By Mary Zakharia | Staff Writer

To my beautiful Lebanon, 

My first memories from childhood formed hearing of what the war had done to you, how my father had been witness to it during his education, and how he still managed to make wonderful memories with you. Through his stories, I learned that you were resilient. 

In spite of the beauty behind his memories and land, my father justified to me why he had to leave. He explained that there were more opportunities for him if he left and that he was unable to earn enough to provide for a family. So, with that, he left everything he had ever known to start a new life for his family. 

I can still see the pain and scars my father carries with him every day as he remembers all of what he had left behind; a pain I have sadly come to know and carry the weight of, myself. I have come to realize that I can trace these scars, even those that remain hidden in his silence and smile, to our nation’s disputes and differences. For that, I condemn our government for what they put him through. I was still a child and had not known of these scars. Until now.

My memories as a child in Lebanon are naïve and juvenile, of a time when war was not welcome, and oddly, neither was peace. I remember my parents showing me around where we come from and driving me to their favourite spots on your beautiful land. The trees were like nothing I had ever seen before, their love for you captivated them. The wind and the beaches made you appear so peaceful, yet I cannot deny that a dark presence lingered in you, a darkness that all the Lebanese felt. 

I distinctly remember my parents yelling at the television when they watched the news, screaming at the politicians that had and will continue to fail us, destroying our country, reducing it to nothing. My parents were right. 

My father was always so proud of you and said your people are one of a kind, but always added that you are a complex nation that I would not understand. He spoke highly of the education he had received from you and the beautiful memories that came from you. I grew up knowing of this joy he had and longed for the chance to experience it. I was able to follow in his footsteps, paving my own path along the way.

I was able to understand your complexities and reveal the root of the darkness that I felt as a child. I have seen you in joy and in destruction, I saw the changes that shaped you overnight. I saw your people come together to bring down those who sought to destroy you and everything you stand for. I saw the misery of your people, my people, I read of your history, your pain and my people and home’s pain. I can still feel the ache of the past, of everything that has happened to you – my home. Sadly, this pain carries on not just as a “thing of the past” but of the present, too. You still bleed and so do your people. I carry a heavy privilege as a Lebanese expat and I cannot pretend to know the severity of the hurt your people have experienced. All I see is you, my family, and my people bleed. I feel helpless.

 My beautiful Lebanon is tired. Tired of those who have cut you deep, those who take away all that makes you shine, those who take and take to fill their own pockets and fuel a war that is not of your own will. Those who let you explode. Those who harm their citizens and send their money out to sustain their own lives instead of following through with their commitment to you. Those who do not deserve mercy for their sins, the destruction they have caused, and the blood of the innocent lives who were taken away because of their greed. 

You and your people bleed while they feast on the blood of those who have fallen. The men in power will not stop until they have bled us dry. We need to destroy them just as they have destroyed us, they need to feel the pain of your scars, my father’s, my own, and every Lebanese. Do not let their words affect you, for they are the cause of your pain and scars, and they shall perish.