A little over 10 years ago, I left behind all that I had come to know.
All because of deadly people with no remorse who turned the country that I called home into a war zone.
Lebanon will always feel like home, but here's the story on why it isn't:
In 2006, we fled.
A war broke out in South Lebanon when the Israelis began attacking villages. Because of the attacks, the only airport in Lebanon was forced to shut down. No planes were leaving Lebanon and no planes were coming in. My mom, brothers and I moved to my grandparents' village of Tal Abbas which was the furthest we could get from the war and the attacks. Tal Abbas is about 15 miles from the Syrian border.
I was 8 years old at the time, so my memory is a little foggy, but there are some things I don't think I'll ever forget.
I remember taking a shower one night when I heard a jet fly over my grandparents' house, the house shook along with every bone in my body. I remember the constant, nervous conversations between my mom and my dad who was living in Texas at the time. I remember my grandparents' and uncle's worries trying to help us figure out how to get us on a plane to Texas.
One morning we loaded up our luggage into the back of our Priest's car and he drove us to the Syrian border.
I've known our village priest for a majority of my life. He offered to help because he had some connections at the border which would help lessen the number of stops and searches we'd have to go through. I remember when my younger brother, Nicolas, was getting sleepy but the sun was hitting his face.
Our Priest pulled over and took off his ryasa (the long black garment he wore over his clothes) and hung it on the door and through the window as a curtain so the sun wouldn't hit my brother's face anymore. He was kind.
We made it to the Syrian airport, but there was still a journey ahead of us.
We flew into the Bahrain, where my uncle, George, was working at the time. We stayed with him for 2 weeks before my dad was able to fly in and take us to Texas with him. My brother and I enjoyed ourselves. We ate dominoes every other night, we tried Baskin-Robbins for the first time, and we bought more toys than anyone needed.
We made it to Texas, but it was only temporary.
Not too long after, we were able to return back to our home safely. We flew into the once nearly abandoned airport and returned to our daily routines. We went back to school, to hanging out with friends, and visiting my grandparents again.
I wish I could say that's how it remained.
But it wasn't.
In 2007, we fled. Again.
What we thought was a normal weekend visit to my grandparents', ended in a way we didn't expect. Terrorists snuck into our country and began killing army men. They butchered left and right with no remorse. The roads to our house were blocked off and closed for about 3 or 4 weeks. This resulted in my mom, brothers and I moving back in with my grandparents and the struggle to figure out a new plan started. It felt like deja vu.
My uncle, Rawad, had gotten his green card in order to fly with us back to Texas. The plan was to drive from my grandparent's village of Tal Abbas to our house in Bsarma so we could pack then go to the airport in Beirut which, fortunately, this time, was not shut down. The drive normally takes about an hour but on this day, I swear it never ended.
To make it to our house, we had to drive through a war zone that was marked by army checkpoints at the beginning and end of it. There were snipers in the mountain shooting down on to the road we needed to drive through in order to make it to Bsarma. I don't really know to express the fear we felt. My mom and uncle did their best to not show their anxiousness or even really explain much to my brothers and I. It wasn't until recently that I discovered it was a miracle we made it out alive.
We weren't supposed to make it through the 15-minute drive alive.
The army man told my uncle that he can't guarantee our lives if we chose to make the drive. My uncle drove about 115 miles per hour the entire way. I remember he turned the radio up as loud as it would go, it was an Arabic song but I don't remember the name. I also remember the movie we had playing in the suburban. It was the first 'Night at the Museum' and I had a pair of those big headphones on. I didn't hear anything and I don't really remember how I felt, but my mom told me that they had never prayed so hard in their lives.
My mom told me that a small bomb landed a few feet from the suburban and we felt the impact.
We made it safe.
It felt like deja vu until it didn't. This time, I wouldn't return to my school, or hanging out with my childhood friends, or visiting my grandparents every weekend.
In 2007, I started a new life that I would learn to adjust to.
Living in Lebanon for a good portion of my childhood will always have an impact on the person I am and will become. My family and the friends that I made during my time there will forever remain so incredibly important to me. My mom always cries when she visits them, the people she had to leave behind. I never understood 'happy tears.'
Until now.
