A love letter to the city of my birth, Beirut
I come from a small country that most Canadians would have difficulty even locating on a map. You need a very tiny finger and a sharp eye to point it out. Lebanon.
Yes, I was born in one of the oldest countries in the world. I left it twentyfour years ago. But this week I realized the truth: that I left my heart in Beirut. ☆☆☆
It was Tuesday. 11:46 a.m. There was ringing from every room of my condo. My iPhone, my laptop and iPad, all buzzing at the same time. I had just finished the daily news meeting, and was wondering why so many people were trying to reach me. I looked at my computer and read, “I believe you have family there.” It was a message from Irene Gentle, the editor of the Toronto
Star. I looked at my phone, there were two calls, from my mother and my brother. They live in Beirut.
My knees started shaking. Something bad had happened. I looked again at Irene’s email and read, “I can only guess how distressing it must be even if the blast is ( hopefully) far from their homes.”
I was afraid to listen to the messages but when I did, the first second I heard my mother’s voice I knew she was safe. I checked my brother’s message. He was stressed out. He was still looking for his wife who was close to the area of the blast. She was on the road coming home. Finally, I learned they were all safe, including my niece, my nephew and their mothers. A miracle.
I jumped on social media and learned what had just happened. A tragedy. And then I started watching incessantly, stunned. For hours and hours. The images and footage of the city where I was born. Bodies were everywhere in the streets. The asphalt had changed colour to red in some areas, and to white powder in others.
That night, I cried. A lot. I was broken.
The city that I knew had been destroyed. At four in the morning, I still couldn’t sleep. I went online and watched a live stream from a young reporter walking in the area of the explosion. I saw a familiar street. It was Gemmayze, in Beirut’s bohemian quarters full of narrow historic buildings, and well known for its art galleries, trendy bars, pubs, jazz music venues and restaurants. A few minutes later, he was walking on St. Nicolas Street, in the Achrafieh district, my birthplace. I couldn’t stop the tears.
Sadness? Madness? Nightmare?
I can’t put all the pain into words. They killed Beirut. No, we did. We did it in the name of our faiths, religions, political dogmas and selfishness.
Beirut, forgive me, dear city of my childhood.
I have neglected to tell you how much I love you.
I love the dreams you gave me. I love the ambitions you inspired in me.
I love your culture, your theatres, your authors, your designers, your artists, your French touch, your arabesque, every pleasure you have ever given me.
I love your boldness, your toughness, your rebelliousness, your freedom, and your five-thousand-year-old history.
You will always be this crazy cosmopolitan city from which I proudly come.
But Beirut, you should be more than a memory for us. You should also be a beautiful future.
Beirut, we won’t cry anymore. I promise.
I just want to ask you one huge favour: please forgive those ignorant people who hurt you. They don’t know that a great city will always be stronger every time it’s reborn. And yes, you will rise one more time from your ashes. Haven’t you been destroyed and rebuilt seven times already?
As our beloved diva Majida El
Roumi sings in “Beirut, set el donia:” Rise, oh Beirut … Rise Revolution is born from the womb of sorrows
Ya Beirut … Ya Beirut Ya Beirut