Foreword: If there was ever a certainty of what one might experience in Lebanon, it was uncertainty. It didn’t matter if you were born here or recently moved here, what plagued us all was the constant sound of someone telling you: you are different. It was uncompromising in its stance even if the image of those that stood before you changed. Unlike those who have caused such personal grievances to our family, our kin, you were special. And the voices changed sometimes, even if the message didn’t. ‘Everyone was an outsider’, it spoke in a lilting tone. Everyone was harmful in their very existence if it was near to our proximity, even our neighbors. The poor stole and the rich were arrogant. Fight with others who are in your position for they are competitors. But unite with them when whoever seems like an outsider approaches. Even then though, you must not forget that it is a temporary truce. You must remember, even then, that you are different, so you are better.
I heard stories when I was young, of a brother killing brother, of men gaining power and using it to foster hatred and strife. To use that hatred and strife as a shroud concealing their own thievery and cowardice. I heard of neighbors turning against neighbors, of lines drawn in Beirut, and of checkpoints erected to enforce them. Of murders and massacres, of foreign whispers fed straight into the fire they lit.
But then…I also heard of a lone Christmas tree set up in a wrecked neighborhood during a rare ceasefire. Of people joining those that were called their sworn enemies at dinner after a long day of fasting. Of cups clinked in harmony and heavy platters passed around from hand to hand. Of warm tea served in a warmer room while the air rings with the sound of praying utterly foreign to most in the room.
There were always so many factors that one had to account for. Class, religion, background, gender, ethnicity, family origin…all those were essential to formulate an opinion about those surrounding you, and if it differed in the slightest, they were different.
—————————————————————————————4 Years Old —————————————————————————————
It’s not the bang that stays with me, nor the chaos or smoke that followed, but the whistling.
I don’t think there is a word in English or Arabic that can accurately describe the sound of a bomb being dropped, but whistling is the closest possible.
That sharp whistle that lasted a few seconds has stayed with me for years.
I hear it when I get up as my mind lingers in my dreams. I hear it as I walk down the street and certain men leer after me. I hear it in the notes of my teacher’s voices and the cars racing down the street.
I hear it all the time and yet, it has only ever happened once.
When I was a child, Israel invaded Lebanon. They started from the south, where we share our borders with occupied Palestine, then moved up. We lived about 20 minutes away from the capital—an hour with traffic—but with how loud everything was, it might as well have been on our doorstep. I don’t remember much beyond the whistling– just a few flashes, my mother’s stiff hand urging me and my brother into the bathroom, that same hand holding us so tightly as if God would see her conviction and decide against killing us.
Years later, during my first year of university in Beirut, a plane would fly over my newly-made friend and I, and we would both glare at it before returning to our conversation. She would tell me stories she was told by her neighbors in South Lebanon about the occupation and their experiences. But never once did the smile on her face falter even as she described the horrors they underwent as the rest of the country abandoned them. Through it all, everyone had not only maintained their resilience but strengthened their bonds as they resisted in various ways. It seemed almost romantic if it wasn’t for the heartache that followed with the reminder of what could have been if only the rest of the country cared at the time.
For me, the bombs were distant. Close enough to cover our ears, to hide and still hope, but never to surrender and accept death. Never close enough to look at God with contempt instead of pleading with Him.
Enemy warplanes flying over many areas in Lebanon on October 8, 2024.
Photo by Eye.on.South.Lebanon on Instagram
What was I saying? God doesn’t matter, he never has.
Only the Zionists and their murderous whims.
—————————————————————————————17 Years Old ————————————————————————————
I don’t remember if it was the sound that woke me up or the heaviness in the sky.
Fighter jets sound so akin to thunder that I mistook it for a storm until I remembered it was summer. Any last vestiges of drowsiness were washed away by a sudden and extreme sense of fear that gripped me. Words didn’t come to mind. Nothing came to mind. It was like my systems were failing, each and every organ turning gray and rotten, spreading the infection throughout my body.
I stiffened every muscle in my body to keep myself from shaking, eyes wide open despite how badly I wanted to shut them and hide under my blanket. But if this were to be my last moments, I didn’t want to spend it in complete darkness.
Dear God, I’m still 17.
Just as an ache crept in from how tightly I was holding myself, I heard my mother stirring in her room. I bolted up, the reminder that I wasn’t alone serving as fuel to my movements, and I found her poking her head out the window.
“Majnoune? Get back inside!” My voice called out, too hoarse and cracked, too breathless and tight. I would have never gotten away with talking to my mom like that, but I was too shaken by the fighter jets and her carelessness to care about propriety.
“Relax…if they were going to bomb us it wouldn’t matter if my head was inside or outside the window, I’d be dead either way.” Her callous manner of speaking came from being raised during a civil war. She never failed to remind me of the hardships she experienced every time I complained, telling me I should shut up and be grateful I didn’t have it as bad as she had.
