WELCOME TO OUR LEBANON

This is a piece by us, Salma and Monica, both Lebanese, with two different experiences in the north of our home country, years apart. Two different women, with two different lives, but the same story. This is a piece written about the Lebanon we love, the Lebanon we know, the Lebanon we wish you knew too.

It’s spring time. You wake up in the morning, and you smell it. The oranges, the lemons, entangled with roses and white jasmine. In the evenings, their scent is like a silk, touching your body softly, draping across your skin in the warmth of the night. To your east live the mountains, one continuous line moving up and down the horizon. To the west is a border met only by sea, the warm Mediterranean waters lapping softly at the shore. You are here, in between the two.

Welcome to our Lebanon.

Akkar region, North Lebanon

The evenings are always alive, the houses are left empty, but the streets are full, the people sitting in front of their homes, making, pouring, sharing coffee. A collection of plastic chairs sit proudly in front gardens, like trees of their own, the circles expanding and shifting as different visitors come and go. Howleh, they call to drivers, inviting neighbours, inviting anyone walking by, howleh.

You say yes to coffee, even if you’re busy, even if you’re full. It is a land of hosts here, and coffee is their glue. They call you brother, they call you sister, uncle, aunty, but never stranger. How are you, how’s your health, how’s your family. It’s small talk, but the answers are big. You thank god for their good health, for being alive on this Earth. They reminisce about the better days, speaking softly and sadly of their Lebanon as if she were a struggling flower unable to reach the sun. 

The night eventually takes her hold on all of you, as you walk back along the vacant streets. You sleep with doors and windows wide open, peacefully, surrounded by a village full of family, some by blood, some by choice.

“THEY CALL YOU BROTHER,
THEY CALL YOU SISTER, UNCLE, AUNTY,
BUT NEVER STRANGER. ”

The day begins again. The sun rises slowly, illuminating the mountains with her first light, the rows of olive trees stretching as far as the eye can see. The plastic seats are finally empty, it is the garden’s time to shine now, the morning dew glistening in the early hours of the day. Doors open, and the women of the village find their place in the morning too, tending to their garden beds, breathing-in the smell of every rose, gently holding each flower as if it were a child. It is a ritual which comes natural to them, these women are the strongest flowers, giving love to all the life they encounter.

Another big pot of coffee is prepared, the front yard is swept, ready to welcome new guests, new memories, struggles and whatever else the day may bring. Cups are stacked up on a table, keeping company with the kettle as freshly picked mint swims lazily in the hot tea. A single rose is picked and placed in a vase in the home, a constant reminder of the world outside. Morning greetings are sung into the wind, as the other women start to arrive. One brings freshly baked bread, the others bring questions and talk of the foods they plan to make.

Further north, the farmers have already lived half their day at sunrise, milking their animals, harvesting produce, using tractors, using donkeys to help plough their fields. Herds of sheep fill the main roads, stray dogs finding refuge amongst them. Men sit along the side of the street, proudly showcasing their produce on tiny makeshift stalls, a price scribbled on a piece of cardboard. They compare the fruits of their soils, their hands stained by their efforts. Potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, eggplants, zucchinis, everything.

Akkar region, North Lebanon.

Back in the villages, back gardens are their farms, growing their own food as a way of life, an extension of themselves. Everything is planted with a purpose, flowers that can heal stomach pain, roses that cleanse your skin. These backyards hold every type of fruit imaginable, sharing the space with rows of vegetables and fresh herbs. Pigeons live quietly amongst it, softly cooing, resting before their evening flights. You find cherry trees, plums, pomegranates, grape vines dancing across wooden structures, apricot trees sprouting small white flowers tinted with pink, as if painted by nature herself. These gardens are the very essence of the people, they live life in front yards, nourished by their backyards. 

The people live closely here, multiple generations stacked on top of each other in the same buildings. Life is lived together, if you smile today, everyone in the community will know.  If you are sick, your neighbours will bring you soup and healing plant concoctions. If you are crying, they’ll hug you and ask you what’s wrong. If you are hurt, they’ll carry you to the hospital. If you are hungry, they’ll fill your stomach with their food, fill your heart with their love. Your life is a part of their life. If you suffer, they all do.  

Tripoli, Lebanon.

The women are now cooking, their wrinkled hands covered in olive oil, mixing, peeling, cutting, tasting. Some sit at tables, some sit cross legged on the floor, most are outside, chopping vegetables into big bowls. Eggplant is being charred on the grill, its smokiness billowing into the morning sky. A little bit of salt is needed, a lot more is added. It’s a Sunday and these meals are cooked for everyone. Calls are made, inviting neighbours and siblings to join in this lunch.

Hours pass and the food is ready, an array of colours, flavours served on plates resting on the table. No one eats inside, no one eats alone. There is chaos as arms stretch across the feast, grabbing, serving. Your plate is refilled more times than you can count, an act of love, a language of its own. Fresh bread sits next to a bowl of homemade olives, while arak is poured into small glasses. Everything on this table is from the land, the produce, the alcohol, the people. 

“IF YOU ARE HUNGRY, THEY’LL FILL YOUR STOMACH WITH THEIR FOOD, FILL YOUR HEART WITH THEIR LOVE. YOUR LIFE IS A PART OF THEIR LIFE. IF YOU SUFFER, THEY ALL DO.”

The shisha is brought out, breathed in, exhaled, shared. The smoke mixes with the sound of Fairuz singing gently from an old radio. Everyone eats, everyone drinks, everyone smokes, sings and dances. Food is put aside for those who couldn’t make it, those who will come by later.

The late afternoons are yours to enjoy. You drive up to the mountains, stopping to buy a Manoushe from an earthen oven dug into the cliffside. The women who make these are as old and wise as the mountains themselves. You sit at the peak, the top of the world, beer in one hand, fresh salted almonds in the other. The city sprawls out below you, like a big carpet covered in different colours, life. More music is played, cars stop by to join you momentarily. You introduce yourself, your family name, always finding a connection.    

Some days, it is not the mountains you climb, but the seaside that draws you in with her softness. A different type of life takes places here, ice cream stands line the coast, the children ride bikes, the old men sit with their shisha and coffee, boats offer to take you to the islands. Young men try to sell you a rose to give to your loved ones, others sell balloons, parading down the boardwalk, every child’s eyes lighting up with excitement as they pass. Different music plays from every food cart, each part of your walk narrated by someone else’s lyrics, someone else’s voice.

The sea sits calmly, you can smell the fresh fish being cooked and served in every restaurant. This is a place for lovers, both old and new, a place for you to fall in love again and again with Lebanon. The sun starts to say goodbye, the sky painted by her departing colours. And just like that it’s evening again, you’re back in the village, the plastic seats start to fill, the mountains disappear into the shadows. Howleh they call, howleh.

Welcome to our Lebanon.

With love,
Monica + Salma