Sowing Solidarity: How Lebanon’s Wineries Remain Rooted
Farrah Berrou writes about the delicate balance between loss and hope in southern Lebanon’s wine country. Photographs by Rami El Sabban.
Good morning and welcome to Vittles. Each Monday we publish a different piece of writing related to food, whether it’s an essay, a dispatch, a polemic, a review, or even poetry. This week, Farrah Berrou writes about wine producers in Lebanon’s South, and how since October last year, winemaking in the region has become a matter of existential survival. This essay is the second in a series on Palestine and Lebanon commissioned by Vittles in collaboration with N.A. Mansour, and is preceded by a brief introduction. You can read the first piece by Doha Kahlout here (or in Arabic here).
My family always thought it was funny that Farrah and I are friends when – among the other facets of her work – she writes about wine and I don’t drink. I always respond that Farrah is never just writing about wine; she is writing about the environment, labour, the economy, and more. The piece you have in front of you is just that: it is about the ecocide of southern Lebanon. As you read, remember this ecocide is part of broader patterns: the Israeli occupation of southern Lebanon and – it still needs to be said again and again – Israel is razing Gaza to the ground, continuing to target Palestinian agricultural land. They kill humans and they kill the systems that keep those humans alive.
So, again, writing about wine is not just writing about wine.
But Farrah and I are also friends because we agree on principles. You see some of that in this essay. One of the first sections deliberately reminds us that tens of thousands of people from all over Lebanon fled their homes – many of which have been destroyed – and are seeking help. They need food and shelter and many Lebanese businesses are pivoting to supply that. Your material contribution is not all we are asking you to do, Farrah and I both are asking you to flood the streets and to do even more. We are also asking you to support Azkadinya’s mutual aid fund, which is collecting donations to support grassroots organisations in Lebanon. Azkadinya is a collective that was founded by Rami El Sabban (who has contributed experience and photographs to this piece), Talal Soufan, and Omar Hamaoui. The link to donate is here.
—N.A. Mansour
Sowing Solidarity: How Lebanon’s Wineries Remain Rooted
Farrah Berrou writes about the delicate balance between loss and hope in southern Lebanon’s wine country. Photographs by Rami El Sabban.
‘Every time we talk, it just gets worse,’ says Tatiana Makhoul, team member of Domaine de Rmeich, a winery in southern Lebanon’s border town of Rmeich. One of at least three in the region, the family-run business has been making wine since 2017, producing roughly 40,000 bottles per year. We spoke this September, after almost a year of genocide in Gaza, attacks in the West Bank, and continuous airstrikes along the southern border of Lebanon. My original intention for this essay had been to follow up the reporting I did back in April, as their harvests began, but just ten days after my conversation with Makhoul – on 23 September, following a week of booby-trapped devices and daily horrors – Israel escalated its aerial assault across Lebanon’s South and Bekaa Valley, killing more than 500 people.
Israel’s disproportionate response to Hezballah’s ‘support front’ expanded to north of the Litani River. Now, the situation was ‘officially’ war, despite the shock the South had been absorbing for close to a year.
The annual wine harvest is crucial to Lebanon; wine is one of the country’s few viable exports, while Lebanon itself is one of the first homes of the domesticated grapevine, with a history of winemaking that dates back thousands of years. But as a wine and culture writer with ancestral roots in the Lebanese South, I noticed that the country’s smaller producers were missing from international wine media’s articles on the crossfire that has been happening in border regions since October last year. My interest in the topic wasn’t just about the wineries, though. I also wanted to know how the assault on the environment was affecting my grandparents’ olive trees, my dad’s newly planted grove of avocados, and the red soil that nurtured them.
Before that day in September, the idea of lost harvests was unthinkable. Among residents of the South, there was still hope that a ceasefire would be reached in time. On 5 September, I spoke to Abbas Baalbaki, an environmental activist and researcher working with the Green Southerners. Baalbaki has been working to provide evidence to reclassify white phosphorus as a chemical weapon (rather than its current classification, incendiary), which could lead to it being banned in all future conflicts. ‘There is a huge environmental impact from war, but it’s invisible,’ he tells me. Although there is no method of testing for white phosphorus in soil or water, Baalbaki felt the Israelis were using it as psychological warfare by making people think their land was contaminated and unusable. The real worry was not just white phosphorus, but also the effects of shelling dust and heavy metals from all the bombing.
If only it had ended there.
Today, many of the villages that were impacted by white phosphorus are being demolished by the Israeli army. Lebanon as a whole has once again stepped deeper into the unknown, with swathes of its South being completely obliterated. Although the Israeli airstrikes of the last two months have come to show that no part of Lebanon is off-limits, for wineries in southern Lebanon, it has become a matter of existential survival.
I wanted to know what this new stage meant for Lebanon’s winemakers. So, for the last month, winemakers from Beirut to the South have told me their stories.
