Written - 9 Oct 2024

Both my parents migrated from Lebanon to Australia towards the end of the Lebanese Civil War.

Growing up, I eagerly awaited the stories from my parents that depicted the beauty of Lebanon - summers spent by the beaches in Beirut; winters spent riding the téléphérique across the snowy mountains; spring exploring the jabal (mountainous region); and autumn visting the ancient ruins in the Bekaa Valley.

They also recounted the comforting moments of normalcy - Mum exchanging coins for a delicious 'arouss (classic Lebanese sandwich and my go-to snack!) at the local store; Dad playing soccer with his friends; my Uncle learning the piano and playing Fairuz songs in front of the whole family; my Jeddo (grandfather) teaching my Mum how to swim; and Teta (grandmother) sewing dresses for Mum, which she stubbornly refused to put on.

Occasionally, my parents would carefully share stories of pain and hardship - family members narrowly missing missile explosions; Mum leaving Beirut without saying goodbye to her high-school classmates or retrieving the notebooks she dearly loved; Dad losing friends and family.

Since my parents left Lebanon to call Australia home, Lebanon has continued to experience devastating turmoil - from hyperinflation, to political unease and conflict, and to the port explosion. It would seem that Lebanon has always been a country caught between beauty and pain. Yet, Lebanese people always re-emerge from the rubble with a fiery love for life. Lebanese are notorious for vibrant celebrations (even in the midst of hardship), generous and warm spirits and unshakeable passionate. It is this zeal that shapes a big part of who I am.

Recently, I have been asking myself whether there is a limit to this resilience.

Of the 5.5M people who live in Lebanon, more than 1.2M have been displaced (and majority have been displaced just in the last fortnight!). The scale of this cannot be understated. A country just slightly smaller than Greater Sydney at 10,450 km² has close to a quarter of its population houseless and vulnerable, with no end in sight. Even if an end is near, with 3100 buildings destroyed, many will return only to debris and the memories of what was once home.

My Dad recently learned that ~60% of his hometown - famous for its prehistoric/ancient ruins - has been destroyed. Everyone has fled, taking refuge in schools, hospitals, community halls and religious buildings that are nearing capacity.

Interestingly, hearing this triggered the selfish element of my frustration. You see, I have never visited Lebanon. I’ve only experienced its beauty through family stories (and countless travel videos I've watched in anticipation of my eventual visit!). I have long awaited the day I would use my broken Arabic as I travel through Lebanon, rediscovering these precious family memories in the very places they happened. To learn that, in such a short time, so many of these places have been destroyed feels like a scar on the sentimental part of my heart that connects me to Lebanon.

Of course, I quickly remind myself that while these places are tied to my inherited memories, they are, more importantly, the present homes of millions of Lebanese people - real people, with real lives and real stories. The next generation of Lebanese children should not have to learn about their culture and history through the lens of war. No child should. The stories of beauty and comforting normalcy should be enough.

Sadly, for now, that remains an idealistic sentiment.

In the meantime, let us remember the humanity that rests behind ever displaced family and destroyed home.