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Author’s Note: For my non-Arab readers, the following is a list of some vocabulary used throughout this piece. Tata/Sito means grandmother, and Jido means grandfather. Mama is mother, Khalto means maternal aunt, and Khalo means maternal uncle. Amo means uncle. The Jnoub means “the South,” referring to the villages and region of Southern Lebanon.
—
“Tata, tell me a story from when you still lived in Lebanon.”
… later that night
“I was having a hard time remembering, but finally my memories started flowing. Here you go.”
Tibneen, Lebanon 1968, from Intissar D.
Although summers were often reserved for spending time with our friends, it was always hard for my family to do so due to the fact that every summer was spent in a different town within the mountains of Jabal, Lebanon. My brother had asthma growing up, and the doctor recommended he spend summers in areas where pine trees grew, in hopes that the fresher air would help with his breathing. Summer was never something I exactly looked forward to; that was reserved for our spring breaks spent in Tibneen, away from the southern suburbs of Beirut, or the Dahye. The one thing I always remember is how beautiful the meadows were in the spring as we drove towards Tibneen. They were full of red, white and yellow flowers, and the air was fresh with the smell of blossoming orange trees. Sometimes we would stop in Tyre, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, and get sandwiches. My favorite was a sausage sandwich with banadura and pickles on toasted French bread. One year, we decided to visit my mom’s Jido and Sito’s house, where I played house with my cousins. We shaped plates and pots from mud and scoured the backyard for flowers to fill our vases. We played hide and seek, and ate fresh khyar and banadura from the garden. We climbed trees and made necklaces out of flowers. I think that was one of the best times I can remember.
“Thank you, Tata.”
“You velcome, Veva.”
—
“Ava, I finally remembered a story.”
“Okay Jido, let me sit down and grab my laptop.”
“Does it have to be happy or sad?”
“Anything you want Jido.”
Kuwait 1961, from Mustafa H.
My dad needed to find work, and left me with my brother Mahmoud in Lebanon until he found a place to work and a house to live in. This was in 1961, I was 6 years old and my brother was 7. Once he found a place for us, they put me and my brother on a plane. As soon as it took off, it caught on fire, and it had to emergency land and be evacuated —
“Wait what? The plane just caught on fire?”
“Yes! I thought it was just my imagination but I called your Amo Mahmoud the other day and he said yes!”
“Um … OK continue.”
— so then after they evacuated us we got onto another plane and flew to Kuwait. I was 13 years old —
“Wait I thought you were 6 years old?”
“No no, this is a new story.”
“Oh, okay continue.”
Kuwait – 1968
When I was 13 years old, we used to play hide and seek a lot. Our fathers used to stand and watch us as we played. Once it was somebody’s turn, they stood against the wall and counted, and everyone ran in different directions. When you were hiding you had to try and run to the wall and say “1, 2, 3!” before the seeker got you. Well, it was my turn to hide, and I found a car on the street and slid underneath it. I could hear them all from a distance, and for hours I stayed under the car as I watched them all be found and try to help find me. Then, I found an abaya next to me. It was the kind that covered everything but your eyes. I put it on, and covered myself, and began to walk towards them. They couldn’t even recognize me! I walked straight past them, and I could hear them asking each other about what this woman was doing. I went right up to the wall and ripped off the abaya and shouted “1, 2, 3!” Everyone was laughing, my dad yelled “Mustafa! Go home!” I started to leave but he called me back, and he told me not to do that again, but I could tell he thought it was funny. It was very funny, I wish there were video cameras of their faces.
“Jido … I can’t.”
“I know! It was very funny.”
…
“Ava, I have another one for you.”
“Okay, start, I’m ready.”
Tibneen, Lebanon – 1975
One time I was hunting in Lebanon, I was 20 years old. I was with my brother Mahmoud, my cousin Ali and his brother. At the time, there were a lot of problems with Israel, so we could hear them bombing in a distance far away. We hunted for hours, and it wasn’t like how I take you hunting now, we had to walk much farther. We went miles into the mountains and forest until you couldn’t see Tibneen anymore. After four hours, we began to make out fighter jets and Israeli soldiers bombing far away. We were very scared, we hid on the side of a well until the bombings stopped. We started walking back to Tibneen, and all of a sudden my cousin Ali began shoving his brother, telling him to take the guns and go away. Within a second, we were surrounded by almost 50 Lebanese soldiers, armed.