The Wine Can Wait
On 4 August 2024, Rami El Sabban quit as sommelier of Montreal’s Heni and flew back to Beirut. The symbolism of his return date, the fourth anniversary of Beirut’s devastating port explosion, is not lost on him. The plan had been to commit to his winemaking career, but now he tells me his identity is in flux. El Sabban is a nomadic winemaker who teams up with other wineries to produce limited-run cuvees, and he was set to complete his third vintage of bottles from the picturesque towns of Bcharre (with Mersel Wine) and Bhamdoun (with Chateau Cana) this year. However, when the war spread beyond the South in late September, El Sabban had a shift in priorities. Over 1.2 million people have since been forcibly displaced from all parts of the country, a strain that only worsens as bombing campaigns displace more (and sometimes the same) people. While El Sabban’s new wines were fermenting in the mountains far, far away, he pivoted to relief efforts in Beirut that were securing meals for those in need.
Coming into wine by working as a busser in Miami, El Sabban’s restaurant experience now comes in handy, as does his involvement in grassroots initiatives that have emerged in the crucible of Lebanon’s consecutive national crises since 2019. ‘I thought I was radical with my politics before [Miami], but when I saw that I could be radical through wine and beer, it was a wake-up call,’ he tells me on his day off. In Beirut, restaurants, bakeries, and bars have morphed into community kitchens, cooking and dispatching thousands of meals daily to different shelters and clusters of people across the city. ‘I feel like I need to be here [in Beirut]; there’s some sort of bigger responsibility,’ says El Sabban. ‘I have this internal screaming session, “eno hay riz’tak fo”,’ he continues, describing his wines as his rizq, or livelihood, being up in the mountains. ‘If I’m not there [in the kitchen], someone will fill my place. That’s what the community is about, but I’m attached to what we’re doing,’ he explains.
In the meantime, his wines have been developing via WhatsApp. ‘I’ve been doing it through messaging, [but it] is hard to get the point across. I need to taste it; I need to smell it. I’m going off theory, basically,’ he tells me.
Entering Southern Lebanon
Like El Sabban, John Karam, the second-generation winemaker of Karam Wines, returned to Lebanon in December of last year. Since studying and training in France, Karam has been faced with one of the hardest times he’s seen at his family’s estate in Jezzine, some seventy kilometres southeast of Beirut. ‘I knew there would be hardships and the war was going to begin, but I couldn’t grasp the idea of leaving the winery and my family alone,’ he tells me over the phone. Over the years, Karam Wines has carved out a reliable stream of income by leveraging its location of lush mountains, pine forests, and quaint villages to create a wine-tasting haven. However, since October, ecotourism and enotourism have plummeted, as visitors avoid the southern half of the country. With the loss of that source of income, and with their sales having always been heavily dependent on the domestic market, Karam says it’s been difficult to stay hopeful.
The psychological impact on Karam Wines’ employees has been a serious concern. Some have been displaced, and due to the fear of bombings, picking one vineyard takes 4–5 days instead of one, escalating the already difficult labour that accompanies seasonal harvests. Recently, an Israeli airstrike landed in the area and, while the damages to the winery were minimal and material, the experience, Karam tells me, was terrifying because there was nowhere to hide.
Further south in Marjeyoun, things are somewhat similar for Les Vignes de Marje, led by Carol Tayyar Khoury. Les Vignes de Marje is situated around ten kilometres from the border, and Khoury’s vines grow in the marje, an exposed meadow in the flatlands of the South’s bucolic landscape. Despite the winery being in the southern zone, where only citizens are allowed, Khoury created a tourist destination where local and foreign visitors could be welcomed. From her winery and restaurant, visitors would then tour neighbouring villages and see more of the borderlands. They were so enamoured that they dubbed the region ‘The petit Bekaa’ because of its brimming potential.
This year, though, Khoury’s young vines did not produce grapes. And after the local power station was hit by Israeli artillery shells in mid-July, it was time for some serious risk assessment. Khoury sent samples from her tanks to her winemaker, who’s based in the northeastern Bekaa town of Deir el Ahmar. He told her that the contents were in good shape, but they didn’t want to risk that changing by staying put. For three consecutive nights, Khoury moved her juice in smooth 2000L plastic tanks to Deir el Ahmar, sealed in nitrogen and nylon. When talks of a ground invasion started to circulate, she moved all her bottled inventory to caves in other parts of the country.
For the continuity of her business, Khoury has been forced to produce wine with grapes sourced from other plots in the north. This change of origin will be indicated on the labels, and not just for transparency’s sake: although her vineyards were not impacted by white phosphorus, Khoury worries about consumers’ assumptions that all agricultural products from the South have been contaminated. ‘I won’t be safe from the criticism of the people,’ she says.
No Matter What, We’re Staying
The further south one goes, the more stretched limited resources become. Domaine de Rmeich is the winery closest to the southernmost edge of the country. The villagers who’ve remained persevere, in the absence of the Lebanese government’s support. They barter with fruits and produce, they run errands together, and they drive each other to church. ‘We rely on each other, which is something the jnoub is used to,’ Makhoul says.
