by Jinan Ghossainy
“The war has broken out again! We are not going!” sighed my mother as she looked through the window with tears welling in her eyes.
“Again?! When will it end?” I questioned.
“God knows!” she uttered, stunned by the news while sitting quietly, wearing a dazed expression, as if the world around her no longer made any sense. We stood by the door near the packed bags, clasping them tightly perhaps to keep the sense of hope from leaving, but they seemed to be smirking as if they knew we would not travel; they got used to hearing the same story over and over every time.
“When the war is over, we will go back to Lebanon, I promise!” said my mother with a solemn tone full of melancholy. I had heard that countless times. She repeated it constantly, and every time, the gaze of her green eyes was profoundly sorrowful. What did that attachment to Lebanon mean? Why did she insist on returning? Why did she want to leave that place which granted us safety and stability? Going back meant returning to a wrecked homeland with a hazy, uncertain future. I did not understand.
Back then, my parents had got married and were forced to flee the horrors of war, looking for a brighter future. Years passed, and they got used to the foreign land that felt embracing and protective, but my mother always kept Lebanon in her heart and wanted to return. All those years of war, she waited, vigilantly and eternally longing for that moment… that long-awaited instant to cross the vast Atlantic Ocean and return… But would that instant ever arrive? Would that conflict ever be over? Would we ever return? I was too young and did not understand. What I definitely knew was that there was something stronger than anything that tied my mother to her homeland. What was it? What was so special about it? Why was she so eager to return? I did not understand. Even when my friends at school asked me, “Why are you going back to Lebanon?” I always replied, “I want to see my grandmother.” In fact, I didn’t even remember my grandmother, but I certainly knew that she was there waiting for us year after year.
When the war ended—or better to say when the war paused—we finally returned. As years passed, I could finally understand what my mother felt and meant. The reason to yearn for Lebanon, to embrace it, to love it with all her heart and might. Today, I genuinely understand that intense nostalgic sentiment flowing in her blood, a feeling of bonding that only Lebanese can understand. It is a connection that goes beyond depiction. It’s a feeling of belonging, getting a tight grip of what we call identity, trying to grasp everything in our way before it slips away from our hands, and enjoying it while it lasts… a grip of every grain of soil, every leaf of a tree, every whiff of a breeze, every slant of sunlight. It is a unique, indescribable momentum! It is a kind of devotion to our fascinating culture, the timeless and resilient cedars, the majestic, lush mountains, the serene summer breeze; to those trivial but precious moments we always long for… the loud family gatherings, the succulent food, the vibrant nights, and most vitally, the vibes! But what actually does accompany that ephemeral pleasure? Agony! A sense of forged safety pretending to be eternal. An inner turmoil… That sensation of infinite yet painful connection. It is a love story, a kind of mystifying relationship, shifting between passion and ambiguity. You adore it, yet it always betrays you. It gives you the perception that you are secure, but in reality, you are never safe, never calm, never at rest, never relaxed… perhaps at peace occasionally, but only temporarily. That feeling that the war is always behind the door, waiting
for you, is endless. That love haven sometimes gives you the impression that it is the best place in the world, like nowhere, but then it proves you wrong again. It deceives you one time and then another… Sometimes it even tricks you into believing that it will stop hurting you, but it fools you every time. It often sedates you to make you feel better, but then it beats you again, pounding you so hard and so painfully that you can’t resist anymore, so you carry a grudge… momentarily… And then you forgive and return… and believe that this time it is really over and that the pain of disillusionment will fade. Eventually, it assures you that this time everything will be alright, and you ingenuously trust… again, but this incessantly tumultuous and agonising love lamentably disappoints you yet again.
Today, after more than three decades, I live abroad just like my mother. Today, I finally understand and share the same sentiments as my mother, that attachment to and adoration for Lebanon. But today, although I am not nearby, I can hear the blast! I can see and sense the war… an everlasting war that has prevailed for 51 years. I feel its closeness, its grief and despair, its callous savagery, its ruthless aggression, its implacable whip and its merciless bombs. Sometimes silent and cold; other times ferocious and relentless. And, like my mother, I ask myself today: When will this nightmarish cycle break? When will we stop worrying about a possible outbreak each summer? When will we return, and stay? When will we actually feel that we have a country? When will we ultimately have an ordinary, peaceful and safe country? Not a broken one, not a ruined one, not a battered one, not a tired one, not a stolen one… not a hopeless one!! Not a place every time I visit, I find my mother weaker and older with deeper wrinkles etched around her bittersweet smile and bleak glance, each line telling a story of unhealed scars… Scars from a wounded land with no shelter, fragile and exposed, where the sense of escape always feels imminent. Is it some kind of curse? How much longer will we infinitely be doomed to keep suffering, oscillating between an illusory pause and unexpected chaos? Will there ever be a glimmer of hope? When will this interminable war finally end? It’s been a perpetual war that has robbed our youth, stolen our dreams, ravaged our hearts, shattered our peace, and still seems to endlessly persist, bleeding our roots, dwelling in the deepest abyss of our souls, refusing to leave, never longing to cease.