It had always annoyed me, but this time it scared me. The past couple of weeks had been filled with strife and tension on our southern borders, so it wasn’t too out of the question to assume Israel would just up and decide to invade again. But my mother was treating it like a fly hovering over the ceiling.
She glared at the jet in the sky, shrugged her shoulders, and rolled her eyes before settling back in bed. It was unnerving.
“There’s no need to worry Mama, they’re heading to Syria.” My mother said nonchalantly, as though commenting on the weather.
Destroyed buildings in Daraa, Syria. Photo by Mahmoud Sulaiman on Unsplash
My reaction was instantaneous. Every muscle loosened and a breath of air gushed out of my lungs in relief. We were safe, they were going to Syria. I was relieved, and it wasn’t until I settled back in bed and shut my eyes to try and go back to sleep that a heaviness crept in my heart and stomach.
What’s wrong with you? I chided myself. You’re safe, you can relax and catch up on sleep before school tomorrow. You’re safe, they went to Syria instead.
I’m safe…I kept repeating in my head, still shaken and angry. This was the first time I had experienced aggression since the 2006 war, but I’m okay because I didn’t experience it directly, right? They didn’t come for us, they came for the Syrians. I’m okay now, just go to sleep. I’m safe.
Images flashed in my head of dead bodies strewn across the ground, of total destruction of buildings, both new and old. When the pictures came the next day, they looked almost exactly the way I imagined them. There was a video that contained a grandmother yelling and screaming at the shroud covering her daughter’s body, and she looked just like my teta. I didn’t need the subtitles foreign news had embedded, she spoke the same language—nearly the same dialect.
I remembered a chapter we had studied in history class years ago, about the Sykes-Picot agreement and how almost overnight, lines appeared on maps that were previously empty. Always so many lines…I think that’s where it all started.
That night, I didn’t go to sleep. I couldn’t. I knew the cost of my relief the night before.
—————————————————————————————13 Years Old ————————————————————————————
There was trouble in the news again. Someone broke into someone else’s home and everyone was up in arms because the news reported the perpetrator to be Syrian.
My teacher shook his head in disgust. “Always so many crimes and all at our expense.” I’m not quite sure how we went from talking about verbs in Arabic to this subject.
“I read somewhere that crimes and suicide rates increase during economic recessions, Estez. Like different ways to survive.” I commented.
I usually kept quiet in classes as I was never the brightest child. It took me much longer than my peers to grasp the concepts we studied. I even earned a nickname as the dumbest 13-year-old to ever be born.
“Are you defending crime then?” He said, body leaning down to meet my eyesight and glare proper holes into my head.
“But we don’t know the circumstances. If we did, it might change its nature and it wouldn’t be criminal behavior, no?”
My friend kicked my leg under the table and when I glanced at her from the corner of my eyes, she shook her head and motioned for me to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t understand if I was saying something wrong. I had watched a TV show late at night on MBC Action and the character faced a similar choice. It made sense to me that it would be applied similarly in real life. Was there something I didn’t know?
When I turned to face my teacher, I saw that he had clenched his jaw so tight, I was surprised his dentures didn’t get grinded to dust. I immediately wanted to take back what I said to avoid his accusing gaze, but I still didn’t understand. Was I missing something? Everybody else seemed to be on the same wavelength as el estez, except my friend and a boy in the back who focused their gaze on the ground instead.
“They’re what’s wrong with this country. We have no water, no electricity, no infrastructure”- My teacher ranted, mind lost in his rage.
“Bes sho khasson, isn’t the government supposed to-”
“Estez aren’t we not supposed to discuss politics in class?” My friend interrupted both myself and el estez as he opened his mouth in preparation.
The reminder of our strict rules in school seemed to deflate him slightly and he nodded, turning back to the board and continuing to explain the day’s lesson without missing a step. He left me confused in his dust with no resolution to our conversation. My friend only worsened this feeling when she followed me after class with a warning to not speak on the subject again.
“It just causes so many problems,” she’d say, “so it’s better to leave it alone.”
I tried to speak up again, to argue back and tell her that it was all absolutely ridiculous. We persecute those who have nothing to do with any of the issues we face, unlike the government and those in power, who have everything to do with it. Yet, they run free and rich, continuously oppressing all of us, and we struggle and point the finger at those who struggle alongside us. It’s disgusting, it’s idiotic, it’s meaningless.
We never talked about it again, and I couldn’t bring myself to change that fact. This growing sense of frustration that inhabited me seemed to wrap its tentacles around my throat each time I tried to open my mouth.
