Aug 20
For so long, I felt myself drifting further and further away from my homeland. It wasn’t intentional—it was life. University, the pandemic, the explosion. Each chapter in this life of mine seemed to push me further from my roots. Yet somehow, by the time I realized it, Lebanon had become a distant dream. A place I loved but could barely touch.
The last time I was home was during that summer before the virus burst. Since then, Lebanon remained in pieces—fragments of memories scattered on my phone or through brief calls with my grandmother. I felt grateful that my family had been able to leave Lebanon during the 2006 war. And when the explosion shook Beirut, I was far away in France, working, studying, but always feeling like I was watching Lebanon slip away.
I kept telling myself I’d go back soon. But soon became years, and as life carried on, my connection to Lebanon grew more and more distant [...] Four summers in, I realized I was no longer happy with the life I had. I had drifted too far, from Lebanon, from myself.
That’s when I knew it was time to come back. I booked my flight and kept repeating to myself, I need to go back to my roots. All I need is to go back to my roots. I didn’t know exactly why, but I felt this pull deep inside me. It was a need—no longer a desire. It was a return to something I didn’t fully understand, but something that would ground me once more.
The day of my flight felt like everything was working against me. My suitcase, heavy with everything I was leaving behind, felt heavier than my anxiety. Toulouse, the city that had held me for so many years, seemed reluctant to let me go. I was running late, caught in a series of small mistakes—taking the wrong bus and feeling the weight of time closing in. The pressure of it all was starting to feel unbearable.
At the airport, my sense of dread only grew. I stood in line, watching the minutes slip away, convinced my suitcase would be over the weight limit. When the hostess told me the flight was overbooked and they might reschedule my ticket, my heart raced. I sat with all the other Lebanese I kept running into at every step of the airport, and I questioned whether I was making the right choice. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I should turn back. I was the last one to board the plane. Finally, my first flight back home after five years.
I landed in the connecting city and waited for what felt like forever. I fidgeted, paced, as the delay announcements on the loudspeakers tightened the knot in my stomach. Six or seven hours later, I boarded the second flight. The long hours of travel stretched on, my body sore and stiff from cramped seats and the cold air that always seemed to seep into the planes. I was caught between the past and the future, unsure of what I was walking toward, but somehow knowing that it was where I needed to go.
When I finally landed in Beirut, it felt surreal. I stepped off the plane, my legs shaky as if I had just been reborn. I made it. Every obstacle, every doubt, and every moment of uncertainty. I was finally here. I had come back, but it wasn’t just the land I had returned to. It was myself. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of belonging. Every day I spent in Lebanon, I felt like I was reborn. I was like a child, rediscovering the embrace of a mother I had long been apart from. I had spent five years grieving the absence of this connection. Then there was the guilt. The guilt of leaving while my country fell apart. The guilt of choosing a life abroad when my people struggled.
But coming back woke something inside me. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a revolution, both in Lebanon and within me. I knew I couldn’t stand by and watch any longer…
This collection is my voice, my offering to the revolution that continues to rage in Lebanon and in my heart. It’s my way of saying, I am here, even when I'm not.
This is not just an homage to the land, to its people, its beauty, its sorrow, and its resilience. This is my return, my revolution and my love letter to the birth place of my cedar roots.
The last time I was home was during that summer before the virus burst. Since then, Lebanon remained in pieces—fragments of memories scattered on my phone or through brief calls with my grandmother. I felt grateful that my family had been able to leave Lebanon during the 2006 war. And when the explosion shook Beirut, I was far away in France, working, studying, but always feeling like I was watching Lebanon slip away.
I kept telling myself I’d go back soon. But soon became years, and as life carried on, my connection to Lebanon grew more and more distant [...] Four summers in, I realized I was no longer happy with the life I had. I had drifted too far, from Lebanon, from myself.
That’s when I knew it was time to come back. I booked my flight and kept repeating to myself, I need to go back to my roots. All I need is to go back to my roots. I didn’t know exactly why, but I felt this pull deep inside me. It was a need—no longer a desire. It was a return to something I didn’t fully understand, but something that would ground me once more.
The day of my flight felt like everything was working against me. My suitcase, heavy with everything I was leaving behind, felt heavier than my anxiety. Toulouse, the city that had held me for so many years, seemed reluctant to let me go. I was running late, caught in a series of small mistakes—taking the wrong bus and feeling the weight of time closing in. The pressure of it all was starting to feel unbearable.
At the airport, my sense of dread only grew. I stood in line, watching the minutes slip away, convinced my suitcase would be over the weight limit. When the hostess told me the flight was overbooked and they might reschedule my ticket, my heart raced. I sat with all the other Lebanese I kept running into at every step of the airport, and I questioned whether I was making the right choice. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I should turn back. I was the last one to board the plane. Finally, my first flight back home after five years.
I landed in the connecting city and waited for what felt like forever. I fidgeted, paced, as the delay announcements on the loudspeakers tightened the knot in my stomach. Six or seven hours later, I boarded the second flight. The long hours of travel stretched on, my body sore and stiff from cramped seats and the cold air that always seemed to seep into the planes. I was caught between the past and the future, unsure of what I was walking toward, but somehow knowing that it was where I needed to go.
When I finally landed in Beirut, it felt surreal. I stepped off the plane, my legs shaky as if I had just been reborn. I made it. Every obstacle, every doubt, and every moment of uncertainty. I was finally here. I had come back, but it wasn’t just the land I had returned to. It was myself. For the first time in years, I felt a sense of belonging. Every day I spent in Lebanon, I felt like I was reborn. I was like a child, rediscovering the embrace of a mother I had long been apart from. I had spent five years grieving the absence of this connection. Then there was the guilt. The guilt of leaving while my country fell apart. The guilt of choosing a life abroad when my people struggled.
But coming back woke something inside me. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was a revolution, both in Lebanon and within me. I knew I couldn’t stand by and watch any longer…
This collection is my voice, my offering to the revolution that continues to rage in Lebanon and in my heart. It’s my way of saying, I am here, even when I'm not.
This is not just an homage to the land, to its people, its beauty, its sorrow, and its resilience. This is my return, my revolution and my love letter to the birth place of my cedar roots.