“Jido, oh my god.”
We had our hands up, I was so scared I almost sh– my pants! But then, thank God, one of them was able to identify my cousin as a citizen and they let us go, they thought we were Israeli soldiers! It was very, very scary.
—
“Mama, Khalto, tell me about what happened in 2006.”
“I wrote a 20 page essay in college about it. The computer burned in our garage.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll send you something.”
Lebanon 2006, from Hanaa F. & Randa R.
In 2006, I was 17 years old, and your mom was 22. I had just graduated high school, and we were vacationing in Lebanon. It was the first time since 1976 that Jido and all eight of his siblings and parents were going to be reunited. He was supposed to fly out a couple weeks after us. I remember my mom coming back to the house and making a lot of calls. When I asked her what was wrong, she said that Israel bombed the airports and that she didn’t know when we were going home.
My grandparents’ apartment overlooked the sea and airport, you could see billowing clouds of smoke from the runways. We were in an area that was mostly Christian, so for the most part we were “safe.” All of our cousins from America were in the South so we were calling the U.S. Embassy and giving them more than 20 passports over the phone in case the United States decided to get its citizens out. All 20 of them were hiding in a bunker at our Jido’s house. I remember them bombing only at night. They would bring fighter jets very close to the ground and scare the sh– out of us. The entire building would shake. One time we ran to the roof to see the damage of the airport and they bombed, we ran down as fast as we could. My brother called and said you guys need to leave right now. It was very scary, we were very young and your Mom didn’t have your Dad with her, you were only nine months old. I was sick to my stomach, whatever I ate I would throw up. My Sito was very nonchalant about the whole thing, she would come into my room and tell me, “stop crying, what do you want for dinner. Tomorrow they will stop bombing, don’t worry.” It was so normal for her.
My Sito found someone to drive us to Syria for $800 dollars. I don’t even think we had a carseat for you, you sat in your Mom’s lap. CNN had messages at the bottom of the screen that said “If you choose to escape you can be subject to airstrike at any time,” On the way to Syria, Israel had hit an oil tanker in Zahle, in the mountains. There was oil all over the floor, we had to drive two miles an hour over the oil in the mountains. When we got to the Syrian border, they almost didn’t let your Mom in, that was another heart attack. The border was packed, it was insane. When we finally got to Syria, we stayed in a hotel for four days, we didn’t know where to go or what to do. We ended up calling the U.S. Embassy again in Syria, and talked to a lady Patricia on the phone. She sent us to a travel agent, who had no tickets for us. When we got back to the hotel, she called us and told us we had tickets home and that we had to leave tonight.
We didn’t know if our cousins got out of the South. We sat in the airport waiting, watching CNN. They were interviewing U.S. citizens next to the ports in Beirut. Next thing you know we saw our cousins on CNN, talking about how happy they were to get out safely. I slapped your mom from how excited I was, we couldn’t believe it. We flew from Syria to Austria, and had a 13 hour layover. We slept in an airport hotel for the entire 13 hours, even you Ava. We flew to New York, where they told us we didn’t have any tickets home. We cried and slept on the floor of the airport, while my Khalo tried finding us tickets. Finally, when we landed in Detroit and walked through the terminal, I swear I saw Jido and dropped all my bags and ran so fast to him, like a movie.
—
Mustafa married Intissar in 1980, four years after fleeing Lebanon to the United States. They had their honeymoon at Disney World, and had three children, Mahmoud, Hanaa, and Randa. Mustafa worked many different blue-collar jobs, often simultaneously, to support his family. Intissar attended night school to learn English, and later on became a teacher and principal within the public school district. Intissar retired in 2010 at 51, and Mustafa in 2020, at the age of 64. They are Tata and Jido to six grandchildren.
—
Southern Lebanon is home to nearly 600,000 people.
It is currently being bombed.
It is being destroyed.
It is being obliterated, demolished, and burned to the ground. Children are being murdered. Women are being murdered. Men are being murdered. The elderly are being murdered. Homes are being blown to pieces. Hospitals are being bombed — a war crime. There is not enough room to bury the dead. Throughout the entire country, more than one million people have been displaced. And we are just watching.
