I tend to stick to safe, predictable destinations when it comes to family holidays. Growing up in a war zone does that to you. I was born at the outset of the Lebanese Civil war in 1975 and spent the 1st 12 years of my life there. The war then came too close for comfort and we fled from Lebanon to find security and shelter in Europe. I never wanted my children to experience that fear that was my constant companion when I was a child. Even though the war ended in 1990, that region has always been volatile, plagued by trouble and strife. So when I had my kids, I stayed away.
But my boys are now 17 and 15 years old and I am 52. Age, food (I now spend a lot of my time writing about our emotional connection to food) and I am not sure what else (grief, detachment from family, a growing awareness of our mortality?), has led me to reconnect with my roots, to discover what freedom lies in being anchored to somewhere. Given how important this has been for me, I realised it’s just as key for my boys to learn about the culture that makes up half of their genetic makeup. And the responsibility for that lies wholly with me.
So, last summer, I temporarily shed my aversion to risk and planned a trip to Lebanon for the three of us. Not just a sightseeing tour, I also enrolled them in a residential summer camp at the American University of Beirut (“AUB”) for a week-long course of cultural and fun activities planned specifically for youngsters who have Lebanese roots but don’t know much about them. In for a penny, in for a pound. If I was going to do this, I wanted to do it properly. The AUB was a huge part of my childhood as it was a 5 minute walk away from home and where my brother studied, my school was across the way from it. Most afternoons, after school, I would end up running around the AUB campus with its lush landscape and huge open green spaces.
They weren’t elated by these plans. They tried to dissuade me. Daily complaints submitted, loudly. They’d never been to a residential camp and certainly not one abroad in a country they barely knew other than it featured on the news with lots of smoke, battered buildings and explosions. They looked into the schedule and saw that there were daily lessons in Arabic, history and dabké. Dabké is a traditional folkloric dance. They don’t like dancing, of any sort, least of all folklore. Our family whats app messages started filling up: “Why are you making me go from one class here in London to another in Beirut?” “The program looks academic and zero fun.” “I don’t want to do it.” “You are wasting your money, I won’t go.” Finally, a day before our departure, more missives: “What are the cancellation charges?”
I persevered and we were soon on our way. I made a compromise with them, try it for days 1 and 2, if you’re unhappy, come back and stay with me in the hotel.
We made it to Beirut late on a Sunday night- had a beautiful dinner, dish after tempting dish kept piling up on our table in the small local restaurant recommended by a family friend. Their morale and outlook were both on the up- good food makes for a good mood.
The next morning, the three of us walked the short distance to the AUB campus. As we were ushered in by the welcoming porter at the security gate, my younger son exclaimed: “wow, this looks more like a resort than a university.” The AUB campus is the jewel in the crown of Ras Beirut- the district where it’s located. Beautifully landscaped on a hill that slides into the Mediterranean sea, the university has its own beach club, indoor sports club, athletics track, tennis courts. No expense has been spared on the design, layout and facilities which are of the highest international standards. There’s even an iconic futuristic building designed by award winning architect Zaha Hadid (herself an alumni).
The meeting point for the group was the West Hall- a 19th century designed Ottoman inspired building with pillars framing its entrance and a grand staircase to greet visitors. Once inside this awe inspiring place we were greeted by the heady scent of manakeesh, zaatar topped flatbreads, a breakfast staple in Beirut. I could feel the boys’ perspective shift. They thought they were coming to some broken down, war battered place. What they were seeing was beauty, sunshine, blue skies and warm smiles that met them as they entered the room where all the other teenagers were feasting on fresh, warm manakeesh. They were immediately offered one of these flatbreads and turned to say a cursory farewell to me.
I skipped out knowing that we were onto a good thing here.
I have never had free time in Beirut to wander all by myself. It was a chance for me to get reacquainted with the city I left behind all those years ago. And I loved what I saw, or rather, felt. Beirut has many problems- a lack of infrastructure, urban planning, small children begging on the street- it’s a long list. But it’s also full of heart as I quickly got to witness.
I went in search of my own breakfast. I was spoilt for choice as I walked by tiny hole in the wall bakeries from which I was once again seduced by the smell of freshly baked manakeesh being taken out of the pizza oven on the long paddle, golden brown and sizzling with the zaatar and oil making bubbles in the dough. It was almost like they were whispering my name and I answered their call.
