The curse and honor of being Lebanese

From the day we are born, we are immediately thrust into a world that hates us. Of course, we don’t remember it that way. I remember being a child playing in public with my toy planes and imagining myself flying; meanwhile, my parents had to face looks of fear from onlookers as they saw a young Arab boy pretending to fly a plane.

I come from a proud Lebanese family with a proud commitment to our culture. Throughout my upbringing, I can vividly recall my Tata humming the melodies of Fairuz, the eternal voice of Lebanon. Throughout my adolescence, I struggled to understand why exactly my family and I were here in America. We are Lebanese, we’re from Lebanon — so why don’t we live there? When I’d ask my mom, her answer was the same every time: “We fled the war; it wasn’t safe.” I struggled to understand the severity of my mother’s situation for a while. I couldn’t grasp how someone could pick up everything and leave their home. 

Over time, I gained more awareness of my people’s history and why so many Arabs had been forced to leave their homes. I began to understand what it means to be Lebanese. I began to understand that my family fled Lebanon in the 1970s because of the civil war; they left everything they’d ever known just to survive. I began to understand the struggle of my people — a struggle that makes being Lebanese the greatest honor of my life. 

As I was confronted with the reality of the state of my country and the Middle East, my perception of my homeland changed and I felt the isolation of the Arab diaspora. It was as if Fairuz had stopped singing.

Since the Civil War, Lebanon has continued to face war, economic collapse and government corruption. In 2006, Lebanon was thrust into a war with Israel in which more than 1,100 Lebanese civilians died and more than 1 million were displaced. Despite the economy getting back on its feet after 2006, Lebanon took another blow. The 2020 Beirut explosion killed 218 and displaced 300,000. Shortly after, when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, Lebanon’s economy began to collapse. The Lebanese lira lost more than 90% of its value, inflation skyrocketed and banks froze people’s assets. Consequently, shortages of basic goods and a sharp increase in poverty plunged Lebanon into one of the worst economic crises in modern history, stirring widespread protests. Corruption within the government caused a lack of electricity, water and basic infrastructure needed to support life in Lebanon. 

A characteristic notable to the Lebanese, however, is our resilience. Every day, my people enjoy the Beirut sun and take walks along the Raouché. Coffee shops open their doors, ice cream shops light up children’s eyes and elders enjoy reminiscing about their youth in 1960s Lebanon over sheesha. Walking from a local market in Hamra to a record shop, where I bought more records than I could fit in my luggage, and then enjoying a walk with my mom down Beirut’s streets was simple yet peaceful. Eating dinner with my family along the Raouché and watching the waves crash along Beirut’s shores reassured me that I was home. Even if the lights went out while we ate, we still smiled and enjoyed each other’s company, hoping to see our home at peace one day. 

That’s different now. 

Today, Lebanon is experiencing the same thing it did in 1975: aggression that led to occupation. More than 1,000 Lebanese civilians have died since the Israeli bombing of Lebanon, which began on a large and deliberate scale on September 21, 2024. Despite civilian casualties, Israeli bombs continue to fall, kill and displace my people.

Lebanese across the world are hurting, especially here on campus. Like many other Lebanese who dream of returning home, we cannot go an hour without texting our family in Lebanon to see if they’re still alive. Every time the death count goes up, I feel defeated. These are not statistics; these are lives. 

This is a larger message to the Arab diaspora. We fled persecution, war and unstable regimes. We hoped to return home someday and live under the same sun as our grandparents and parents. We hoped to drink our morning nescafe, work the day and then enjoy a lively home-cooked meal with friends and family. We hoped to dabke and sing the eternal songs of our homeland under the moon that lit up the sky for the generations before us. A requirement of being Lebanese is living through conflict and normalizing the sonic boom of Israeli fighter jets over Beirut. It has become routine to repeatedly text my family in Lebanon, “Where are you?” and “Are you safe?” What broke me was when I asked one of my cousins who lives in Dahiyeh if she was okay. “We are okay, but we are scared,”  she responded. It has become customary to text other Lebanese here on campus, “Is your family okay?” 

How much longer will I have to keep sending these messages? How much longer will it take for my country to finally be at peace? How long before the hearts of the millions of Lebanese worldwide can heal?

I get messages asking how I am doing and if those who text can do anything. My answer remains the same: No, I am not okay. My country is burning. My people are dying. As for what can be done, I don’t have an answer for that apart from the obvious — stop the United States from sending billions of dollars and weapons for Israel to use in its bombings. 

Despite being under attack, we are committed to our roots, resistance and liberation. Our resilience fuels our resistance, and the fight for freedom strengthens our resolve to unite against oppression.

بحبك يا لبنان يا وطني بحبك

بشمالك، بجنوبك، بسهلك بحبك

Amr Brown is an LSA sophomore. He serves in several student government spaces, including as an LSA Representative and the Students of Michigan Legislative Delegate in CSG. He can be reached at amrb@umich.edu.

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