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I don’t know how we got here.
Today, I realize that I’ve never truly known peace.
A few weeks ago, everything was ‘fine.’
My family was planning a trip to London to visit us.
I was already looking forward to going back for Christmas.
‘Everything was fine.’
It’s all so Lebanese.
No, it’s been a long time since everything has been fine.
This page exists because things are not fine.
Because there is too much to say.
Because a few words will never be enough to describe all that is wrong.
When I say, ‘everything is fine,’ I mean that, for a few weeks, I haven’t been afraid for the lives of my loved ones.
For a few short weeks.
Because, today, I am afraid.
Again.
My family was planning a trip to London.
Their tickets were booked.
Reservations were made.
All, but one.
Their hotel room.
A hotel reservation can only be canceled 48 hours in advance.
Except that when you come from Lebanon, 48 hours is not enough.
How can you know, 48 hours before a trip, that there won’t be a war?
I write this sentence with a chuckle because the Lebanese who read this know.
Others must think we’re crazy.
It’s funny, really, the unfairness of the world.
So, let me explain, for the lucky ones who don’t understand:
In 48 hours, the country’s good politicians could decide to attack.
In 48 hours, the airport could be destroyed.
In 48 hours, schools could close.
In 48 hours, internet connectivity could be completely lost.
In 48 hours, travel could become impossible.
In 48 hours, a country could be at war, and the lives of its people completely frozen.
I’m trying to lighten the situation (my anxiety too).
I suggest to my family (or even plead) to come to London earlier, ‘Just in case.’
I even make a little joke and give them a name:
Political Refugees.
My father replies that they won’t leave everything for a ‘Just in case.’
If they left every time the situation was uncertain, it wouldn’t be a dignified life.
He goes on about my joke and says,
If the airport closes, we won’t be Political Refugees.
Instead, we’ll be ‘Political Victims.’
It’s no longer funny.
A dignified life is one where 48 hours are enough to decide whether to cancel a trip.
I may be selfish, but a dignified life is one where we’re no longer ‘victims.’
We’ve already been victims of enough.
My parents have already been victims of too much.
My brother is too young to become a victim of more.
I know we’re supposed to resist, not run.
I know our land is sacred. I know we must fight to preserve it.
I know all that, and, yet,
I say it honestly,
There are prices I’m not willing to pay.
I love my country more than anyone can imagine.
I love our cities and villages.
Our mountains and our sea.
Our people and our life there.
But I don’t love it enough to sacrifice more.
I’ve already given so much to Lebanon.
I won’t give it my loved ones.
I don’t love it enough to endure this anxiety and uncertainty for much longer.
It’s truly unfair that a people as good as mine is constantly forced to live in fear.
Terrified of what might happen tomorrow.
Almost considered crazy for daring to plan for a future when living in a land where all futures are uncertain.
My mother has stocked the house with food,
Just in case.
They’ve bought satellite internet,
Just in case.
Their bags are already packed to flee,
Just in case.
Plane tickets are booked,
Just in case.
And they are the lucky ones because they have the means and the right passport to plan for a ‘Just in case.’
Is this a dignified life?
Waiting to, Perhaps, Die.
Is that dignified?
And what about the others?
Those who predict, helpless.
Those who can’t prepare for the ‘Just in case.’
Don’t they count?
And my grandparents, too old to start a new life,
Already tired of surviving two wars and fearing to live through another,
Don’t they count?
And my aunt, already disabled by the explosion,
Who can no longer run for refuge, just in case.
Doesn’t she count?
And all those who have just begun to rebuild,
And still far from healing from their traumas?
And… And… And…
If it’s not war that will kill us,
It’s anxiety.
The anxiety of being Lebanese
And coming from a land that will and that has never known peace.
On top of the anxiety, there is the guilt.
Because we are victims of so much, but of not enough.
Only a border away,
Families have been erased,
In complete dismay.
– Inès Mathieu
