“Many of us have a deeply dysfunctional relationship with Lebanon, an often punishing mix of love and despair. Lebanon can really break your heart…”

Laetithia Harb shares her aunt’s story of leaving Lebanon and being pulled back against her will. (Dina Saleem performs the English translation of Aunt Liliane’s words.)

Jennifer Nasrallah explains why she wants to stay in Lebanon and build a future for herself here.

Fatima Rezaie shares a poem about how she’s found her true home in Beirut.

This episode is hosted by Farrah Khatib.

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To support this show, please visit welebanonpod.com/support-season-2

[theme music starts]

Farrah Khatib:

We are the ones who live here.

[various voices repeat the title in different languages]

Farrah:

I’m Farrah Khatib, and we are proud to share with you these stories of life in Lebanon.

[theme music fades out]

Farrah:

During the civil war, almost a million Lebanese people fled the country. Many thought it was temporary, maybe a few months, until things calmed down a bit. Things extended way beyond that, though.

The war went on for years and years. 15 years later, it came to a truce, no winners, no losers - even though we all lose in such a war. So people kept leaving. Some estimate that up to 18 million Lebanese people live abroad while only 4 million remain.

The people who are still here, they know what they’re missing. Every family I know has at least one relative outside the country, so we all have the sense of what it is like to live outside the chaos of Lebanon. We all get small tiny glimpses of what it’s like to have a steady life.

We can try to leave, but Lebanon pulls us back. It clings to us, afraid to let us go, ready to be buried together and once again we will rise together from the ruins, as we are always expected to do. And sometimes you try as hard as you can, but you still end up stuck under the rubble.

This is the story of Liliane, who tried, as told by her niece Laetithia Harb.

[transition]

Laetithia Harb:

My Aunt Liliane is like a second mother to me. I see her a lot these days, in part because the rest of my family lives far away, and I often stay with her because I don’t like to stay alone. But I really try to see her whenever I can, because we’ve very close, and I tell her things I don’t tell anyone else. We have these intimate conversations, and sometimes she surprises me…

Aunt Liliane:

I have experienced the Civil War, the East and the West, and the situation was quite as similar as it is now. I mean, it might have something to do with the fact that the ones who caused that war were the same ones who took over the country and are now ruling it. This state of life was and still is very stressful.

I remember the time I was walking in Achrafieh with my little sister. War was still happening, but at the time there was some calm. Suddenly, sounds of shootings erupted and a random bullet came flying right at me and went towards my chest. In that second, I didn’t think about my death, I thought about my sister. Seeing me die, not knowing where to go, facing danger all on her own. I started praying right as I hit the floor. But I didn’t feel anything.

I looked at my chest, there was nothing. And that’s when I noticed. The bullet was stuck in my new push-up bra. It was thick enough, it shielded me. Or was it God giving me a second chance? I just started laughing. I didn’t want to contemplate what my survival meant. I looked up to see a bunch of people surrounding me and there was a guy holding my sister, who seemed on the verge of fainting and who was bawling her eyes out. He was standing way too close to her, and the first thing I did was swat his hand away. I was not gone yet.

Looking back at that traumatic yet funny situation, I feel like that moment was the trigger that pushed my decision to move abroad. I found a job in Dubai and rushed to go. I hoped to find the peace and comfort I wanted in my life. And I did. I was so happy with how my life turned out. I worked, I made friends, I discovered technology, I got married, and I was living my best life.

Life in Dubai was easy. I got to discover what rules and the law actually meant, not because I worked on anything related to it, but because they were needed and are actually implemented. Even working on governmental papers was all online, it was easier, fairer, and less stressful. But I can’t deny the number of times I cried myself to sleep because I missed my family. They are the closest people to my heart, and I only got to see them a couple times a year.

I lived away for 20 years. However, my husband got sick and stopped working and so, his citizenship was pulled. That led me to come back to Lebanon at the worst time possible. And the struggles I ran away from came right back to me. I came to Lebanon to see everyone around me stressing and worrying. Whether it is problems of electricity, fuel, medicine, or schools and universities tuition fees. The difficulties are constant. Especially with the nepotism that is rooted in the Lebanese society.

They say that the government is the corrupted part of our society, but the people are. When I go to the hospital looking to work on papers for my mother who is in surgery and having to move around for 4 hours and getting nowhere. Only for the person working behind the counter for the “government” to open their drawer for you signaling that you have to pay to finish those papers you so badly need, then you know that that is the real corruption. That is stressing me out so much I am currently seeing a therapist to help me deal with the depression my return has caused.