A country is being invaded, lives are being taken, roots are being burned. It is one thing to have a political opinion — however, genocide is not political. Children are losing their limbs, and entire families are being wiped from the registry. Hundreds of years of homes, cultures and people are being destroyed. No words can describe the horrors being faced within the Middle East. After a long, tiring day, before you sleep in your bed, in your house, remember the people in Lebanon. Who are losing everything right before their eyes. Who have given up their lives to stand with the oppressed, to stand with the people of Palestine. Remember that the one difference between you and them is luck.
فَإِنَّ مَعَ ٱلْعُسْرِ يُسْرًا (94:5)
—
Epilogue – the United States of America 2024, a letter from Hanaa F.
The first time I went to Lebanon I was 14 years old in 1997.
My parents took my older brother, younger sister and me, to visit both of their families which at the time consisted of grandparents I had never met and tons of first cousins, aunts and uncles.
You go through moments in your life when you are reawakened by experiences and as a result you see, hear and understand things differently. And the very moment thereafter is like opening your eyes for the first time. Going to Lebanon at 14 was one of them.
One of the first things that really stands out when you travel to Lebanon is the airport. Our arrival to see my Dad’s parents and siblings meant that at least half of Lebanon was there to meet him, at least that’s what it felt like.
Your Jido is my everything, my hero, my friend, my rock, my whole world. I thought I knew my Dad, then I met his parents and siblings. I saw my dad in their mannerisms, smiles, laughter, seriousness, voice and body language. The way his eyes lit up when he laughed I saw in each of his five sisters. The sarcastic and silly humor I had come to depend on during rough times I saw in his Mom. The seriousness and work ethic that defined him when it mattered I saw in his Dad. The kindness, gentleness and patience he always had towards us I saw in his brother.
I saw the 12 foot deep well he dug with his two brothers at the ages of 14, 15 and 16 in the side of the house in their village of Tibneen. I saw the garden full of trees he climbed. I saw the porch on the side of the house that overlooked the main road through the village that he greeted friends and neighbors on. I saw the field on the side of the house where he played soccer with his cousins and friends.
I thought I knew my Dad up until that point and it was only then that I realized I knew very little. I had known one version of him. And this new version was like unlocking a level of realization that makes you feel well, older. When he was reunited with his siblings, it was as if God had taken all eight of them back to 1965 and they just picked up where they left off. And all of us, the first cousins, were an extension of that. I met more than 25 first cousins who treated me like a precious souvenir and as if I had grown up with them. We walked to the Friday market as if we’d been doing it for years. We visited the cemetery to pay our respects to the deceased as if it were something I did every Friday. I haggled with store owners over the price of candy as if I had been doing it for years. I played dominoes and cards and challenged my cousins as if I had been playing for years. I slept on a rolled up mattress on the floor in a straight line of eight other cousins as if I had known them forever. I only saw my parents at mealtimes, every other minute was a new adventure and experience.
Then we left. The airport scene when we were departing was traumatic. Saying goodbye to this extension of my Dad was like watching a death and knowing you could do nothing to stop it. It was wrought with emotion and sadness and pain. Because we all knew, my dad and his parents especially, that they would likely never see us again. The airport told the whole story of Lebanon. The joy and heartache. The emotion and pride. The hope and excitement. The sorrow and sacrifice. And it made me realize just how rich and extraordinary and beautiful this country was. And it was the people in the South. In this poor and quiet and remote village of Tibneen. It was my people.
What I missed most, however, were not the sights or food or extravagance or shops — I missed the people. It was the people all the time. The people of Lebanon are some of the most humble, hospitable, funny, welcoming, kind, genuine humans on Earth. Bursting with culture, joy, pride, traditions, stories, food and love that they are ready to share with anyone willing to listen. The story of Lebanon is and always will be the people.
I was there in 2006, it was a nightmare. And I pray every day that Inshallah we can take you both back and open your eyes for the first time. I pray that the story of Lebanon is not over and that you get to experience everything it has to offer and truly understand who you are because it is your story too.
I love you Mama. And I’m sorry we couldn’t take you and your sister sooner when things were calmer. Because you deserve to know. It will be one of my biggest failures as a parent. Me and Baba.
From,
Mama
MiC Columnist Ava Faraj can be reached at avafaraj@umich.edu
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