Characteristically, as a member of Gen Z, I often find myself overtaken by deep bouts of FOMO, or fear of missing out. It’s not the frat parties, football games or formals I long for, though. Instead, I worry that the longer I spend away from my home country of Lebanon, the more distance will grow between my relatives and me.
Recently, my uncle got engaged, one of my many family members to do so over the past couple of years. I’ve missed the engagements of three of my cousins, the wedding of one and the birth of one of their kids. Though I do my best to live vicariously through pictures and videos, nothing is the same as being there in the flesh. As the summer months pass me by, and several of my friends are booking flights to their respective home countries to visit, I feel an ache of longing in my heart for the late nights, hot days and family time that make up a summer in Lebanon.
Lebanon’s rolling hills, olive trees and historic sights make it an undoubtedly beautiful place to visit regardless of your nationality. As someone with familial roots in Lebanon, the reason I personally wish to travel there has less to do with the sights and more to do with the people. My trips to Lebanon are luxuries, not only because of the expensive plane ticket, but also because of the precious moments I’m able to share with my relatives when I’m there. When I go to Lebanon, I spend more time in various family members’ houses, talking with my cousins around a bonfire in my khalto’s backyard at midnight or enjoying home-cooked manaeesh and kibbeh for breakfast, than I do going out. My deeper desire to grow closer to my family manifests itself in the simpler one to simply travel to Lebanon, regardless of how different things there might be from how I imagine them.
I’m convinced my relatives should remain exactly the same as I left them back in 2022 when I visited last. Despite our short conversations over the phone, they stay that way in my mind, untouched by the realities of time and space. Still, the photos of my cousins that my aunts and uncles periodically post to their WhatsApp stories slowly get harder and harder to recognize. All of them continue to grow and change, no matter what I do. I find myself forever sustained in an awkward in-between. My older cousins are fully fledged adults, starting families of their own and slowly moving out of their parents’ houses. They see me as a kid, despite all my best efforts to appear mature and experienced. With my younger cousins, I have little to talk about, and most of our conversations consist of jokes and niceties.
The deep chasm between my cousins and I is not only exacerbated by our age gaps, but also by a steadily increasing language barrier. I’m already socially awkward and introverted. Attempting to express myself in my second language only makes things ten times worse. Although my parents enrolled me in Arabic school as a child and often speak Arabic around the house, simply living and attending classes in the U.S. has stunted my fluency in the language. If I second guess what to say five times before I say it in English, I do it twice as often when I’m speaking in Arabic. As a result, I often find myself not speaking at all when the extended family is all together. By the time I think of something to add to the conversation and then translate it in my head, they have already moved on to another topic.
It’s difficult enough for me to keep up with my cousins’ Arabic — they speak fast and use slang words I couldn’t translate if I tried, like “Khosh bosh” or “Bsheel.” To keep up and contribute at the same time is a monumental task I have yet to master. Constantly, I think to myself: If only they could see me speak English. Then, they would see how smart I am. Then, they would know how funny I am. Though I long to have a close relationship with my cousins, even I wouldn’t want to be friends with the me I am in Lebanon. In English, I like to think of myself as witty and quick. In Arabic, though, I am a robot who talks in choppy, short sentences, always two steps behind the conversation. I can’t help but feel jealous of my American friends, who not only are able to see their extended families throughout the year, but also have the privilege of their family knowing them exactly as they are.
I know that part of the stunted relationship between my cousins and me is my fault. If I really wanted to, I could make the effort to reach out more often and keep them updated on my life. However, it’s not just the idea of pushing through my broken Arabic that holds me back. It’s also the gut feeling that no matter how much effort I put in, my attempt to form a relationship in my second language will always prove unsuccessful. How can I ever change the way my cousins see me if I’m forever an outsider to them? I am terrified at the thought that even if I study Arabic daily for the rest of my life, I’ll never be as fluent as I could’ve been had I been born in Lebanon.
How can I call myself Arab when my throat chokes on the very thing that unites different Arabs across borders? I want to go to Lebanon, not as a traveler, not as a visitor, but as a native. I want to not only speak in Arabic, but think in it too. We often forget the importance of language in holding communities together. In the U.S., we’re so used to speaking in English and others accommodating us that we take for granted what it means to really understand each other when talking, beyond rough translations and simplifications. We travel to European countries and not only hope, but expect that others will be able to speak to us and understand us in English. Yet, even here, people speak hundreds of different languages. There is significance, if not necessity, in venturing outside of our comfort zones and learning new languages. Languages are not only a means of communication, but also keys to new doors of connection across cultures.
The sparkling summer in Lebanon I dream of is almost too good to be true. I don’t just want to go there, I want to become a different version of myself, one that is fluent in Arabic, close friends with her cousins and wholeheartedly Lebanese. Whenever people try to guess where I’m from, every Arab country seems to come before Lebanon. They say I look Syrian, Palestinian or even Turkish. This has always bothered me. Not only do I not speak the part, I don’t look the part either. My parents and several other Middle Eastern immigrants have given up a lot to give us opportunities here in the U.S. and there is a trade-off between what’s gained in terms of education and what’s lost in our culture and language by being here. I wonder, have I lost the title of Lebanese, of Arab, when another year goes by without my venturing overseas to visit? Or when I talk to my family only on holidays, only when I have to, because I’m worried of what they might think of me? How about when I am safe in my bed, knowing that my family overseas is perpetually in danger of being attacked?
Recently, due to attacks on Iran, several airlines in Beirut have shut down temporarily. Even as I sit here, scrolling through old pictures and videos on my phone, wishing I were there, the logical part of my brain knows that it’s not the best time. It’s easy for me to envy my cousins who live in Lebanon or my friends who are traveling there this summer from my air-conditioned home, where the electricity never goes out, the shower is always hot and I know there will be food on the table. Such simple luxuries get harder and harder to come by in Lebanon. I know that the over-romanticized version of Lebanon I envision doesn’t exist. Even so, I accept Lebanon with all its imperfections. I can only hope that it accepts me too.
MiC Columnist Amany Sayed can be reached at amanysay@umich.edu.
