Growing up in Sour, a semi-island on the Mediterranean, I was surrounded by the sea’s rhythmic waves and the lively hum of city life. Sour taught me to embrace diversity and to find joy in life’s small pleasures. But for reasons I only came to understand as I grew older, my heart always belonged just as much to Bint Jbeil.
It wasn’t just a village; it was where my roots were planted, where my sense of belonging truly began. The journey between these two places—the vibrant coast and the serene hills—was more than a trip. It was a transition from one part of my identity to another.
The road from Sour to Bint Jbeil is a story in itself.
Hop on.. allow me to take you on a ride:
Sour, nestled by the Mediterranean, begins the journey with flat semi island that quickly gives way to different paths as you climb into the hills of Southern Lebanon, the legendary hills of Jabal Amel.
There are three main routes to Bint Jbeil, each with its own personality. The longest, through Naqoura, could take over two hours and was often a last resort, especially during the occupation. Then there’s the path through Qana, the shortest but also the trickiest, with its narrow roads weaving through hills and small villages. Most of the time, though, we’d take the Jwaya route. It connected to the biggest highway and was the safest choice when the weather wasn’t on our side. My aunt Foufou also lived in Jwaya and had the yummiest food which meant a perfect rest area!
Each turn along the road brought its own kind of magic, but there was one stretch that always stood out to me. After crossing a massive valley, the city of Tibnin would rise on the horizon. Tibnin, with its vivid mini forest and welcoming community, always felt like a foot away from home. Passing through Tibnin meant we were just minutes away—maybe less than ten—from Bint Jbeil. There was always a sense of excitement in the car, a feeling that we were finally nearing something special.
But it wasn’t just the scenery that made the journey unforgettable. On the edge of Tibnin’s hills, there was a farmer who sold wild cucumbers, what we called mikta, by the roadside. For as long as I can remember, it was the same man, with the same warm smile, offering the same delicious produce. Sometimes he’d have cantaloupes or tomatoes, but it was the mikta we couldn’t resist. My parents would buy bags of it, some to share with the family we were visiting, and some for the journey back home. The cucumbers had a distinct, fresh smell that filled the car. We’d wipe them down with a napkin—sometimes a splash of water if we had a bottle handy—and enjoy them as we wound our way to Bint Jbeil. That crisp, earthy flavor still lingers in my memory, tied forever to the feeling of returning to where my ancestors have taken a rest.
And then there was the sign—the one that meant we’d arrived. A picture of Sayyid Hassan, standing tall and welcoming, always greeted us as we entered Bint Jbeil.
Tears..
That image was more than just a marker; it was a declaration.
We had made it. We were home.
Before the liberation that same spot was a check point that sometimes we would have to spend hours at (Bayt Yahoon). When we crossed it all I could remember was the song: Wisilna ened Tata Em Nasri.. what an incredible tool my mom used to keep us excited during difficult times.
My grandma always tells the story of when I was three years young and my mom had sent me to her in a taxi with someone she knew! A three year old - alone - in a taxi!
I would run down the hill to my grandmother’s house, my little legs racing toward her warm embrace. Her silk pillows, embroidered sheets, and the delicate roses stitched onto her cushions were the picture of comfort that no bombs can erase from my memories. My aunt Afaf would play with my hair, her fingers weaving through the strands as she sang lullabies to soothe me to sleep. Those moments were the heart of what Bint Jbeil meant to me, a place where every corner whispered stories of care and connection, and unconditional love.
During the occupation, the journey as I had mentioned earlier was much harder. Long hours at checkpoints and endless reroutes through Naqoura turned what should have been a simple trip into an exhausting ordeal.
It wasn’t just about the time lost; it was the deliberate effort to drain our spirit. Yet Bint Jbeil was always worth it. Its warmth, its resilience, and its people reminded us why we endured those unnecessary delays. Bent Jbeil was the definition of strength itself.
It was also the definition of co-existence. One memory stands out as a testament to the unity and diversity of our communities was when I attended a wedding in Yaroun, a neighboring village, where our family friends got married. For the first time, I stepped into a church as a Muslim, celebrating their love. It was a multi-day event, filled with music, dancing, and the kind of warmth that makes you feel part of something bigger. That experience shaped me deeply. Today, I find peace walking into a church, just as I do in a mosque. It’s all part of Lebanon’s beautiful, intricate story.
Liberation day of the Lebanese border brought with it emotions that I will never forget. Those weren’t just tears—they were heavy, warm crystals, the kind that flow uncontrollably because they come from a place so deep, words fail to capture it. Driving into Bint Jbeil that day felt like stepping into a dream. People danced in the streets, threw rice and flowers, and sang songs of victory. It wasn’t just a celebration of freedom; it felt like a national wedding, a moment of collective joy that united everyone who had waited for that day.
Today, when I think of Bint Jbeil, I think of my children. I want them to love their homeland the way my homeland loved me - so much. I want them to feel the pride and belonging that shaped my identity. Watching them discover their roots, their history, and their connection to this place fills me with a gratitude I can’t quite put into words. Our cities and villages of origin like Bint Jbeil are not just a place; they are a part of who we are, they are the first line in our story of life.
Bent Jbeil taught me that home isn’t just where you live—it’s where you’re loved.
It’s a story of strength and unity, woven through the lives of everyone who’s ever called it home. It’s a reminder that no matter how far we go, our roots will always keep us grounded, our history will always make us proud, and our community will always make us whole.
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