Loading ...How to Leave Your Country in the Middle of War
By: Lina AbiRafeh / Arab America Contributing Writer
A few weeks ago, in the unusually empty halls of Rafic Hariri International Airport in Beirut, I could hear the same conversations, spoken in whispers:
What now?
What next?
What should we do?
What will they do?
Expecting to return in two weeks, I left all my stuff behind. More importantly, I left friends, colleagues, my father. Most had no choice. Even some who had a choice chose to stay.
In that moment, I did what everyone leaving Lebanon in the midst of war would do: I bought nuts.
“Bonjour,” said the petite woman barely visible behind the Rifai stand, Lebanon’s signature nut company. “I’ll help you?”
After ogling the display, I bought a bright red bag of mixed nuts with chili-lime flavoring. She put them in a plastic bag that I stuffed into my carry-on, and I rolled reluctantly toward my gate.
Boarding was uncharacteristically quiet. If you ever want to take the pulse of the Lebanese, measure the volume of chatter. I cannot stress enough: we are not a quiet people.
We talk just like we live — loudly. We celebrate each moment with an enthusiasm that borders on madness. Because we know better than most what it means to lose everything. Over and over again.
A few days earlier, I’d been in the middle of a congested area of Beirut when suddenly the streets filled with ambulances, chaos, victims. I saw a man holding his bloodied hand in his hand.
The pager attack was a deliberate hit on a civilian population, meted out by our unfriendly neighbor to try to make us feel insecure, vulnerable, exposed. A new kind of technological warfare we’d only seen in movies. A terrorist attack.
Lebanon shifted into geo-political focus. Palestine, meanwhile, never left. That very same night, Israeli forces turned their venom onto Gaza again, burning homes, killing families, causing a woman to miscarry from fear. And more settler violence in the West Bank. And more Palestinians denied their rights to be safe and free. Denied their right to exist.
This violence doesn’t end. Rinse and repeat.
The threat comes from outside, but the risk inside is that we’ll turn on each other. Lebanon remains fragmented. Sectarian tensions that fueled a 16-year Civil War remain just below the surface — a little scratch and we could be at it again. The best we can do is stand together, hold onto each other, hold onto Lebanon, and brace for what is to come.
No one will save us. We — both Lebanese and Palestinians — no longer expect solidarity from other countries. Betrayal is the norm. Even among Arab countries — everyone has been bought.
Meanwhile the UN issues “strong condemnations” while remaining shamefully impotent, paralyzed by a Security Council driven by the interests of only five countries, and blocked by the US at every turn. At every turn towards peace, that is.
When those whose duty it is to represent and defend us refuse to protect us, we have no choice but to do it ourselves. No one is coming to save us — except us. Inaction in the face of death and destruction is a failure for humanity.
I’ve seen my share of war, working for over two decades in twenty countries to stop sexual violence. I went into this line of work because I believed — perhaps naively — that I could do something good. I may not work on the frontlines anymore, but the frontlines are in my face.
When I spoke out for Palestine — MY country — I was called anti-Semitic, pro-Hamas, anti-American, terrorist-supporter, a “bad feminist,” and much more. I lost friends and jobs. I was — and still am — “a liability.”
Now I also speak out for Lebanon — also MY country. What names will I hear?
Here is what I say: When it is your country being attacked, will you stay silent? Will you allow your own extermination? Or will you courageously face insult and isolation to speak the truth? Will you demand your rights and safety and freedom? Will you fight for your own life — or just stay quiet?
I know what you would do.
That’s what I’m doing too.
Being neutral in the face of injustice is not an option.
If you’ve got a country you can safely sleep in, wake up in, and stay in — consider yourself lucky.
If you’ve got a population that isn’t living out a trauma-response-nightmare on repeat — consider yourself lucky.
If you can hear a loud bang without fearing how close it is and who’s been hurt — consider yourself lucky.
If you don’t have to constantly keep tabs on those you love, not knowing where they are, how they are, and how close they were to whatever just happened — consider yourself lucky.
If you’re able to make certain plans for a certain future without worrying about what might happen between now and then — consider yourself lucky.
If you have a home you don’t have to fight for, explaining yourself each time you come and go, in and out, hide and reappear, wondering if your home will last until your next visit — consider yourself very, very lucky.
Every day I toggle between heartbreak and rage, sitting between a genocide and an invasion. 54 weeks of unprecedented violence, of bloodshed and butchery. I watch my two home countries being destroyed by an insatiable evil, and my third country enables it all.
It is impossible for those on the outside to understand what it means to be a child of war. I was born in the middle of escalating tensions in Beirut leading to its Civil War. In my first few months, my parents spent many nights carrying me down six flights of stairs in the dark, to a makeshift bomb shelter where building residents would seek refuge and drown out the sounds of battle with offers for cake and tea. My first word was “banana,” but my second was “boomboomboom!” It was the sound of bombs falling, destroying everything around us, and our lives along with it. War is baked into my DNA.
When will I go back to Beirut? I wish I knew. Instead, I’m at my desk staring at a plastic bag and writing this blog. As I write, how many have been murdered or displaced? How many families and communities have been destroyed? And this isn’t over yet.
The chili lime flavored nuts are long gone. Had I known what was to come, I would have saved them. Savored them. Or kept just one, lonely in its bright red bag, not to be touched until I board my return flight to Beirut.
Now all I have is the plastic bag. It says: NUT A GOODBYE.
Lina AbiRafeh is a women’s rights expert, activist, and aid worker with close to three decades of experience creating positive change for women around the world. Contact her and sign up for her newsletter: http://www.LinaAbiRafeh.com
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