I wake up every morning with one intention: to make today the best last day of my life. It’s how I start each day. I breathe in…inhale… and tell myself, today will be different. Today, I’ll embrace the beauty of existence without any interruptions.
Every day, I pour my heart into simply being. I tell myself, today is for dreaming, for living, for becoming. It’s almost like a mantra, a ritual that grounds me, helping me stay present. But then, after an hour or two—or maybe a few hours if I’m lucky—it happens.
I’ll read the news or get a phone call, and suddenly, I’m reminded of the world we live in. A world filled with things I can’t unsee, things that challenge my ability to smile again.
One time, a girl no older than my daughters was attacked while playing at a park. A place that should be filled with laughter and joy turned into a scene of violence because of her ethnicity or the color of her skin.
Another time, I hear about a massacre claiming dozens, sometimes hundreds of lives. Many of them children, or sick, or elders—fragile and defenseless. I find myself counting the numbers, trying to grasp the weight of the loss, but I can never make sense of it.
I’ve watched videos of a young refugee, a child hooked up to an IV, burning alive—his dreams of becoming an engineer disappearing with him. It’s like watching hell unfold on earth, and I feel powerless.
Last year, around this time, there was a car full of joy. Three daughters, their grandmother, and their mother, Huda, fleeing zones of bullets and fire. A family bound by love—until one moment shattered everything. Only the mother survived, left to carry the weight of an unimaginable loss, left in a world that no longer makes sense.
And then there was Hind, who called for an ambulance while hiding from a tank. Her voice trembled with fear, but she called anyway. Unlike in the movies, for an Arab kid, help never came. They found her body later, riddled with 335 bullets. 335 rounds to take a single, pure soul.
The violence and hatred are so incomprehensible that I ask myself: how can the same world that gives us rainbows, waterfalls, and butterflies hold so much darkness? How can people be so evil?
Another day, another story: a grandfather combing his granddaughter’s hair. She was the light of his life, his reason for smiling. He combed her hair the way she liked it, gently, with love—while she lay still and lifeless in his hands. The image haunts me. Love fighting the reality of loss.
Every. Single. Day. This keeps happening.
And today, as I was getting my daughters ready for school, I heard that the home of my childhood—the place where I grew up, laughed, and dreamed—is gone.
It was part of a ten-story building, now reduced to rubble by an army that calls itself “moral.” They say my people are to blame, and I wonder: who do they mean? My father, the mathematician? My mother, the teacher? Was our house a threat because of the math books? Or was it my mother’s wedding dress? Is it wrong for Arabs to fall in love and want to live with dignity?
Maybe it was the photos, the memories we captured over the years—photos of my uncles dancing by the river, my grandpa at the beach. Or perhaps, it was my first book series, Gibran Khalil Gibran’s The Broken Wings. Ironically, a book that shaped me in ways I didn’t understand until later.
When we first heard the building was hit, we tried to stay strong. We focused on helping my mom adjust, joking about how the new house could be better. We laughed about the old house’s issues, trying to soothe ourselves. But then I received a photo—a photo of the building from years ago. And suddenly, I was pulled back in time.
I saw the balcony where I’d sit, preparing for exams and watching the sunset every day. The street below, where I met my first crush. I’d find any excuse to visit the little shop next door, just to catch his eye. I remembered walking with my childhood friend, hearing motorcycles, the trees swaying, and the chatter of neighbors who felt like family.
I could almost hear the music—faint Arabic melodies mingling with laughter. And as the sun dipped lower, the call to prayer would fill the air, grounding us all. It was my favorite part:
“إِنَّ اللَّهَ وَمَلَائِكَتَهُ يُصَلُّونَ عَلَى النَّبِيِّ” (Indeed Allah and His angels bless the Prophet).
In that divine moment, the world would fall silent—just me, the sunset, and the words of God. That was the world we were blessed with, full of simple, profound beauty. From our balcony, we could see Tyre, Naqoura, and parts of Bezoreye.
Today, when I look, all I see is rubble—a mountain of broken memories.
Today, I felt like someone had touched our home without permission, like someone exposed our most intimate family secrets. Today, I felt violated.
When will this end?
I’ve stopped expecting an answer. I know I’m not alone. We, the people of the Mediterranean, have endured so much. We are Arabs, whose lands are violated time and time again. Yet, no matter how many times we are struck down, we rise again.
Today, I want to acknowledge the weight we carry, the exhaustion we feel. We are tired, drained, but we continue. I want to invite you to let go of the obsession with results and achievements. The imperialist mindset has made us believe we must constantly strive, constantly reach for more. Today, I urge you to savor the little things, to appreciate what we still have.
Teach your child a new Arabic word today. Enjoy your coffee, feel the warmth of the cup in your hands. Live each day as if it’s your last, with contentment and peace.
Our home might be gone, but our roots run deep. Like the cedar trees, we are older than the history of those who try to oppress us.
They will go. We will stay.
Maybe that is the secret of the people of Lebanon. People wonder why the Lebanese are the happiest in the world when they should be the most miserable. Maybe it’s because we live every day as if it’s our last, appreciating the moment because we know it might not last.
It wont be quick or easy, but I know one day.. I’ll hear the Adhan again, as the sun sets over the South of Lebanon and I will remember those who gave their lives so ours can go on..
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