Dying
Two Worlds Collided
In a small city of fewer than 300,000 people
Two immigrants gave a nod at the American Dream
A Guatemalan woman
Met a Lebanese man
He didn’t speak Spanish
She didn’t speak Arabic
And they fell in love with their second language
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Beginning
Lebanon is the most beautiful country in the world. I have known this since I was the wise age of 5, and I knew everything (don’t question it.) As far as I was concerned, I didn’t need to see any of the other countries to make an empirically sound comparison--I just knew. Lebanon had everything a person could possibly want in such a small area--you could go skiing and to the beach on the same day, and it would only be a 2-hour drive or so. As a child, I remember creeping into thousand-year-old caves, fearfully clutching my father’s hand with an iron grip, and jumping into ice-cold rivers with my siblings (and totally regretting it as soon as the cold shock struck). I got to gawk at the vast Roman ruins decorating the city of Baalbak, and have adults joke with me on hikes that I “don’t eat the grass”--because we were hiking in fields of weed and possibly opioids. To this day, when I am sad, or happy, or stressed, or in any particularly extreme mood, I find myself yearning for the familiarity of Lebanese food. It’s famously delicious, but in my heart, it's so much more than that: it’s the ultimate comfort food that hits the spot just right every time. It tastes like home, it tastes like my childhood, and it tastes delicious. And yet, perhaps the most interesting thing about Lebanon is that, according to the History Channel, the previously mentioned Roman ruins are theorized to be an alien-landing site--and I totally believe it. When I was seven years old I definitely saw a blue girl with eight eyes peeking at me from the top of one of the historic pillars (they were very tall.) She had my haircut and crawled like she was on The Exorcist –remember, aliens are in Baalbek, Lebanon, and you heard it here first.
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Home
Nothing compares
To the sense of comfort that goes unnoticed by most people
Hearing the mosque sing adhan five times a day
And the sound of Arabic being spoken by everyone around
Feeling safe with the familiar sounds
Seeing a car appear on the horizon
And wondering which of my 14 aunts and uncles it was
With how many of my fifty-something cousins?
Wondering, what memories would we make today?
Or in Ramadan, being woken at 3 a.m. each day
By a guy marching the streets with a drum
So we all knew, it was breakfast time
Never aware of the lights in our neighbors’ windows
Telling us they were up too
And smelling the freshly baked pita bread and manoushe
Exuding from the cracked windows of the bakery
Who had also woken up early, to make sure we could eat before sunrise
All of those things indicating, we were where we were meant to be
And we were not alone
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How can people who’ve seen such tragedy
still find the energy
To let the mountains echo with the sounds of unabashed laughter
Zaghareets and durbakes
And the unforgettable joy of 3amtous reciting poetry?
Our strength is in our kindness
To a child’s eye our people seemed bullet proof
No amount of horror in our history could dare to stifle the warmth
of our hearts as hot as fire
Why else would so many people seek to live in this paradise?
Our home became an embassy of strangers
a sanctuary for foreigners who would hear
of this Lebanese family who spoke English and Spanish
So whether you were the Swiss-Chilean-Lebanese billionaires across the street
Who had lions and bears for pets
Or the humble traveling nature preservationists from Colorado
Or the German backpackers looking for someone to play soccer with
Or the French family whose kids answered the door in their birthday suits
* * *
Or The-British-family-whose-kids-we-didn’t-like-but-our-moms-were-friends-so-we-had-to-be-friends
Or The-British-family-who-we-loved-and-had-tons-of-sleepovers-with
You will be treated with all the warmth reserved for the most special guests
You will feel like family because you are family
and then you will realize
you are home too.
Magic Little Secrets
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I had a routine on weekends
I’d wake up before sunrise
Sneak into our backyard
Ransack our blackberry tree and feast on my loot
--but leaving two or three survivors
So when my dad woke up he’d see it was fruitful
and never be aware that most goods were stolen
Then, instead of walking out of the front gate
I’d scale the walls guarding our backyard
And walk into the tiny bit of forest by our house
Find somewhere to sit
And wait for something magical to happen.
