American University of Beirut
Source: https://www.aub.edu.lb/President/Presidentsperspective/Pages/This-Bitter-Earth.aspx Parent: https://www.aub.edu.lb/
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President's Perspective
3/13/2026
This Bitter Earth
Dr. Fadlo R. Khuri
President
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Dear friends,
I hope you are safe and keeping as well as possible amidst this maelstrom. I write as the most extensive regional war to engulf the Middle East since World War II rages on, seemingly without an endgame in sight. This date also marks the 30th anniversary of my father’s passing on March 13, 1996. I find myself struggling to make sense of this wide-ranging war and to find the proper words in a moment when words feel insufficient.
The songs that come to mind are not uplifting ones in these hard times. The best I can do under the circumstances is a song Clyde Otis wrote for the late, great Dinah Washington. She recorded it in 1960 and died three years later at the premature age of 39. The haunting beginning has echoes of despair:
“This bitter earth\ Well, what a fruit it bears\ What good is love\ Mmh, that no one shares?\ And if my life is like the dust\ Ooh, that hides the glow of a rose\ What good am I?\ Heaven only knows”
THE SONGS THAT COME TO MIND ARE NOT UPLIFTING ONES IN THESE HARD TIMES
This Bitter Earth has been revived several times since. A recent version fuses the original with the score composed by the minimalist composer Max Richter. It plays hauntingly at the end of Shutter Island, Martin Scorsese’s film noir about tragedy and a self-preserving descent into madness.
If not the extreme that is insanity, many of us learn and internalize techniques to get through the harshest times; small ways to steady ourselves. Obsession with sports scores has long been one of my mainstays. In the fiercest of moments, I distract myself by obsessing about a result—live, recent, or remote—of my favorite sports teams. That momentary deflection from reality has helped me carry on, and occasionally thrive, in a world full of turmoil.
So it was when my father died. Without fully processing his loss, I had to communicate with our closest family members, my brother, uncles, and aunts, to inform them. To alleviate my mother’s suffering as best I could, I dove into the details of the funeral and the gravestone design with my youngest uncle Tony. I then wrote and gave my father’s eulogy, ending with the immemorial final lines Horatio speaks to the departed Hamlet:
“Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
I write this to let the many members of our community who are suffering severe hardships, who have lost loved ones over these six long and painful years, know that they are not alone. Our AUB community across the region is now sharing in the turmoil that we in Lebanon, Palestine, Syria, and Iraq have tasted all too often. Our thoughts are with them and with those suffering everywhere. Many of us understand what it means to see the earth as bitter and cruel. The sun does not always shine. We can never take those days when it does for granted.
But pain, struggle, and grief must never imply despair. The coping mechanisms, distractions, and routines we surround ourselves with should ultimately be a means to an end. That end is to help author a life well lived. For anyone and everyone we can reach. At the American University of Beirut, this aspiration finds expression in service to others, especially those less fortunate.
EVERY DAY, I HAVE MISSED THE MAN WHO WAS MY HERO AND ROLE MODEL
The 30 years since my father passed have been challenging ones. Every day, I have missed the man who was my hero and role model. Over time, especially after I entered AUB as a student, my father increasingly trusted and confided in me. He treated me as an adult and, over time, he became one of my closest friends and confidantes. It was from him that I learned what it was like to feel the loneliness of the leader. When his health deteriorated, our time together became even more precious. There were difficult days towards the end, but I feel most fortunate to have shared what time I had with him. On balance, even in the midst of illness and suffering, there were many good days together.
A friend recently reminded me of a quote variously attributed to Rabindranath Tagore or Gibran Kahlil Gibran. Whatever its origin, it is apropos for our times:
“I slept and I dreamed that life is all joy.\ I woke and I saw that life is all service.\ I served and I saw that service is joy.”
After my father’s death, Edward Said called my parents’ home to speak to me, but I was out taking care of the seemingly interminable details that needed looking after. By that evening, I returned his call. Edward had an experience and an epiphany he wanted to share with me. “One only truly becomes a man when one’s father dies.” As time passes, our sleep and dreams of joy become more wistful, filled with memories of those we have loved and lost. If loss does indeed force us to grow, our view of the world may become humbler and kinder. None of us can lead or shine at every moment. But we do what we can to serve as best we can when and where we are most needed. I do agree that a life of service is a meaningful one and have experienced enough to state that it indeed brings joy.
WE DO WHAT WE CAN TO SERVE AS BEST WE CAN WHEN AND WHERE WE ARE MOST NEEDED
At the end of Shutter Island, the main character, trapped in a reality he cannot bear asks, "Which would be worse, to live as a monster or to die as a good man?"
That cannot be our choice, or anyone’s. No one should need to live as a monster. We can endure what seems unendurable and get through the most trying of times, surrounded by those we love. We mourn our losses and keep a portion of them with us. This now includes the recent passing of two iconic, long-time members of the AUB community, Professor Walid Khalidi (Hon. DHL ’10) and Ambassador Leila Munib Shaheed (BA Sociology ’71), whose scholarship and public service enriched our university and our region. With time, we see the departed in our mind’s eye, as I have learned to see my father, and others whom I have loved and lost. We learn that we can savor the journey throughout its peaks and troughs, that our lives are not meaningless, that we do more than simply “hide the glow of a rose.”
“Lord, this bitter earth\ Yes, can be so cold\ Today you're young\ Too soon you're old\ But while a voice within me cries\ I'm sure someone may answer my call\ And this bitter earth, ooh\ May not, oh, be so bitter after all”
I have endeavored to use these last 30 years to find joy in service, and in life. I hope our wounded, beleaguered community, heartsick by war and loss, will yet see, as I have, that “this bitter earth may not be so bitter after all.”
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