November 20, 2024,
I’m boarding the return flight from Dubai to Beirut. The news isn’t great, but I’m used to it — uncertainty clings to me like a second skin. I’m Lebanese. That imperceptible tension between the unparalleled joy of coming home and the unbearable insecurity of feeling trapped there is my daily reality.
I accept it because being Lebanese isn’t a fate — it’s a choice. It encompasses both absolute joy and suffering, an improbable yet real harmony between perpetual celebration and eternal penance.
To be Lebanese is to embody a thunderous, biblical anger. It’s a religious passion that blends faith and doubt. It’s the suffocating, infanticidal tragedy of Medea. It’s belonging to a universal, incandescent mother who refuses to see her children grow, smothering them with kisses until their final, trembling breath.
As I settle into my seat, a line from a Truffaut film subtly weaves into my solitary thoughts: “Neither with you, nor without you.” Long associated with romance in my mind, these old-fashioned words take on a different meaning as I head to Lebanon. I feel the pull of this land, a land I curse for its ingratitude but that still imbues me with its simple, wild, and harsh beauty.
I tell myself it’s the last time, but I know I’ll return again and again, each time with the joy of a great homecoming — the loving call of my wife, the anxious call of my mother, the joyful madness of my daughter, the endearing energy of my son, and the messages from my friends.
I hear the comforting voice of the pilot, soft yet firm. People around me murmur, “It’s Rola, she’s good.” They’re all good, really — even the flight attendants who wake you up because it’s time to eat.
This perpetual attentiveness irritates me a little but also reassures me. I know my life is there, no matter what happens. And that’s all that matters. For the rest, as a good Lebanese, I’ll figure it out.
Happy Independence Day!
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