August 6th, 2020: to my dear Lebanon
A non-Lebanese friend of mine today asked me if my family in Lebanon was alright. After I said that they are, he then asked me why I was crying. As long as my loved ones are safe, it should be alright, he said. It could have been worse, he said. I could not even blame him. It is not his fault. To someone who is not Lebanese, it might seem like it could have been worse. Maybe it could have. Then again, what exactly is worse than over 300,000 people left homeless, over 100 dead, over 5,000 injured, and so many still missing, in a country that was already broken? What is worse than hundreds of buildings completely gone, the country’s main port completely destroyed, the capital completely wiped out? I do not blame him. He could not understand. I cannot expect people to understand what I am feeling right now. What Lebanese people are feeling right now. After all, my family is safe, but what about other families? What about the people who are not able to say the same? What about the people who are still frantically, desperately searching for their loved ones? What about the people who are now mourning? What about the people who lost their homes and their businesses? What about the people who lost everything they always knew? How can I sleep at night, while my brothers and sisters are suffering, while my mother is in so much pain? My family is safe this time, but what about next time? My country is bleeding. My heart is bleeding. I was born and raised in another country. Canada has welcomed my parents three decades ago, has watched them grow older, watched them have their children, build themselves up and live their lives here. My parents are now Canadian, I am Canadian. I had the opportunity, or the misfortune, to live an easy and peaceful life. My childhood isn’t scarred by memories of war and hardships, the way my parents’ childhoods are. Still, they dream of going back to their mother country, the country where they were born and raised, the country where they grew up, the country that holds their memories, the country that holds their past, but perhaps not their future. The country where they left everything behind to pursue the chance of a better life. I see the stars in my dad’s eyes when he talks about his childhood, about his hopes and dreams for us, for Lebanon. I see the stars in my mom’s eyes when she says she is proud of us, when she is happy we are safe. They hold their memories close to their hearts, they wish we could understand them.
It hurts. I cannot describe the overwhelming feeling of sadness that has taken over my life the last few days. The initial shock, followed by denial and panic. The blood in my veins froze. Only one word playing on repeat in my head; unbelievable, unbelievable. I know I am not alone in this. My Facebook and Instagram feeds were taken over by my Lebanese friends, who also feel the same way. Beirut looks like a war zone. Without the war. It is painful to watch, but we cannot take our eyes off the sight of it. The Beirut we knew is no longer. All I know is a Lebanon that has been hurt over and over again. All I know is a broken country, where food is too expensive, work is hard to find, life is difficult to live. But I know people who are resilient, who are strong enough, who are brave enough to get back up every time they are brought down. People who are not afraid to live, to laugh, to love. To take each other’s hands and believe that everything will be alright. The explosions have not affected my family or I. Not physically. Not directly. But today, the Lebanese people are all dead. We are all dead. If it did not kill our bodies, if it did not take our lives, it killed our hearts. I do not expect my non-Lebanese friends to understand. It would be unfair. It is not their fault. Do not misunderstand me. Many of my non-Lebanese friends, and even strangers, checked up on me and on my fellow citizens. They ask if we are okay, if we need anything, what they can do to help. They are precious gems. They are the lifelines we hold on to during this particularly difficult time. When everything seems dark, their lights shine so brightly on our path. I am thankful for them, for their presence besides us, for their kindness, for their generosity, for their encouraging words. They can imagine how it feels like. They can be sad. They can feel bad. They can be empathetic. They just will not feel the emotions I am feeling right now. It is not their fault. It is so much more complicated than it seems. They just will never be able to give me what I really need: peace and hope for the future of my dear country. Today, I have a heartbreak the size of 10,452 km². Recovering started, but healing will take years. كلنا للوطن للعلى للعلم 08.04.2020
