As a member of the Lebanese diaspora, I have often heard stories about Lebanon— stories of the civil war from my parents, stories of the ‘Thawra’ from friends, and stories of the August 4 explosion from family.

The weight of the privilege of living abroad has always sat heavy on my heart. This compelled me to later move to Beirut and study at the American University of Beirut, yearning to experience the beauty of our homeland.

The past month has been a blur, feeling both like years and days.

It began with the pager explosions on September 17th, after which I was too scared to leave my house. The streets of Beirut, which had quickly become my home over the past two years, suddenly felt ominous. As the conflict intensified, and Beirut became a war target, I felt like I was in a constant state of running. It’s difficult to put into words what exactly I felt.  Suddenly, the vibrant street of Bliss – that I once foolishly complained was too crowded –  was left empty of students, and of life.

After constant pressure from my friends and family, I left Beirut for the mountains, succumbing to my own hidden concerns of safety The journey which usually took 30 minutes, stretched to a two-hour car ride as everyone fled the city simultaneously. Throughout the ride, I pressed my hand against my heart, overwhelmed by a million thoughts: Did I pack my passport? Did I bring enough clothes? What will happen to my apartment? What about those who couldn’t leave? How different will Beirut look when I return?

A few days before everything escalated, I had undergone surgery at AUBMC, which required daily visits from a nurse. This added another layer to my struggle, as I needed to find someone to accommodate my condition. The facilities in the mountains were limited, and supplies were already stretched thin due to the ongoing crisis.

In the following days, neither my friends nor I could sleep, we were all in different areas of the country. We heard and felt every airstrike, every impact, despite the distance.  We decided to gather as many necessities as we could and deliver them to the public schools that were now sheltering hundreds. who had fled the South. I didn’t physically enter the shelter, but the image of a woman holding her baby outside struck me. We often become desensitized by the numbers and news we see online, but nothing prepares us for the devastating reality of witnessing the pain and suffering this war has inflicted on so many lives.

After the constant escalation, my parents decided to book me a ticket out of the country and back to them. This was a struggle on its own, as flights were sold out for the next days and weeks. After a few canceled tickets, my flight was booked and ready. I took a bus back from the mountains to my apartment in Beirut, traveling along a road that had been bombed before. A new type of anxiety began hitting me.

I got to my apartment, and not even an hour later, an airstrike hit the Southern suburbs of the city – strong enough to shake the building I was in. I jumped up, panic setting, in as tears streamed down my face. Where could I possibly go? It felt like the explosion was right on my street.

The night of my flight, I headed to the airport at 4:00 AM. By then, the airstrikes on Beirut had become a nightly occurrence. As we passed the targeted apartments all over the city, I saw, it was the physical damage of the war. The taxi driver sensed my anxiety, and struck up a conversation, sharing his experiences—one more story of our nation’s injustices that I will carry with me.

When I arrived at the airport, I briefly considered abandoning my ticket, guilt washed over me for being able to leave, when so many others could not. As the sun began to rise, I waited at my gate and looked out the window, catching one last glimpse of my Beirut. The skies were covered in smoke from the night’s airstrikes – This is not my Beirut.

Now, I sit safely in another country, away from my home, eyes glued to the news, and praying for Lebanon. I find myself uncertain about when I’ll return, and whether things will ever be the same. The guilt that every expat feels, now weighs again heavily on my heart.

This article was submitted anonymously.