If I started talking about war in Lebanon, I don’t think I’d ever stop.
The war here isn’t some distant event, it’s a cycle that returns every few years, tearing through our lives like a relentless storm. People barely get the chance to rebuild their homes, to feel safe within their walls, before they’re displaced again, left to pick up the pieces of a shattered existence.
I come from the South of Lebanon, from a town called Rmeich, a village closer to Israel than it is to Beirut. War isn’t just part of my history; it’s been woven into my entire life. I’ve watched the world around me shift, contort, and collapse under the weight of violence and despair. I lived through it in 2006, and I am living through it again now.
Since last October, the sound of bombings has been the rhythm of our days. Each explosion reverberates through our bodies — a jarring reminder of the fragility of our lives. Fear became a constant companion, nesting in the corners of our minds and hearts, whispering that safety is an illusion. It permeates our thoughts, wrapping around us like a heavy shroud, making every moment a struggle to breathe. The stress settles deep into our bones, clinging to us like a second skin, making it difficult to find solace, even in the quiet moments. Survival is no longer a choice; it is the only way forward, an instinct that overrides everything else.
In a desperate attempt to cope, we throw ourselves into busyness, engaging in mundane tasks to distract ourselves from the chaos outside. We clean, cook, and occupy our minds, hoping that if we stay busy enough, we might forget – even for a moment – the darkness that looms just beyond our doors. But the explosions still shatter the silence, echoing through the streets and reminding us of the reality we can’t escape. No earphones are loud enough, to drown out the shaking of the ground or the rattling of windows, which tremble with every blast.
If you ask me, “Is it really that bad?”— I’d answer you; “It’s worse”. There’s a numbness that envelops us, a thick fog that dulls our senses. We find ourselves in familiar places, but suddenly, they feel foreign, stripped of their warmth and vibrancy. The playground where we once ran freely, unburdened by the weight of the world, has been reduced to rubble, bearing witness to our pain. The spaces that were once alive with joy and memories have been silenced, and the memories tied to them have vanished too, as if they were never real. They slipped through our fingers like grains of sand.
How can you hold onto a memory when the place that birthed it no longer exists? The laughter, the joy, and the moments of pure happiness are now overshadowed by the stark reality of destruction. We search for solace in the ruins, trying to piece together the remnants of our past, but it is impossible. The ghosts of our memories haunt us, reminding us of what once was, filling our hearts with an aching void…
Elise Choufany
Elise Choufany is a premed student pursuing a Bachelor of Science in Biology with a minor in Chemistry at the American University of Beirut.