I soon came across a greengrocer and was stopped in my tracks at the sight of all that beautiful fruit stacked in crates on the sidewalk looking like they’d picked from the trees that morning, which they probably were. Impossibly orange apricots, as if each had been dipped in paint, peaches so ripe and juicy the bees feasting on them looked elated.
I asked if I could take photos and the greengrocer laughed- not used to the Western attitude of snapping away with every breath we take. That’s when an elderly man, shaky on his legs, passed by clutching the hand of his severely down syndrome son who was smiling away at everyone and receiving many smiles in return. He was also loudly admiring a crate of cherries. The greengrocer heard him and shouted after them, "They’ve just come in, come here, let me put a handful of cherries in your bag”. No money exchanged hands.
Later I walked to Bliss Street where my childhood home was. Someone else lives there now, someone I don’t know and who doesn’t know me yet I feel I have to go at the start of my visit, maybe to tell my old self that I’m back? Maybe to pay my respects to my parents who made it the safe, loving home it was even with a war going on beyond its four walls.
It’s noon on a hot July day in Beirut, yet when I arrive at the doorway of the building where our apartment was, a shiver goes through me. It’s as if the sun retreats for a minute just to let me catch my breath. I walk by unnoticed where once I knew the name of every single person, resident, shopkeeper, barber and butcher and they knew me. The butcher would beckon me over: your mom ordered a kilo of meat and it’s ready now, will you take it up to her? My best friend up on the 4th floor, leaning over the balcony rails would shout out to me, when can you play?
By the time that little girl finally made it up the stairs to the door of our apartment, she could see shadows moving behind the stained glass panel of the front door and voices. Happy, loud bustling voices- my mother welcoming visitors, my brother on the phone to his girlfriend (we only had one static phone placed in the corner of the living room which we all used, as long as the telephone lines weren’t down), or my father with his best friend, out on the balcony playing backgammon, slamming down each checker with intensity for effect.
Now, it’s silent except for my memories.
When I called my boys at the end of day 1, they were too busy to speak to me- there was a table tennis tournament going on in the background. They sounded happy and that’s all I needed to hear. There was no more talk of cancellation or coming back to the hotel.
A couple of days later, I decide to go to the beach. It’s a 45 minute walk to the Sporting Club and the hotel concierge thinks I’m mad not to take an uber or a taxi. The thing is, I tried both and it didn’t work out for me. My uncle lives in the mountains so I had to take a taxi on my second day in Beirut to visit him and it was a total disaster. The car seemed fine when I first got in but the engine kept stalling en route. The driver said it was the poor quality of the fuel (the foul smell of which filled my nostrils). I felt I was stuck with him in this death trap in a country where there’s no highway code and anyone can go in whatever direction they like at any time, even on the motorway. I know this because that’s exactly what my taxi driver did. His knowledge of the roads in that area of Beirut was basic, to put it politely, and he missed a turn whilst we were on a double carriage way. No problem, he said, shifted the gear to reverse and back we went.
By the time we arrived at my uncle’s, I was a nervous and emotional wreck. The trip had been stressful and scary enough but the icing on the cake was that the driver shared his life story with me during it as well. Including the part about how his incredibly bright son had been offered a place at university in the US, a free online degree course which he excelled at. However, it was only free in the 1st year so in order to carry on to his second, his poor father had to somehow come up with the $45,000 tuition required. I stumbled out of the car, shaken, having forked out twice the fare so that I could in some way help towards making his son’s future more promising than his.
After that, walking felt like the best way to get around Beirut.
I make it to the Sporting Club, hot and sweaty after my long walk, dying to dive into their pristine pool. I notice that it’s busy, for a Tuesday, but that doesn’t bother me as the glamorous and beautiful people with the cut out swimsuits and bronzed bodies, are not there for the swimming. They just lounge by the side of the pool, looking like models. I can feel all eyes on me as I don my goggles and start doing laps but they soon lose interest and go back to posing.
As a child I used to come here with my twenty-something sister and spend every Saturday in summer when she wasn’t working. I think back to those days as my focus settles on the strokes but then I falter and swallow water as another unwelcome memory floats into my mind, unwelcome.
