Cedar Envy

I have recently reached the ripe old age of 23. This means I have to deal with the usual quarterlife crisis issues. For those of you gleefully unacquainted with the symptoms, they include (but are in no way confined to): insecurity regarding the near future, insecurity regarding present accomplishments, re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships, nostalgia for college life, boredom with social interactions, financially-rooted stress and loneliness. Being Lebanese in London, I have the honour of adding an identity crisis to the list.

Lebanon has been a diasporic nation for the better part of a century. Wave after wave of people have left its sunny shores and snowy mountain tops (insert Ministry of Tourism cliché about swimming and skiing in same day here) to find better, safer or more lucrative lives abroad. Lebanese migration isn’t merely a product of the tragic civil war, it goes back much further. We are a nation of impatient, excitable little children. We like exploring and selling stuff to people too much to stay in our tiny little piece of land. As always, I will quote someone more eloquent than myself. In this particular case it is a great Lebanese exile, Amine Maalouf, who has made me so jealous by hitting the nail smack-bang on the head: “We all love Lebanon, but we cultivate the passion of exile”.

The Lebanese are in no way unique in their diaspora, although we love to think we are. Diasporas are the product of large-scale migration and nation-state formation in the 19^th and 20^th centuries. Emigration has resulted in cross-generational dispersal of people and introduced them to new cultures and states. It is faced with this novelty that a sense of diasporic belonging evolves (I promise to keep the academic nonsense to a minimum). I only listen to Haifa, watch LBC or eat Fattoush when I’m London. This makes me Lebanese here. The second I’m back in Beirut, I can’t stand the sound of anything vaguely Lebanese. It’s what I call selective patriotism.

Now, I grew up in London. I’m British. But I’m also very Lebanese. I have always felt a sense of attachment to that country, even though I only lived there for 6 years (which roughly translates as 5 car accidents, there’s a conversion table somewhere). What I’ve noticed in most post-colonial societies, is that when you emigrate, you tend to go back to your old colonizer. Just look at Algerians in France, Indians and Pakistanis in the UK and so on. By that logic, I should have ended up in France. Many of my friends and family ended up there, but I got lost along the way. I can assure you it was not my penchant for drizzle which attracted me here.

So in London, I am Lebanese and I am a minority. My friends here are Palestinian, Kuwaiti, Jordanian, Saudi. The only vestige of my colonized ancestry is my French schooling. Followed by American and British universities, classic trajectory for your average Lebanese male. I feel out of place here sometimes. I feel the need to cross the Channel to get a taste of some Parisian rudeness and laziness. I need to feel part of the community of Lebanese there, which includes some of my closest friends. I also feel the need to spend all my holidays back in Lebanon. You can never dissociate yourself from the place. There’s always that nagging question at the back of your mind: ‘When should I go back? When can I? Do I want to?’ In a sense, I think Lebanon is like an ex-girlfriend. You had a great time together, but you grew apart. But sometimes, just sometimes, when its dark and raining and you feel depressed, you have the absurd idea that it might be a good idea to get back together. And it never works out. You get over each other, but you can still have coffee from time to time.