Every day, I wake up with a simple intention: to live as if today is the last day of my life. But life, with all its beauty, often collides with an unimaginable darkness. In the blink of an eye, the home I grew up in, filled with memories of love, laughter, and sunsets, is gone—reduced to rubble by forces that claim morality. This is a story of enduring loss, relentless resilience, and the quiet strength we carry as we rise again. As the world around us shifts, we remain—rooted, like the ancient cedars of Lebanon.
I had no idea that you could be an orphan with both parents still alive... But today, all the free people of the world, especially those in Lebanon, have been orphaned. The passing of Sayyed has left us without a father, without a protector. He wasn’t just carrying a nation, he was carrying the hearts
رحيل السيد و تركنا بلا أب، بلا حامي. الدنيا فجأة همدت، والفراغ اللي تركه موجع أكتر مما كنا نتخيل. كنا نعرف إنه نحبه، بس هلأ فهمنا قديش هو كان يحبنا. حبه كان بالأفعال والتضحيات، مش بس بالكلام. يا سيد، كنت الأب اللي الحماية والتربية جزء من روحه. غيابك تركنا وحيدين، بس ذكراك منقوشة بقلوبنا، ودروسك عايشة فينا.
What is something that felt so close yet so far away during your childhood? For me, it was tea. In my family, drinking tea was ayb—off-limits for children, a privilege reserved for adults. It wasn’t just a drink; it was a symbol of being grown-up, a secret ritual I longed to be part of. I can still remember the delicate Turkish cups, intricately lined with gold, paired with maamoul or petit four, making tea seem like a dream for us kids. The day finally came when I was asked, "Do you want tea?"—but a single glance from my mother silently said, "Nope. Ayb." Years later, tea is no longer forbidden. It’s become a symbol of love and connection in my...
