by Lea Bdeir | Staff Writer

You are a story.
Nothing else.
A combination of experiences jumbled up into a single person.
But without an outlet to divulge these experiences too, they would eat us alive. Where else can a Lebanese person profess their innermost thoughts than on that sidewalk of Raouche? With the view of the Sea on your left, the long road ahead of you, and the person you trust most on your right; you begin to unravel one of those stories- slowly at first, like a child opening a present, delicately removing the ribbons and then savagely ripping the wrapping paper apart as the story unravels. Every story, every insecurity, everything about you- you begin.

The sidewalk of Raouche is home to many- it’s the place where the children of Lebanon grew up, played with their scooters and bikes, devoured the cup of corn and kaak from the stands scattered across that road. It was the location of most family photos. Even the infamous sunset picture that every person has, was taken on that lane. It welcomed the warm sun on summer days and was drowned by the wrath of the tides when the temperature dropped, as rain flooded the sidewalks.

If the Sidewalk of Raoche could talk, it would start crying.

It’s heard more stories than every book in the library – from business deals and banter to as many confessions as those done in Church. The breakups, professions of love, development of friendships, exposing secrets, and well…gossip. So yalla, “masho aal corniche”

Every single day, hundreds of people reveal what’s going through their minds- like a monologue in a play- speaking to an audience, to anyone who would listen. They walk their friend through their experience – from start to end and conversations spew out of you faster than your legs are moving. Suddenly, you’ve reached Zaytouna Bay and it’s time to turn around and pass through the course one more time.

“How did it get to this point?” I once heard. A teenage girl was contemplating while looking into the sea of nothingness.
That question struck me because I don’t think there’s a correct answer to it. You see we spend our lives running, both figuratively and metaphorically. We never sit and notice how we got to where we did. We grow up innocent and untouched by the troubles of life. School begins and we run to the next grade, to the next outing; our biggest worry is to make friends and not get caught cheating on the exam. We then run to university, to our classes, and before we know it, to the ceremony of graduation. Then we stand on that stage paralyzed,

Where to now?

“I’ll learn to love him because he loves me” I once heard. A woman was contemplating while looking into the sea of nothingness.
We seek validation in what we think we lack. We accept some situations and are afraid to entertain the possibility that we deserve more. Even if we know deep inside us that it isn’t right, we stay. Maybe it stems from a lack of confidence or self-acceptance, maybe it’s just that you got used to the person settled. Maybe you believe that they will fulfill something missing in you. Let me tell you something, as long as you live your life expecting that others will fill a void, you will never know happiness.

“I didn’t expect him to die so suddenly.” I once heard. An old lady was contemplating while looking into the sea of nothingness.
There is a beauty in our mortality, in the fact that any moment would be our last. The beauty is that it is completely out of our control. Grieving is just a measure of how much love the person left in us. When a person leaves so suddenly, you spend the first few months convinced they are still there. It’s not until you go grocery shopping or brush your teeth or walk on Raouche that reality hits and you recognize that you’ve been thinking about a ghost.

The sea of nothingness is home to the waves that crash onto the shore. The sound it creates mercilessly, by beating against the current, is music to the ears of every wanderer on that sidewalk. These waves are brutal, lethal, and cruel. But every wave- no matter how high and mighty- will always reach the shore and then return back and repeat its cycle.

The stories listed are atomic compared to how many those blocks hear in a day. The words fly from the lips of the speaker who walks the road that never ends. They escape and disperse into thin air, landing soundly into the waves and crashing to the shore like all the tides that follow.

If the Sidewalk of Raoche could talk, it would start crying.
The concrete would break down and collapse into the sea.
Into abyss –
Carrying every secret
To its grave.