My mother always said that if I was born in her time, if I saw the atrocities she did, I’d understand how little I understand. She saw the Syrian army coming in and the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) controlling parts of Beirut. But she also saw the Phalanges killing innocent lives, and the South Lebanon Army (SLA) allowing Israelis to come in and commit their massacres in the camps. So many Lebanese people would condemn them, saying they don’t represent us and yet, they still show none of the same consideration for others. They don’t represent us, but one person’s religion and/or nationality represents the whole lot. I could see things as separate, and I didn’t care if they were or weren’t intertwined with other histories or different issues. Why should the past dictate the present?
Whenever I’d voice these thoughts, the people around me would shake their heads.
“It’s not that simple,” they’d say. “You don’t understand our history—How could you? They don’t even teach it in school—so everything you’re saying is wrong.”
Palestinian Refugees Children in Nahr El Bared Camp for Refugees in North Lebanon, participating in the Palestinian Land Day each year. Lighting candles to show the hope, and commitment to light the path of return. Photo by AHMAD BADER on Unsplash.
—————————————————————————————19 Years Old ————————————————————————————
I was in the car with my mother, heading back home after I had inadvertently caused a family argument to take place, when I snapped. I mentioned learning about the law that prevents women from passing citizenship on to their kids and how ridiculous I found it, but by everyone’s reactions, you’d think I was saying we should hand over our entire country to Israel.
At 19 years old, I had grown to be a bit more confident in myself, but patience was a virtue I had yet to learn. It was a hypocrisy that I could never swallow. They were too thick and uncomfortable, jutting against my throat with their mocking smiles. My aunt had supported me then, a moment I grew to constantly revisit for courage, especially in that car, when my mother berated me for my actions and told me that I didn’t understand.
And she was right, I didn’t understand her experiences. To be frank, I didn’t care to. Nothing made sense. Everyone would curse the government for their failures, fully acknowledging them as the perpetrators, then a minute later become angry at refugees or people who follow different religions, assigning them the blame—as though the blame hasn’t already been assigned. What even brought them into the conversation?
“I know there’s an entire history to Lebanon that I don’t know. They don’t teach it in school, and there are nuances that you can only gain outside of books, I get that,” I said.But I just don’t understand why it matters now. No one is happy, and it seems pretty clear who is responsible—you even say it yourself all the time.”
The Green Demarcation Line in Beirut, 1982. Photo by James Case from Philadelphia, Mississippi, U.S.A.
My mother shook her head, jaw clenched as she stared down the road ahead. “No, Mama, you’re wrong. It’s not that easy,” she said.
It was difficult to ascribe a specific name to the feeling that washed over me just then.
It was somewhere between rage and hatred. It’s a feeling I imagine many are familiar with, I just never imagined I would be as well. It has become my friend, my mother, my lifelong enemy. Because despite everything I was saying, despite what I believed in, that momentary relief hidden in the night still haunts me.
The answers I had weren’t good enough for her. I was never good at talking, but at least I tried. At that moment, I wished I never opened my mouth and caused trouble.
—————————————————————————————21 Years Old ————————————————————————————
A few years later, after I moved across seas and mountains to pursue my higher education at 21 years old, I think I understood her a little better. I was constantly being pitted against others and it made me quicker to defend, easier to rise to anger. I was trying to move past it all, to ease my way into a future that didn’t spin the same threads as my family and the older generation.
And as I woke up, that cold October morning, I had a litany of messages flooding my chats, but only one mattered. It was a single sentence sent by a friend living in Lebanon.
“You need to wake up, they’re freeing Palestine.”
Screenshot of post on X by Mariam Barghouti reading “Gaza Just Broke Out of Prison”. Posted on Instagram
And for the first time in years, as I donned my keffiyeh that I had bought in Lebanon on a whim but never wore, I had hope. As I looked into the faces of strangers on the streets, their mouths covered by the black and white pattern, I had hope. And even now, after countless atrocities, one after another, I still have hope. The voices of the people screaming in the streets day after day give me hope. The ever-growing number of protests, the chants and speeches, the strikes and actions. They’re all different, but united in the cause, the belief that Palestine will be freed in our lifetime.
And then, we will all be freed from these oppressive systems and structures.
As I stood hand-in-hand with utter strangers and friends, as I chanted until my voice went hoarse, as we walked under unending rain and hail, no conditions—natural or otherwise—could bar us from supporting the cause. Nothing else mattered then, and it made me wonder how it was possible that for so many decades, almost an entire century, we were led to believe otherwise–fostered it ourselves even. But now, it’s clearer than ever what ties us all together.
Because with everything they are undergoing, who am I to be quiet? Who am I to declare it worthless? Who am I not to stand with my brothers and sisters?
Eden El Haddad
Eden El Haddad is a writer and activist avid in making Arab voices heard. She is currently based in the Netherlands pursuing a Gender Studies Master’s with decolonization in the Levant region, Arab feminism, and stories from queer Arabs being her main focus. She has previously graduated from the American University of Beirut with a Bachelor’s in English Literature and a double minor in Creative Writing and Women and Gender Studies.
