what we're leaving behind

Another day, another bomb.

This weekend it was all about the piles of trash that weren't picked up by Sukleen. Last week it was a tie between the EDL strike, the STL trial and a blog post by my colleague about how only Christians can save Lebanon. The week before it was also a bomb; or was it the week before that? And there was the Chattah assassination, and the Christmas and New Year traffic and reunions, and the amazing article by Fifi Abou Dib in L'Orient-LeJour describing exactly what it is that we keep losing, as Lebanese.

I'm leaving on Sunday, on a one-way ticket to New York; I don't have a job waiting for me, I'm not one of those lucky many to hold another nationality, I don't have a dad with unlimited money and I don't know what I'm really going to do there, but I know I can't stay here any longer.

And I know very well what I'm leaving behind. It's not the bombs --that are more present on my Facebook feed than in my reality. The bombs will come with me, because every time I hear there was in explosion in Beirut I will frantically try to call my family and friends to make sure they are all ok. It's not the lack of government, or the social segregation, or the power held by Hezbollah, or the sunni/chiite/orthodox/maronite/etc. bullshit that I could never wrap my head around, or the towers of cement growing like mushrooms in Beirut --none of this is what I'm going to miss. It'll all be here when I return, whenever that may be.

What I'm leaving behind is my sister, the person I love most in the world and who I wont be around for every day. I'm leaving my dad, my childhood home, and all the places where the memory of my mother is still alive. I'm leaving my friends, the friends I made when I was just a little girl, going to school in this very neighbourhood where I lived through all of my most important memories. What I'm leaving behind, what we are all leaving behind, is the potential for something great that will unfortunately never be. I have travelled a lot, met many different kinds of people. As a journalist, I've heard and told many stories. And I have yet to see families love each other as they do here; or groups of friends form ties that last longer than anywhere else; or a diversity that I really believe could've made us special in stead of hateful.

What we are all leaving behind are the brave. The young hopefuls who create LiveLoveBeirut to shout out the love; the heroes like Nidal and Kholoud who defy all odds and fight to marry civilly, and have the first secular baby in Lebanon; the activists who fight for children, for the poor, for the sick, for the environment, even though they get no help and no encouragement. And so we go; writers, filmmakers, designers, finance tycoons and doctors and whatever we may be. We go, and we come back for the people we've left behind. In the country we've lost.

Beirut, I'm sorry.

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.