Embracing the Paradox: Lebanon ????

A long paragraph awaits, but I promise it’s worth the read—no politics or statistics, just pure depth and reflections ??????.

I still remember having my first call with Sarah Rapp , after admitting to myself that, yes, this is truly happening and that everything as we know it might change. For the first time, I cried and felt helpless. My emotions got to me, which, believe it or not, never happens at work. Needless to say, I love my work because it aligns with my values and core beliefs—creating impact, spreading kindness, opening safe and peaceful spaces for people to grow. This situation was unlike anything that aligned with me; it went against everything I, and we, stand for as human beings. It felt wrong, and I had all the urges to change it, but I couldn’t—I needed to accept it. And all of this comes from a place of extreme privilege, being far from what’s happening on the ground and just bearing the psychological warfare of the news.

As Lebanon faces its toughest times, I’m deeply aware of how privileged I am to even write this post—to have the means, the safety, and the energy to do so. For those of us in more fortunate positions, I urge you to pray, volunteer, donate, and spread awareness as much as you can (feel free to reach out to me so I can provide you with some trusted initiatives and people ??). Even on days that feel heavier than others, just checking in on your friends and loved ones can make a difference. We have the resources and strength to make an impact. In times like these, we need to hold space for those who we know are struggling, including ourselves.

“Akh”, this tiny country, Lebanon, has us all in a chokehold. We speak so highly of it to others, even though it has barely provided for us over the years. But, if you think about it, it wasn’t even Lebanon’s fault—the Lebanon we know and love had to bear the weight of the sins of those who governed it, much like we bear the consequences of Adam and Eve’s choices, I guess?

We constantly think of leaving, and once we do, we can’t wait to come back—or sometimes, we don’t come back at all. But pieces of us never really return either. We’re left, abroad, away from all the things that feel like home, filled with holes. Either you let go of your country, or you let go of pieces of yourself. This is how we were “raised.” You grow up, and your main goal is to go abroad and make a living to build your future, because this country “mafi nawa mena” (is hopeless). And this might seem like an obvious choice to make for some people, but why is it such a big deal for us? Why does Lebanon still hold a part of us after all the heartbreak it’s caused us and our families? My international friends always ask, “Why are you Lebanese so attached to Lebanon?” And I ask myself that question all the time.

I could tell you about the beautiful mountains and the sea, the vibrant day and nightlife, and the warm people who would open their doors to you anywhere you go—everything they taught us in geography class. But even we Lebanese can’t fully explain our attachment. Maybe it’s because we hang on to the hope of change? Maybe because we are forced to go, we rebuke the idea and choose to stay. It’s a feeling that goes against all odds, a weight we carry, sometimes a burden, but not a reason we can easily name. It’s a heartbeat, something that’s always there until the last breath, clinging to our spirit, even when it makes no sense. And since it makes no sense, we go with the choices that do, while bearing the hurt and pain that come from this unreasonable feeling.

At the end of the day, maybe, just maybe, it’s about feeling at home. It’s about proving to ourselves and our families that there is hope in the home we grew up in, that our parents didn't fight for nothing. Because when you love something, it doesn’t always make sense, nor is it always healthy, but you go above and beyond to make it make sense. We’re attached to our homes and to this tiny hope that this will get better, that the love we have for it will make sense.

Lebanon is our destined, yet cursed, home. Cursed because we always were forced to choose between “peace” or “home.” Between our safety, our future, or our heart, our families, our Lebanon. I dream of a day when both are possible, coexisting. A day when we can all return to a peaceful and safe Lebanon, where pieces of our hearts will always belong.

And on that day, I hope I can finally invite all of my amazing colleagues and friends to visit Lebanon! Maybe they’ll be able to see the answer that I never had to the question: “Why are you Lebanese so attached to Lebanon?”. To feel it. To see and feel through our teary lens the beauty, the pain, the resilience, and the love that we hold for this country, even when it feels impossible and irrational ????????.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you ??.

Whether you’re Lebanese and feeling that sense of longing or not, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments, or through a message ????.