Stephani Moukhaiber

Workplace experience consultant by profession and an activist since the Oct 17 revolution. She is the chair of the global communications of Meghterbin Mejtemiin uniteddiasporalb and is the co-founder and publisher of al_rawiya magazine, the first digital publication of its kind, which aims to inform and engage the Lebanese diaspora in the hopes of creating a better future for the country.

Pushing my baggage through the arrival gate, I notice a face I haven’t seen in 7 years. I hug my cousin hard and take a second to finally breathe out all the suffocation I felt from this “strangeland”. *inhale*, *exhale*, Beirut, I’m home. That feeling is everything. It’s both comfort and discomfort, warm and spiteful. It’s a feeling that within seconds makes you know who you are, where you come from, and where you belong.

I arrived on a Friday afternoon, and in Lebanon post-5PMs on Friday means happy hour drinks and weekend preparations. It also means traffic jams. Yet, I think it was the fastest ride home from the airport I had ever experienced. My cousin, who is also an expat visiting and the designated driver, provided an explanation, “no gas no traffic”. And then, lo and behold, cars lined up in the middle of the highway, stretching as far as we could see, and causing incredible amounts of chaos. Sadly, the line was pointless, the gas station was closed. Can you imagine waiting for 12 hours to refuel only to be turned away? In response, people would just leave their cars parked and come back the next day to pick up where they left off. Such instances and sights recurred frequently throughout my trip. 

It was only when we left the city’s mayhem and reached the mountainside that the loudness and craziness of Beirut slowly drifted away, allowing my mind to get carried away by the curvy mountain roads. I live in Montreal. I don’t get to drive up mountain roads overlooking coastal views like these.I guess when I lived in Lebanon, I never paid enough attention to it. But now, it’s the first thing I look forward to, it adds charm to the beauty that is my country and specifically my home that rests on a hill called El Roueisseh, in my hometown of Beit Mery. I hadn’t visited Lebanon in the summer since 2015. I had been looking forward to this vacation for a while. 

The beauty of the mountain roads was only topped by the embrace of my grandfather, my aunts, and my younger cousins. I was holding back my tears, it had been way too long and no family should be separated like this. But the truth of the matter is that every other Lebanese family is in a similar situation. As Lebanese expats we are forced to seek better opportunities abroad, due to the incompetent, elitist, sectarian, and criminal government that has made it impossible for us to stay. We never get to see each other grow up and grow old, rarely do we meet each other’s kids. We never celebrate birthdays, holidays, weddings, nor do we get to grieve as a family. It’s incredibly painful, no matter how much you try to ignore it. 

Throughout the next two weeks, my best friend from Canada, who was visiting with me, and I were exploring Beirut. It was practically our only destination since it was the furthest a taxi could take us, seeing as my family cars were out of gas. Driving in the city was hard to take in, especially at night when you’re plunged in absolute darkness and you’re left feeling insecure in the cab late at night. The increase in poverty was very noticeable. Particularly gut-wrenching were the young kids begging on the streets, in larger numbers than usual . Today, over 70% of Lebanese people live under the poverty line, with no access to electricity, and clean water.

Passing near the port felt even worse. Like a punch in the stomach that forces you to go silent. Seeing the site of the explosion and then walking through the streets of Mar Mikhael and Gemmayze rendered me perplexed. On one hand, I could see destruction, buildings damaged, and the shattered silos at the port. On the other hand, I could see the NGOs and activists endeavoring to rebuild beautiful heritage homes, buildings, local stores, and bars. Their efforts fuel our fight as activists abroad. 

It’s a little absurd how conflicting Lebanon can be for an immigrant as opposed to someone living there. The dichotomy between it being a short lived vacation, a dream of sorts, on one hand, and an inescapable prison hell on the other, is just a mere representation of this tiny country’s complexity. People line up as early as 2 AM at the General Security to renew their passports so they can leave. Everyone is just waiting to get a visa so that they can escape.  So why do we, the Lebanese diaspora, feel a strong urge to go back?

I’ve always experienced Lebanon as a paradox; an imbalance so perfect your mind simply couldn’t grasp it. Despite the gas crisis, the power outages, the heat, the medicine shortage, the inexistent healthcare, and the collective depression, these were still by far the best two weeks. You might find that odd but let me explain… I left Lebanon in 2012 having made a firm decision to cut the country out of my life. But then the “October 17” revolution happened in 2019, and I found myself at the forefront of the diaspora movements and an avid mobilizer among the United Diaspora network (Meghterbin Mejtemiin) in Montreal, Canada. Lebanon had found its way back to me in my exile.  

So, visiting this summer with my friend from Montreal finally bridged the gap between my old life in Lebanon and my new one here in Canada. She got to meet my family, my childhood friends, my partner, and saw where I grew up. It felt amazing knowing that the most important people in my life now knew each other and were able to piece together the different parts of me, without requiring further explanation. Up until that trip, my life resembled a game of “téléphone cassé”—the game of telephone or Chinese whispers—always filled with missing information, lost in transit. When you leave your country of origin you find yourself in a sort of haze, unsure of who you are, who you have become, and where you belong. You carry the burden of your identity on your shoulders. The minute you land abroad you are given a new label: immigrant. Your heart breaks in two, the first half rooted at home and the second starts to plant itself in a new place. 

This trip reminded me of all that was, and all that will never be again. All I had and all that was taken away from me. I was very close to bowing out from my fight for Lebanon, until this trip. What is happening to my Lebanon today is paralyzing. Loss, hopelessness, and distress have become part of the daily routine. But I, as an expat, refuse to overlook the seeds that my parents and grandparents have planted. I choose to let them guide me back to where it all started, to that little hill in El Roueisseh, in my hometown of Beit Mery.