebat, birds which were abundant in the colder months. In the old mud house, Mother used to roast the plump birds on the sobia, but in the new house she could use the stove, which was such a blessing for her. She’d serve the hajal and teebat with her delicious fasolia, a beef and rice stew which would warm us up and fill our bellies.

During those cold months, I longed for the summer to return. I’d think about how wonderful it would be to throw open the doors and relish the cool breezes, then go out into the fields and run around with my friends.

This is diesel-burning heater. I had to literally hug it to warm up in the cold months of winter.

---

As the months became warmer and warmer, my friends and I would take any chance we could to play outdoors, inventing new games. We didn’t have a lot of possessions, so we had to be creative with what we had. Sibree, for example, only required a few sticks, but provided hours of