Dear Beirut,
I have to admit, I’ve given up on you many
a times. I’ve insulted you, I’ve cursed you, I’ve tapped my feet in
exasperation against you, I’ve yelled out my window at you, I’ve made fun of
you, I’ve been ashamed of you, and I’ve hated you.
Even yesterday, I hated you. But today…
what can I say, today?
Today I realize that whether I like it or
not, whether I care to admit or not, I am part of you. And what’s worse, is
that you, Beirut, are part of me.
Today I walked through the streets of
Achrafieh, streets I’ve walked through my whole life. And they were darkened by
evil. They were wrapped in smoke, stained with blood, screaming in fear. And I
realized as I walked in front of these places where I order my food every other
day, watching them sweep the broken glass from their windows just barely an
hour after the blast, was that they were the places I knew the most. Because as
much I love the streets of New York, Paris or Florence, they are not my
streets. Not like the sidewalk where I had my first car accident with my mother
23 years ago. Not like the roads I went to school on every single day, not like
the place I had my first kiss or where I smoked my first cigarette or the café
where I spent hours and hours hanging out with my friends. Today, it was
Achrafieh. The hospital where I was born was filled with more than 50 victims
of a vicious crime. The same Achrafieh that just over a month ago, we
celebrated with no cars and the most amazing sense of community. Today this
Achrafieh, the neighborhood where I have spent most of my life, was blown up to
pieces.
And you know what? I was blown to pieces
too. Which is incredible because I really truly thought that I was over you.
That my heart wouldn’t skip a beat. But I was wrong.
Today, I heard a sound that took me back
seven years ago when I was an AUB student and Rafik Hariri was killed just a
few hundred meters away from my campus. It took me back to 2006 when our city
crumbled under Israeli fire. It took me back to those nights as a child, when
the whole family was huddled up in the corridors and we lived by candlelight…
And it seems like so long ago that I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it. But I
didn’t dream it. I was there. Here. This is where I was born, where I went to
school, where I made my friends, where I fell in love, where my mother is
buried, where my home is. And even if I hate it, even if I wish I had another
passport twenty-times a day, even if it drives me crazy, it’s my city. I’m a
Beiruti. I’m an Achrafieh born and bred woman and whatever I am, in some way,
has got to be impacted by you Beirut.
And so, I wanted to say that I’m sorry.
I wanted to say that even though I hate
you, I love you. Because that’s just the way it is with things we really love.
And I wanted to say that I hope, when I see a crowd spontaneously gather with
candles to honor their neighbors, that we can get the chance to treat you
right. To love you better. To have you always.
Yasmina.
