This was written on September 2, 2021. My definition of home has drastically changed since then.
My Finnish colleague just returned to Lebanon after an extended stay in Finland; she was greatly affected by the Beirut blast, physically, and has been suffering from psychological trauma ever since to an extinct where working from the office was too much of a trigger for her.
Reflecting on coming back to Lebanon, she felt too concerned because even though she misses Beirut, we never notice how burdened we are by the city itself until we leave it, and it’s like, please don’t make me go back.
But then we come back, and we get attached again, almost too much that despite the pain and the extremely unnecessary stress, we don’t ever want to leave.
It’s a toxic relationship that could nearly kill us, yet we choose to stay.
This isn’t my case anymore. I used to be like this, so in love with the city and everything my land stands for. I loved every nook and cranny and defended Lebanon against all that criticism, and I was so full of hope and dreams, and I could see myself with a future. Right now, I am burnt out, exhausted, angry, and I just want to get out. I seize every opportunity to leave the city for a couple of days, and even though I stay in Lebanon, I make sure I am detached from all the daily corruption and starvation.
I know what I’m saying is terrible; I should not be so oblivious of the reality, I should not put myself first when people are starving, but honestly, I cannot anymore. The case right now is not that I can’t help all the people; I don’t even want to. I am frustrated with all the missing solidarity that we Lebanese don’t even know, yet we gash about it day and night. We don’t care for each other, not one single bit.
In times of literal starvation, people are stealing from the poor, exploiting shortages and outages, storing medication until it expires, murdering for the money, the rich are getting richer and are feeding off from the flesh of the poor, the warlords are drinking their expensive wine in the comfort of their penthouses, the corrupt people in charge are still in order, and people still support their leaders.
How can we survive something so broken? As if we’re holding on to shattered glass, our hands are all bloody, and it hurts like hell to hold on, but we are addicted, and just like heroin, it is impossible to sober up.
This country took away everything from me, it took away my safest people and havens, and I am holding so much grudge and bearing so much agony. If I were anywhere but here, they would still be around me, loving me, keeping the safe alive, they would still be here, and I would not be counting the seconds until they leave and take away every piece of happiness in me and leave me in an endless void.
