December 2020.
I’m heading back to Beirut for the holidays.
I’m excited to go home. I’m scared too.
I dread my arrival; I dread the country.
As soon as I’m on the plane, Lebanon is already there.
The language can be heard everywhere.
We land. Applause.
Yes, I am truly home.
The road to the house is long.
Time stands still in the car.
The landscapes feel heavy.
The view is painful.
The air feels limited.
It’s not that, once gone, we forget.
It’s that, once back, we relive.
The reunions are the best moments.
We hug, we embrace.
We meet again and rediscover each other.
We tell our stories and reminisce.
Coming from over there, the stories are beautiful.
Life has been kind.
Here, the days have followed one another, repeated themselves.
The pain never dissipated.
The blood still burning. The tears still falling.
And if, when gone, the traumas never disappeared,
Once back, the wounds reopen.
The scars hurt even more, mixed with the guilt of the exile.
The first few hours back are the hardest.
The readjustment. Remembering. Becoming Lebanese again.
Never fully becoming it again. Because, since leaving, Lebanon has changed.
New rules to the game. And the exile is no longer a player.
But it doesn’t take long to adapt. To relearn.
Driving for the first time again.
Reuniting with 150 family members. Eating, endlessly.
Trying to bring smiles to those who missed us.
Smiling at having found those we missed so terribly.
The relief of holding a beloved family member in your arms.
Talking to Teta and Jeddo without all the video call issues and the endless “Helloooo?”
But some things are harder.
Reliving certain moments, seeing scarred faces, living in cracked walls.
Walking through streets haunted by their past and ours.
By memories and laughter. By good and beautiful moments.
Overwhelmed and suffocated by the destructive seconds and chaos. By the horror.
We adapt. And we readapt.
Everything seems to get better.
Then a sound, a word, a glance…
We readapt. We have no choice. That’s what it means to be Lebanese.
They told me the first time leaving the country was the hardest.
In truth,
It’s the second departure that brings more despair.
The exile leaves,
Suitcases in hand.
Filled with Teta’s cooking, za’atar, and a few forgotten clothes.
The exile leaves,
Itinerary in hand.
The exile lands
In lands they already know.
But the exile leaves behind their loved ones,
Left in the Lebanese darkness. A silence deep and profound.
An unknown.
The exile leaves,
Accompanied by the words of the family:
Leave. And don’t look back.
Don’t give in to guilt.
Because there’s no merit in staying.
Change will come through your education. Not through shouting and protests. Not through the Revolution.
Leave, don’t look back.
God is with us, and we are not afraid.
“Beirut, a thousand times dead, a thousand times reborn.”
For better,
And for worse…
Words that linger, words that hurt.
The exile leaves,
For the second time, even more worried.
Because time does no favors to the country.
The roots of the Cedar grow old and fragile.
A return anytime soon is uncertain. Because nothing is certain anymore.
Will the sun rise over Beirut tomorrow morning?
Such is the thought of a Lebanese,
In exile.