Then I’d sneak back in
And pretend I spent my morning watching TV
My magic little secrets tucked behind my smile
Rose Gardens in Lebanon
Once in a while
my grandmother would come to visit
with more gifts in her suitcases than clothes
Her footsteps left trails of flowers blooming in her wake
And our home transformed into a greenhouse
of flowers, butterflies, smiles,
and laughter that seemed to sing
How grand it would be to snatch those visits out of the air
and stretch, and tug, and pull them like taffy
Let those moments extend into foreverness
I dreamed of a magic door
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that could open in our home
and exit into hers
Whispers of War
Whispers of war began to echo in all our minds
but surely there was nothing to worry about
War is a thing that happens somewhere else
Loss is a thing other people face
So we were sure things would be fine, and drifted off to sleep
It sounded like a crack of thunder and a million bolts of lightning striking our house
I woke up to the window above my head shaking furiously
My sisters trembling in fear nearby
It didn’t hit our house, but what did it hit?
Something, maybe someone near us had met their end
Fear took over my mind as I wondered, would I follow them?
And so began our nights huddled on a cold basement floor
hoping to slip by death's gaze
Trying to make ourselves small, and unnoticeable
Sleep did not come to me that first night
And the cold concrete kept me up for many nights after
First
They targeted airports
And hospitals
So those who could leave were trapped
And those who needed help
Couldn’t get to it.
And they called us the terrorists.
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One bomb would drop
And before I could recover from the fear
of the trembling basement walls
hiding myself and the scared eyes of my companions
from the realities above
Another would take its place.
Falling and falling
I was left to imagine a kind of destruction
My young mind was not capable of picturing.
With the sky falling down upon us
What could we do but run?
Your country is at war
You are leaving in 12 hours, you can bring one backpack
What would you put in it?
For me, it was:
The first two chapter books I ever read
Charlotte’s Web and Snot Stew
–which I had long since outgrown
My CD player with Dido’s album White Flag
And a golden necklace I’ve worn since I was 7
It looks like a little flower and has Allah written in calligraphy,
And the opening of the Quran on the back.
Despite my efforts, I couldn’t fit my favorite stuffed animals.
I was grasping at straws, trying desperately not to leave my childhood behind,
But by the time we arrived in America, she was dead.
All those goodbyes
With family who did not have the privilege to leave as easily as we could
All those hugs I didn’t savor
Not knowing they would be my last
I’d never find my way back to home’s embrace
Years would continue to pass
With no consideration for how desperately I wanted to stop time
I would sometimes lose track of which loving set of eyes
Were now buried beneath the ground
How their deaths
Shook the ground half the world away
I wish I had known I would never see them again
Then perhaps I would have had the foresight to remember everything
What they were wearing
What our exact parting words were
How their faces contorted with the mixed emotions of showing
Love and sadness at our departure
But I am not a fortune teller
And I couldn’t see the future
The Boat to Cyprus
Within what felt like seconds, the waves I thought would be tranquil
Grew angry and violent
And the faces of my fellow passengers went green.
Once the first person vomited,
there was no hope for the rest of us
It became a domino effect
Of seasickness and dehydration.
The stench of seawater and body fluids—sweat, puke, and who knows what else
Rocked in my belly as I tried for hours
to hold my sickness down.
At some point, I remember being told
To try and reuse bags so we wouldn’t run out.
While even the Marines clung on to the sides of the ship for balance, their faces the same shade of green,
There was my mom
Rushing up and down the isles
Helping everyone.
Silent Prayers
It doesn’t matter how many times I say bismillah
Or how desperately I pray,
I can’t stop the bombs from falling,
Nor stop the planes that drop them off
And fly away not caring where they land
If it’s a family they’re murdering
Or an 11 year old girl’s smile
It doesn’t matter.
I can’t save her.
I can only brace myself as the Earth shakes
Hard enough to mask how hard my lips quiver in fear.
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
I can only put my head and heart against the cold stone ground and pray
That these basement walls don’t fall
That the glass doesn’t shatter in our sleep.
That my mother’s mind isn’t lost trying to protect us but
I can’t stop those things either.
It doesn’t matter how many times I say bismillah
Or how desperately I pray,
I can’t stop my dad’s face from disappearing behind the crowd.
I can’t stop the tears rolling down my cheeks
I can’t stop my dad’s face from disappearing behind the crowd.
I’m at the mercy of the panging in my chest
I can’t stop my dad’s face from disappearing behind the crowd.
I can’t stop the thought that
I will never see my father again.
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
I can’t stop my feet from climbing on board
Despite how hard I’d try if I could.
