Exactly a month ago, I was in Paris with my friends. We meet there every year for our annual family reunion. But this year was different. Usually, it’s an opportunity for us to ask: ‘When are you heading back?’, ‘No way, we’re on the same flight!’, ‘Guys, we need to start booking; everything’s full.’
But this November 2024, the conversation completely changed: ‘Who’s planning to go back?’, ‘My dad refused to let us celebrate Christmas in Lebanon.’, ‘I’m spending the holidays in Paris.’, ‘No way, me too! Yay, I won’t be alone.’
Every year, I also host a Christmas dinner in Lebanon, at my house. I always choose the date carefully to ensure that everyone is back and that we’re all together. My friends and I are scattered across the globe, and the December holidays are one of the rare times when we’re all reunited in Lebanon.
But this year, I was going to have to cancel my dinner. Because no one was coming back. It may seem trivial, I know. But it’s not. To me, it symbolized the real consequences of the war: not being able to gather in Lebanon.
Two months ago, I woke up every day to grim news: Israeli missiles, buildings reduced to rubble, casualty counts, death tolls, evacuation alerts…
Just two months ago, my mother was begging me to return to Lebanon. She told me she missed me so much, that she deeply missed having a ‘full house’- a home where all five of us were together.
Normally, I go back to Lebanon very often. But this year, I hadn’t returned since August 18th. I felt so cowardly for being afraid to go back. So cowardly for refusing to return while my family was in Lebanon.
You see, I’m one of those people who still jump at every loud noise since August 4. One of those who tear up easily, who still have nightmares. And thank God, I’m one of the lucky ones who weren’t in Lebanon during the war. Thank God, because I wouldn’t have been able to bear it, because I trembled at the mere thought of hearing a low-flying plane or a building collapsing next to me.
Just two months ago, I felt like the most cowardly Lebanese person in the country,
That’s another consequence of the war: suffering terribly from being there, suffering terribly from not wanting to be there. Suffering terribly whether you’re there or noy.
Suffering.
Today, December 24, 2024, I feel like it has never been easier to put my feelings into words.
They can all be summed up in one word: Grateful.
It’s so strange to think that just a month ago, we imagined the country would be empty for Christmas.
It’s so strange to think that just two months ago, we could barely imagine our country without missiles, bombs, and completely deserted roads.
I’m so grateful for this holiday season.
When I boarded a completely full plane, I was so grateful.
When I had to put my suitcase 10 rows behind my seat, I was so grateful.
When I stood in a never-ending customs line.
When my large suitcase took three days to arrive after me.
When I got stuck in endless traffic jams.
When I eagerly awaited the return of all my friends.
When I confirmed the date for my annual Christmas dinner.
When I watched my grandmother blow out her 78 candles.
When I sat down with my family for breakfast by the fireplace.
When every restaurant and bar was full, and no one could accommodate 10 people for a drink.
When we went to a nightclub, and there were 50 of us at the table. When we had to wait an hour to retrieve our car because there were too many people.
When I lost track of all the new businesses, popups, concepts…
When the sun was shining, and I was sitting on a terrace in Beirut.
When it rained while I was in bed with my four dogs.
I’m writing this text, in disbelief, on the morning of December 24, 2024.
I am so grateful to have realized that we only want to be together here, at home, in Lebanon. That celebrations are never the same anywhere else. That only here can they be so joyful.
I’m so grateful for every plate my mother sets on the table for tonight.
So grateful for the 22 people I will be celebrating Christmas with tonight.
Grateful for every piece of bread on the table, for every ornament on the tree.
Grateful for every smile I’ve seen since my return, on the faces of people who hadn’t been able to smile for a long time.
Grateful, because I know that many haven’t had the luxury of returning, of family, of the annual ‘Jam3a’.
Grateful, because I know that many have lost their homes.
Grateful, because many have lost their loved ones.
As this year, 2024, comes to an end,
I think that’s the word that describes the emotions of all Lebanese people.
We are grateful.
Grateful to be alive, to be reunited, to be home,
Smiling.
One last thought to conclude my pages:
This year has been one of the hardest for the country and for our people.
But it has also been a defining year for us.
It’s the year when we all, among those who have endured, managed to unite under the same Cedar, the year we showed solidarity and patriotism.
It’s a year that has given us something precious:
The ability to be grateful for the little things we never paid attention to before.
The ability to be grateful for every second on our land, surrounded by those we love.
I truly believe this is the most beautiful end of the year I have ever experienced.
A year that made me realize the value of every small moment, of every big moment,
One that made me realize how fortunate we are.
Just a few months ago, our world was on fire.
Today, it shines brighter than ever.
Ma fi a7la men el Jam3a.
Merry Christmas to all!!!
Hoping that we’ll be reunited every year, for better or for worse,
To celebrate Christmas and the New Year
In Lebanon.
– Inès Mathieu