More than a country, a message.

"Give me the money that has been spent in war and I will clothe every man, woman, and child in an attire of which kings and queens will be proud. I will build a schoolhouse in every valley over the whole earth. I will crown every hillside with a place of worship consecrated to peace." Charles Sumner

Lebanon has been bleeding for 19 days. I have wanted to write something about what is unfolding, but have refused to. I have refused to admit to myself that this is all happening again. I have refused to believe that all our efforts at unity and reconstruction are being decimated from the skies. I have refused to believe that hundreds of thousands of my fellow countrymen would be displaced again, in the most brutal of ways. I have refused to believe that tens of thousands would leave the country again, after working abroad for years in the only hope that they would return to our Lebanon's rich soil. I refuse to believe that tears of blood will run down Lebanon's sapphire coasts yet again.

However, today, I cannot refuse anymore. The suffering is real, and getting worse. The wounds are deep. The deaths are mounting. José Narosky once said that in war, there are no unwounded soldiers. I think the same is true for civilians. Whether you are under bombardment, or in the relative calm of the mountains, you are scared and scarred. I get messages from friends huddled in nightclubs in Faraya, with a seemingly grotesque insouciance. But I don’t judge them; I know it’s a way of coping with tragic loss. Collective amnesia, a willingness to erase what is happening. A wish, much like mine from the comfort and safety of London, to believe that this is a bad dream, and that we'll wake up to our shiny new Lebanon tomorrow.

I feel a mixed sense of egoism and perverted relief that my family is safe. The respite is brief though, as I have all my friends in my thoughts every moment of the day. I worry about the local grocer, I worry about our cleaning lady, I worry about all the people you'd cross on a daily basis and give a village-like wave to from your car window as you drove past. I watched 'foreign nationals' being evacuated like cattle from the ports. Mothers crying because there was no place left on the ships, and their sons and daughters were scared. Mothers being maternal, instinctively wanting to protect their children from the horrors they had to endure 10, 20, 30 years ago.

The outpouring of concern and support I have received from friends in London and around Europe has been moving in the extreme. I feel guilty receiving it though; it is the people in Lebanon who need it. I also feel guilty for watching the conflict from the safety of a European capital. In some twisted way, I wish I was there under the bombs. Living with the constant, impending threat of warplanes. With the rationing of gasoline, electricity, water and most importantly hope. I feel less Lebanese for not sharing in my nation's plight.

My first taste of Lebanese history was provided to me by a book I received for my ninth birthday. It was a slim volume called 'L'Histoire Illustrée du Liban' by Larousse, which every Lebanese kid had. I remember browsing through it and coming up to my parents a few hours later asking why Lebanon had always either been occupied or at war. I'm not sure I understand to this day quite why our nation and indeed our region is beset with such a lamentable destiny. Over thousands of years Lebanon has been destroyed, and it has been rebuilt by the strength of its people. Even though we are a nation weary, this time will be no different.

Nasri Atallah

Mon Pays de Nadia Tueni

MON PAYS

Mon pays longiligne a des bras de prophète.
Mon pays que limitent la haine et le soleil.
Mon pays où la mer a des pièges d'orfèvre,
que l'on dit villes sous marines,
que l'on dit miracle ou jardin.
Mon pays où la vie est un pays lointain.
Mon pays est mémoire
d'hommes durs comme la faim,
et de guerres plus anciennes
que les eaux du jourdain.
Mon pays qui s'éveille,
projette son visage sur le blanc de la terre.
Mon pays vulnérable est un oiseau de lune.
Mon pays empalé sur le fer des consciences.
Mon pays en couleurs est un grand cerf-volant.
Mon pays où le vent est un noeud de vipères.
Mon pays qui d'un trait refait le paysage.

Mon pays qui s'habille d'uniformes et de gestes,
qui accuse une fleur coupable d'être fleur.
Mon pays au regard de prière et de doute.
Mon pays où l'on meurt quand on a de temps.
Mon pays où la loi est un soldat de plomb.
Mon pays qui me dit : "prenez-moi au sérieux",
mais qui tourne et s'affole comme un pigeon blessé.
Mon pays difficile tel un très long poème.
Mon pays bien plus doux que l'épaule qu'on aime.
Mon pays qui ressemble à un livre d'enfant,
où le canon dérange la belle-au-bois-dormant.

Mon pays de montagnes que chaque bruit étonne.
Mon pays qui ne dure que parce qu'il faut durer.
Mon pays pays tu ressembles aux étoiles filantes,
qui traversent la nuit sans jamais prévenir.
Mon pays mon visage,
la haine et puis l'amour
naissent à la façon dont on se tend la main.
Mon pays que ta pierre soit une éternité.
Mon pays mais ton ciel est un espace vide.

Mon pays que le chois ronge comme une attente.
Mon pays que l'on perd un jour sur le chemin.
Mon pays qui se casse comme un morceau de vague.
Mon pays où l'été est un hiver certain.
Mon pays qui voyage entre rêve et matin.

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