To meet a place I’ve never dreamed of while my dreams lay waste behind
So many strangers with fear in their eyes
Even the seasickness can’t distract us
And I can’t help but think
What a nice time for a swim
It doesn’t matter how many times I say bismillah
Or how desperately I pray,
I can’t stop myself from the cold sweats and bad dreams
Or the muffled cries I keep to myself
To stop my mom, who’s tired enough, from waking
To comfort her broken child
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
The desperate midnight prayers don’t help me
I don’t know why I bother
With so little space to spare
I can hardly kneel between my air mattress and all the others in the room I share
It doesn’t matter how many times I say bismillah
Or how desperately I pray,
So I don’t bother anymore.
Originally Published in Muftah Magazine, August 2017
Yearning for Death
Was something I gradually slipped into
With no moment of intense decisiveness.
Instead, it was the little things
That eased me closer to the edge.
All I knew was
By the time I realized
I wanted to take my own life
The idea felt like a warm blanket.
Like home.
But it also felt cold
And alone.
I convinced myself
Going through with it
Was the only way
To stop that coldness from piercing my heart.
Fun fact:
The American Citizen Evacuation of the 2006 Lebanese War was, at the time, the largest evacuation of American citizens in history.
Or in other words, the trauma that made me terrified of death and its permanence,
Simultaneously immortalized me as a member of this historic event.
The thing that made me hypervigilant and fearful for my safety,
Simultaneously made me lust for death.
The events that made me feel profoundly Lebanese,
Marked me permanently as a part of this American history.
Mute Creativity
The words won't come out
They cannot seem to escape the clutches of my teeth
Barring them in like prisoners
I would have liked painting a picture with those words
With colors so bright, their song
Would have been more melodious than that of birds
But I have no paint, no canvas,
And my words are behind iron bars
“What’s Suicide?”
I asked.
“It’s when someone kills themselves,” another girl responded.
I was terrified to hear there was a word
For what I had been feeling
And realizing other people felt the same way
How validating to have a word to describe my feelings
And how nightmarish
That enough people never found another answer
For the word to exist in the first place
“I didn’t know there was a word for that,” I said
“Yeah, it’s disgusting.
Only selfish assholes would do something like that,” she responded.
Oh. Maybe I really do deserve to die then.
Temper Tantrums
I was always the kid who screamed
When things didn’t go my way
Which felt more often than not
I didn’t know how to express the pain I felt
over things I didn’t know were so meaningless
But I figured if I had to suffer
Why not wreak havoc on the rest of my home too?
Maybe if I cried loud enough someone might hear me
After arriving in America, the tantrums stopped
The temper withered away
Everyone commented on how mature I had gotten
But in actuality
I had no energy left to cry
And everything was worth crying about
Cedar Trees
My first home
My first love
Tasted like naïveté and blind trust
That the world made sense when nothing does
That parents have all the answers
and are immune to fear, and death, and sadness
My memories formed from rock and sand and smiles
Fields of flowers and fresh river water
and happy worms feasting on fruit
But the after-taste
was gunpowder, smog, smoke
and the awakening realization
Life is not a fairy tale
Decisions
I had been living in wishful ignorance
waiting to go home.
Even though all signs told me this was a fool's dream
It wasn’t safe yet
I knew that.
School was starting here
I knew that too.
Lebanon would need months to function again
I knew that as well.
And yet I waited for the day my mom might tell us to pack up
my one backpack of items
so that we could go home.
But instead she told us we would stay for a while
Instead she enrolled us in school, and started scouting for apartments
When the realization hit, my heart sank into a sullen place of emptiness
My mind aimlessly raced, with nowhere to go, held down by the gravity of our new circumstances
I thought of the life I once knew and wondered, how long would it take for us to be reunited?
* * *
I thought of my family, my father. When would we see him again? When would he join us? How would he?
I would go back to this moment in my mind many times for the rest of my life. Realizing that when I thought I understood the “gravity” of staying, I truly had no idea. The rest of my life would be plagued with wonder of what could have been if we had gone back, or if we had never left. My mind was occupied with everything but thoughts children should have, as I always wondered what the version of me who got to live in Lebanon her whole life would be like.
There was a fork in the road
Where the path was once clear.
I walked down this path
She walked down the other
And her presence
Haunted me