I am writing today in my most vulnerable state.
My words may seem naïve or even hypocritical to some.
However, it is truly what I feel.
It has been almost two months since I last wrote.
Not because I have nothing to say.
And certainly not because I haven’t been outraged.
Truth be told, I am more outraged than ever.
So much so that I can no longer find the right words to describe it.
Especially because we live in a time where any word is good,
And where no word is good enough.
I have never been afraid of my page.
Never, because I write what I know.
I know my feelings.
I know my thoughts.
I know my country.
Today, I no longer know.
Perhaps let’s start from there then.
We all know what happened two days ago.
And we all were scared.
Once again, we find ourselves frightened for the future, for our country, and for our lives.
Once again, we are faced with total uncertainty.
Once again, we anxiously await to know what will become of our fate and that of our land.
Two days ago,
With eyes closed, ready to fall asleep,
I thought I heard a noise.
Like a plane flying too low.
So many things crossed my mind.
For a few seconds, I found myself four years back.
August 4, 2020.
I trembled, I cried,
I was paralyzed by fear.
So many questions crossed my mind:
Was something going to happen to me? Was I safe? If I had to flee, where would I run? To run or to hide?
The mere idea of an aerial attack petrified me,
Feeling endangered in the safety of my own room, in the comfort of my own home.
What about those facing constant fear for over two months now?
What about all those children trying to understand the ugliness and cruelty of their environment?
What about all those parents trying to turn war into a game to soothe their children?
What about the people in Southern Lebanon?
Those who have listened to the hum of drones and planes for years now?
What about their anger?
What about the number of times they have had to flee and leave everything behind?
What about us?
We ignored their protests,
Their pain,
Their sorrow and their grief.
We acted as if everything was normal.
We sat in the sun,
Completely oblivious,
That in the South,
War.
Two days ago,
Suddenly,
We felt attacked.
Because they struck Beirut.
We reacted; we were afraid.
We posted a small supportive image on our social media,
Indignant.
Suddenly, it was no longer an attack we could overlook.
Just eight minutes away from my home.
For a few seconds, once again,
August 4, 2020.
We wrote for Beirut,
Without ever mentioning Dahye.
We abandoned half of our people.
That is the reality.
It has been almost two months since I last wrote.
And if I am so upset today,
It’s because for the first time,
I feel us alone, even in our own country.
As Arabs, we learned at a young age that life must go on.
No matter what happens around us,
We learned to enjoy.
To enjoy the rising sun before us,
To smile and to dance.
We accompanied our struggles with Oud and Derbakeh.
And we sang long notes that cradled us toward a sense of peace.
Yet, today,
I no longer listen to any rhythmic melody.
I smile, but my laughter is unseen.
And when I sing, the notes are incomprehensible.
When I watch the sun set, I feel nothing but guilt.
Guilty for knowing that the sun is also setting on the other side.
On a side that can no longer enjoy it,
And where it might never rise again.
We are alone, even in our own country.
Long in a state of alertness and too preoccupied with survival,
We left behind
The unfortunate, the oppressed,
The hero, the activist,
An Arab,
A Lebanese.
We shed a small tear in solidarity,
Before continuing on a road not even paved,
A road not even promised.
Allow me a small request to those reading me:
Do not misconstrue my words.
I am not writing in support of war.
I urge the Lebanese not to forget the expanse of their land:
10,452 km2.
There are no victims who deserve more tears than others.
Nor a region that deserves more peace than elsewhere.
And if politics still knows how to divide us,
Then, I plead for the Lebanese passport.
January 2024.
A new year.
I would have liked to write beautiful things—
Words of hope,
Or prayers.
However,
Only one resolution in mind,
Or a request that may seem ambitious:
In 2024,
If we have lost the sense of patriotism,
Let us at least rediscover our humanity.
– Inès Mathieu