As one of the major employers of the town, Domaine de Rmeich have paid salaries out-of-pocket and have compiled aid parcels (which include cleaning products, food, and medication) in collaboration with the municipality and church. As the village gets cut off from the rest of the country, their main concern is survival – especially as trucking anything in and out has been extremely risky. The team has lost access to around 12,000 vines, making up approximately 70% of their annual yield. Diesel is scarce and, after a year of no income, Domaine de Rmeich’s operational costs are climbing, also while they are unable to get any raw materials in or ship any containers out. They can’t move existing inventory because it’s too dangerous. ‘But also, why should we?’ says Makhoul defiantly. ‘It’s our town, our Domaine, our vines. If anything, we have to hold on; we have to stay in our lands,’ she adds.
These southerners are adamant about staying put. Part of it is the pertinacious pride, being at the helm of wineries in the South that are so few in number. Building a winery in a formerly occupied territory is building a home to receive guests in, to show them where you come from, and to reaffirm your history. A wine business is a commitment to slow growth. Investing in land that was roped off from the world for years is not only an act of defiance, but also a belief in a distant future, a leap of faith that others can buy into.
But beyond pride or profit, there is also a legacy of agricultural heritage that is being safeguarded. ‘Because these lands were inherited, they have been cared for and maintained and nourished for generations. We have a history of what was planted, figs or tomatoes or tobacco; we don’t want to lose this knowledge,’ says Makhoul. ‘It’s very important – it gives our wines this special character, the history of our soil. If we just pack up and leave, we might lose some of that data,’ she explains.
Karam, while discouraged about the state of things, is excited about this vintage, and he has some conviction left at the bottom of the barrel. ‘Even though this is happening, every day I go to work; I’m giving it my all,’ he says intently. ‘I still believe in what we’re doing and we can make it. That’s the attitude I have because I have no other choice,’ he continues. ‘No matter what, we’re staying’, he says before we hang up.
I’ve had many conversations with wine folks over the years, and the rigid attachment to the land that I hear from Lebanon’s southerners is unique. To be fair, the others are not grappling with the idea that their lands could be stolen by a malicious military force. Israel occupied 10% of Lebanon’s southern territory from 1982 until it was liberated in May 2000. When asked about the possibility of Israel re-occupying the South, those along the border don’t have the capacity to process such a reality. Each time I pose the question, I feel apologetic for even breathing life into such a scenario. As someone who has watched drone footage of my destroyed village, I don’t want to imagine losing access altogether. ‘We’ll think about it when we get there’, Khoury tells me, as if to comfort me too. ‘I’m sure one day I’m going to go back – that’s my feeling. Otherwise, I don’t want to talk about that.’
Unity Across the Border
Unfortunately, the coverage that the Lebanese wine industry has received of late has focused on a passive yet resilient narrative, coupled with a call for donations. Since Lebanon’s financial collapse in 2019, dependence on the solidarity economy has been the status quo, and many Lebanese producers are tired of being presented as a charity case.
I ask what kind of support they want from readers, beyond them buying bottles. The common answer is the need for strong export partners so they can keep the lights on as the (diminutive) domestic market is on hold. Karam suggested creating a hub that would work to find importers in different countries so Lebanese businesses can then sustain themselves. Khoury echoes this: ‘That’s our sole hope now,’ she says, referring to exports as a lifeline.
Strength is ultimately found in one another; encouragement also comes in the form of brotherly advice from the other side of the border. Just before our call, El Sabban received a text from Sari Khoury, winemaker of Palestine’s Philokalia in the West Bank. Sari gave him some resolve, having dealt with similar dispossession due to the same aggressor: ‘I can get to the wine cellar since it’s right under my apartment, but I can’t get to the world…’ Sari wrote. ‘Don’t worry so much about the wine in your absence; the key is to observe what’s happening, to adapt, and to give expression to the vintage (also meaning the current time) … you’re giving expression to the moment as well through your wine … and this moment is not last year’s moment of harvesting.’
‘These are the times; life is such. I can’t force anything to happen, I can just adapt to them,’ says El Sabban after reading the text out to me. Having interviewed him a few years ago, I’m not surprised by Sari’s way with words, and they grant me some calm, too.
There is an unspoken understanding between Palestine and Lebanon, particularly Lebanon’s South. When I see that my grandparents’ trees have been crushed by Caterpillars, my Palestinian friend knows and feels that pain. When I see an elderly Palestinian couple slide down a dirt path laughing, I see my grandparents alive and together again. Even though the general consensus seems to be that we are both helpless during this war, I do not see Israel diminishing our connection to each other and to our lands. Our collective anger has only fuelled our obdurate stance, and when individual tenacity starts to falter, we lock arms to reinforce the tensile strength of our roots. Together, we will water the brick earth.
To support Azkadinya’s mutual aid fund — founded by Rami El Sabban, Talal Soufan, and Omar Hamaoui — which is collecting donations to support grassroots organisations in Lebanon, please donate here.
Credits
Farrah Berrou is a wine and culture writer based in Beirut, Lebanon. Her work explores themes of collective processing, identity as it relates to the everyday minutiae, and the impermanence of memory. Currently, she creates video essays and writes a weekly Lebanese culture newsletter, Aanab News.
Rami Bassil El-Sabban is a Lebanese nomadic natural winemaker and community organizer. His Instagram handle is @el.sabban.
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What a brilliant piece of wine writing.