I am back to the day when I was in the pool and she was off with her friends socialising. The pool was full of children then and I was tossing a ball back and forth with one of them when the peace was abruptly shattered by the piercing sound of bombs coming our way. In seconds, the pool emptied out as people fled to the changing rooms. I didn’t know what to do when I heard my name shouted out by my panicked sister. She grabbed me out of the water and we ran in the same direction as everybody else. All huddled together in those changing rooms until it had been quiet for a long enough time so that we could sprint home. We later found out that one of the bombs had landed in that pool.
I get out of the water and rest on the sun lounger. I take my time at the Sporting that day, reflecting on all the mixed emotions being in Lebanon involves. There’s no question that I am tethered here by a long and tightly braided rope. It’s umbilical in nature, tying me to where I was born, nurtured by my family and the whole community around me. Over the years, the emotional load on this rope has caused tension risking a break at times.
Over time, I drifted further and further away from Lebanon, especially when I lost both my parents. But recently, I feel like I have rediscovered it. Remembered all the things I didn’t want to forget about what it is to be Lebanese. To be emotionally extravagant, wear your heart on your sleeve, seek the company of others and help whenever you can, without being asked.
I can’t block out the fear that comes with my childhood memories and the deep insecurities instilled in me for life as a result. I carry in me the fear that I am always at risk of losing the people I love. Most of the time, I can keep this voice muted but sometimes it demands to be heard, usually triggered by a loud noise like a slamming door, or even fireworks. But in this moment at the Sporting as I take in the sounds of happy chatter, laughter and good times being had all around me, I am immersed in a feeling of contentment. My sons are about ten minutes away getting to know why Lebanon means so much to me in the hope that it will mean something to them too. And I can’t help but feel that the ghosts of their grandparents are looking over their shoulders, happy to see them so happy.
By now, it’s almost dusk and my brother called me earlier from California instructing me to make a point of watching the sunset from the Sporting. I ask for a glass of something chilled and a bowl of edamame. I am not sure how recent or who brought the trend of edamame to Lebanon but they now grow it locally and the beans are the plumpest, freshest and juiciest I have ever had anywhere (including Japan).
The postcard sight of the sun setting on another day in Beirut is as spectacular as I was led to believe. Nostalgic music is pumping out from the bar (mainly 60’s europop like Dalida), at the right volume so as not to distract from the view but to frame it in time.
I gather up my stuff to head back to the hotel. On the stairs of the club I see 3 elderly ladies making their exit at the same time. I offer to help carry their bags to make the ascent a little easier and we all get chatting. They remind me of my mother’s friends and it’s so easy to connect with them. In fact, they remind me of her. By the time we’re at the top of the stairs we know a lot about each other and they insist on giving me a lift back to my hotel. Getting into a stranger’s car is not something I’d entertain in London but here I readily accept. Not because I was too tired to walk (I was a bit), but mainly because I wanted to be in their company a little longer.
The week wraps up very quickly. I chat to the boys everyday and there’s no sign of their enthusiasm waning. They don’t want to leave camp to have dinner with me and I am fine with that. But I do insist they join a family dinner with my extended relatives and they politely agree- they know, now more than ever, how much family means to me. At this big dinner, the first time I see them since dropping them off 4 days earlier, they are animated and chatty, telling everyone about their experience and recounting the amusing anecdotes that come from these cultural exchanges. I know my sons and am immensely proud of them but I would have never described either of them as that socially confident. Yet here they were, making conversation, asking questions and listening attentively to answers as if they attended large family dinners every night of their lives. I could see how they blossomed as a result of their few days under the Lebanese sun.
When it was time to pick them up, they were sad to say goodbye to their new friends. Their time at the AUB had been both fun and meaningful. As well as trips across Lebanon to visit historic landmarks and areas of natural beauty, they’d spent a day volunteering for a charity, putting together food boxes for families in need and even picked up a few words of Arabic.
That holiday in Lebanon last summer has had a long lasting impact on all of us, personally and as a family. I feel connected to my sons on a deeper level now that they know where I come from. Sometimes you have to block out what your mind says and follow your heart.