However, I can’t forget the fact that my family that I always missed, are constantly around me now. And that makes me the happiest. With all the chaos they bring along, all the silliness, and all the laughter, I feel complete. But the part of me that still craves the peace I had makes me think that I don’t want to stay here for long. The moment the situation is resolved, I want to leave. I would prefer to leave.

Laetithia:

My aunt’s story was a surprise to me. She is the type that is so positive and optimistic it sometimes frustrates me. Yet, here she is. Worrying, living uncomfortably, wanting to leave again. I thought her coming back was permanent, but I guess I was wrong. And I understand her completely. I want to leave too. My parents want me to leave. My dad once told me, “It is too late for your mother and me to move away but it is not for you. I want you to work on yourself and to get somewhere. A future in Lebanon is not promised and I want the best for you and your siblings.” His words had stuck with me ever since.

I fear for my future. I fear I might go down the same road my aunt did. I don’t think I can find it in me to leave Lebanon, find a place I’m more comfortable in, and then forget about what I enjoyed and come back to live in a place with very little hope. We have been through a lot and have struggled so much. But we are still so attached to Lebanon, that even the thought of leaving hurts.

[transition]

Farrah:

Liliane’s parts were read in English by Dina Saleem.

[transition]

The civil war ended, theoretically, but thirty years later, its leftover chaos still reigns. To many, this country feels temporary. A lot of people are trying to get any visa they can, so they can go somewhere they can actually imagine a future in. And some cannot afford a visa, so they risk their lives, trying to flee any way they can. Some people don’t really have options, and they feel like they’re drifting… but some are actively choosing to stay. This is the story of Jennifer, the artist who chooses to stay.

[transition]

Jennifer Nasrallah:

I’m Jennifer Nasrallah, and I’m an actress.

During COVID, we switched online, and the cultural scene froze because people could not go out anymore. There was no possibility for the theatre community to actually connect. People became isolated and left theatre and became involved in different things, just to make it by.

Personally, it was extremely stressful, because I was not able to be in places that I wanted to be in, and transportation got complicated because of the gas crisis. I felt a lot of fear and uncertainty, be it from the economy, COVID, the future, and safety… I was worried that medicine might run out.

We lost access to a lot of the communities we work with, because of the mobility restrictions and electricity problems. There were a lot of technical limitations, a lot, that prevented us from connecting with the people we love, and be next to them. There were a lot of feelings of surrender and doubt.

Before the crisis, I thought that my career was going in a different direction.

I wanted to do a Masters in Actor Training and Coaching, and I wanted to take my plays to festivals. I wanted to participate in all the plays that were happening and take part in many workshops. I was very excited and eager to conquer the world and spread theatre all over.

Now things have slightly changed. I did my Masters in Drama Therapy, and it shifted my path totally. Now I’m still using theatre, but for therapy. I started giving sessions to teenagers, young adults and women that were affected by war. I felt there was a need for that with everything happening in Lebanon, and around, because I find theatre to be a safe space for people to express themselves and a space of comfort.

Farrah:

Up to this point, our conversation had been quite fluid, but when we asked her what things were like before the crisis, her thoughts seemed to get jumbled up, and she froze, and her memories seemed suddenly elusive to her.

Jennifer:

I will answer the question about the… the theatre thing before…

Male voice in the background:

Great…

[long pause]

Jennifer:

I just can’t remember how was theatre before the crisis…

I’m just remembering that we used to go to plays, and, uh, there were a lot of plays happening around. People were more, um…

[long pause]

…excited about making theatre. Uh, and especially, before COVID, like right before COVID, there was like a wave of plays happening, all around Lebanon. Um… but the memory, my memory is very vague. I really don’t know why I really cannot remember… uh, those details, but I remember that, um, we had a lot of festivals going on, and then the festivals were stopping, because of, uh, the revolution, and then because of the fire that was happening in Lebanon, and then COVID, and then the economical crisis, and then the explosion, so, bit by bit, things were coming to an end…

I’m sorry, but I’m very surprised that I can’t remember how theatre was. I just, I feel it’s so weird for me…

Farrah:

When she said this, I immediately thought of how slippery it is for so many of us to remember what life was like before the crisis. These past three years have stretched on for too long that it can seem a lifetime ago. I don’t even remember the last time I had a conversation with someone about life before everything hit. It’s like, it’s a different reality. And it got me thinking that if we cannot clearly envision the relative calm and peaceful moments from our past, that makes it all the harder for us to envision any kind of a future for us.

Jennifer:

Everyone I know left the country. Everyone I know wanted to follow their dreams in other places, wanted to find themselves in other places. But for me, it is very hard to leave, because I cannot imagine myself in a different place from here. I know that, by staying here, I’m close to my community, and to the people who I share values, language and culture, with whom I’m able to create meaningful work and make an impact.

