50 years. Same shit.
He wakes up in his bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. It hasn’t fallen. Is this real? So many memories flooding his mind. 50 years’ worth of memories, sweet and bitter.
Mostly bitter.
He’s traveled so much. Too much. He kind of hates it. It’s not like the fun trips you plan for a week or two. It’s survival trips, escaping bombs and missiles, fleeing on an overcrowded boat to get to Cyprus while holding your kids’ hands tightly in yours, to then take a flight to different countries. Back and forth to Lebanon. Back and forth from Lebanon. It’s a common experience for Lebanese people.
“I’ve been waking up and wondering, where am I?” There was a look on his face when my baba spoke those words to me, pain, confusion, and relief somehow all meshed together in one expression.
As I write this, there are over one million displaced Lebanese, buildings exploding and collapsing as missiles are being launched at civilian areas, including areas where my extended family resides - sometimes literally a building away from where they live. Yet another Israeli invasion, possibly the largest.
Wonderful…
Oh and I won’t even get into the utterly pointless war president orange face decided to launch on Iran over an imaginary threat that prime minister Shitanyahu has been shouting about for decades. Anyone with enough brain cells would know it’s just a ploy to secure the zionist terror state’s own delusional “Greater Israel” expansionist plan, and another example of the US empire’s unchanging, vile urge to control more of West Asia for oil. Democracy is a lie.
Nothing’s changed.
In my father’s eyes, nothing’s changed since 1975. It’s been 50 years of the same shit. “Kil yom, beshkor Allah enno ne7na hon,” he says. “Every day, I thank God that we’re here.”
You don’t know this as a kid growing up in the safety and stability of Canada, the struggles, sacrifices and trauma your parents experienced. You get glimpses, stories, emotional outbursts rooted in the conflict, but you also see and participate in healing that helps to ease wounds that are so deeply embedded not just in their minds, but in their nervous systems. In their bodies.
“Ma fi mitl Lebnan.” That’s become a slogan of my mom’s. No matter what happens to it, no matter how much she grieves her home, and the sacred soil that graced her feet, she insists there’s nothing like Lebanon. She’s always been very patriotic, just like jeddo - grandpa - committed to the land, the culture, the heritage. I used to think she romanticized it, until I visited it the second time. I was an adult then, and really understood what Gibran Khalil Gibran meant when he said “You have your Lebanon, and I have mine.” There’s an ancient presence that humbles you, blesses you, embraces you, but also breaks you, because you see two Lebanons. You see the gorgeous one my mom always makes sure I know and never forget, and you see the ugly one my dad is glad he left behind, not out of hate or disdain, but out of utter grief.
But that ugly one is not Lebanon. It’s a foreign invasion that has been trying to crush its true beauty. Many are at a stage where they think it’s on the brink of disappearing, that it’s too late. Others refuse this cynical belief. You understand both sides. You don’t want to agree with the pessimistic view, but it’s hard to deny it, especially when the terror state below is planning to indefinitely occupy a large chunk of the country. You don’t want to fill your heart with hope and optimism. That could hurt - a lot. Hope is a dangerous thing to hold on to. And yet, it’s so vital to survive. What do you live for if you have nothing to hope for?
For my part, I’ve become forever appreciative of what my parents have sacrificed for us to have a peaceful life. I’ve also become forever rooted in my heritage, which I seek to immortalize through everything I do, from teaching our culture, language, dialect, to changing the narrative about who and what we are. And I refuse. I refuse to accept the idea that Lebanon will disappear. Neither the land, nor the heritage. Heritage is an immortal treasure, and now that I have a daughter, it’s become clearer than ever to me.
P.S. I’ve started saying West Asia for geographical accuracy, because ‘Middle East’ I came to realize is a colonial Eurocentric term that we’re better off without.