It’s fun sometimes to take on new challenges and create a lot of interesting things, but it’s tiring at the same time, because you’re putting too much effort into something that should not need effort. And I came to the understanding of how close I am to Sisyphus and the idea of the constant struggle, bound by hope but without catharsis.

Staying here has another facet. There is a constant concern on safety and a lot of uncertainty. There’s not a lot of opportunities to grow. Life is getting tougher, but I chose to stay because I do not want to give up on my country. I want to create and produce here.

I really understand why people want to leave, because of the lack of safety, the lack of basic needs, um… It’s very understandable, but I don’t know why I am unable to… actually go out from this country and… explore things abroad.

Things here make more sense for me – the chaos that we’re living in, the little things that happen, or the big things even that happen all the time, the things that are unexpected… It’s like a very big play [she laughs] that we’re living, with a lot and a lot of stories, a lot of characters, a lot of… problems. So I think that living here is theatre for me, like I’m doing theatre every day, all the time. [she laughs]

Once we were stuck in traffic, and there was a lot of people complaining about the traffic, and then later we found out there was a pregnant woman that was trying to give birth on the road. And then when we knew that, all the people were rushing to help the family and to help her in the process. So it was a very very funny moment for us, for all of us. And a very happy moment… happy or sad moment, I don’t know, because the baby was… Lebanese.

[Jennifer and Farrah laugh]

Honestly, I do not know if I want to suggest the choice of staying to others. On the one hand, there aren’t a lot of opportunities here. And on the other, hope is not found. We are creating hope, day by day.

The situation here is very tough, and between the metaphorical death of boredom abroad and of anxiety here, the choice is very hard.

So I would say, “Make the hard choice, and do whatever you want or whatever makes sense to you.”

[transition]

Farrah:

So many of us have a deeply dysfunctional relationship with Lebanon, an often punishing mix of love and despair. Lebanon can really break your heart.

But there are some who come to Lebanon and still find God’s place on earth. Fatema Rezaie, who has lived here for three years, tells this story in a poem to Lebanon.

[transition]

Fatema Rezaie:

Before the rise of a new sun,

and after the gloom of a sad day,

I see some sparkling hopes

showing in forms of kafta, hummus, and fattoush again.

Their smells resonate the smell of life.

They are the spark of optimism.

They are the silent voices shouting out again.

Enthusiasm and spirit, the courage inside of us –

they are still alive, and our soul is still hoping for the best.

No matter how tough it would be, living in the heart of crisis,

we have each other’s support, shoulder by shoulder, hand in hand.

From the west till the east from the north till the south,

whether we are Christian, Muslim or Druze,

we are all brothers with one identity and soul.

If my countrymen don’t have a roof over their heads,

they are more than welcome to my poor cottage.

If they don’t have a loaf of bread on their tables,

I will share mine regardless of any shortage.

Beirut is devastated.

Beirut lost his children and men, and its heart is broken.

But do not forget that the most beautiful rains fall from the darkest clouds.

You will be healed, and one drop of your martyrs’ blood won’t be answerless.

Reconstruction and rebuilding you, Beirutis, will better you.

Oh Beirut, you will be covered with the warm clothes soon.

The warm clothes that will give you back your beautiful port.

The warm clothes that will give you back your beautiful buildings.

The warm clothes that will give you back your valuable currency.

The clothes that will make you stronger than you’ve ever been.

Your history full of pain, your territory full of wounds,

this people will not forget your injury that is profound.

You are the light of Lebanon – you are the heart of this land.

You are the symbol of strength that keeps strong hal-Lebnon.

To me, you are the moon and the star.

There is no place I can live, if living is without you.

You are my home now.

You are the love.

You are the motive behind every effort.

Long life to you,

ya Beirut.

Long life to you,

ya Lebnon!

[transition]

Laetithia Harb:

This podcast was produced by Ben Moorad and Farrah Khatib. “We Are The Ones Who Live Here” is a production of Hand2Mouth Theatre and New Room Studios.

Our editorial team is: Rola Soboh, Roya Maliky, Fatema Rezaie, Dunia Fakih, Nasrin Azizy, Cole McCann-Phillips and Laetithia Harb.

Our sound producer is Wilson Vediner.

Our music was made by Raffi Feghali (a.k.a. TsaTsa).

This podcast was made by a large community of incredible people, including Jonathan Walters, Andrea Stolowitz, Hermila Yifter, Julie Mourad, Nour Al-Halabi, May Adra, Rana Baghdadi, Sahar Assaf, Robert Myers, Rami Khouri and the spirit of Anthony Shadid.

We want to hear your stories of life in Lebanon. Reach out to us on Instagram at welebanonpod. You can also email us at welebanonpod@gmail.com.

Thank you for listening.