I Only Know Her, Now, the Sea.

08/30/2020

And as I was swimming in her ocean, she sent me signs that she was there. The sea. Connected. Always. I saw her from afar, her voice drew me in like a sirene. The wrath of her unpredictable waves told me that she was still there, active, sending me signals of comfort and reassurance, discomfort and anger. She told me:

“I know you’ve left me, but I know you yearn for me everyday. I know you think about me, about the depths of my deep blue unknown, about the way I always come back to kiss the land I belong to, even about the creatures that live within me. I know I’ve caused you pain. I know. But it’s okay. Because I yearn for you, too.”

She whispered my name, and I yelled back. I tried to leave, I really did, but her current pulled me back, back. I only know her, now.

I wrote this on the way back home from the beach one day. I had been going to the beach in New York City quite frequently, but that particular beach trip was a special one. Libnan, where the Mediterranean Sea meets the rich and beloved shores. I've always had a connection to water since I was little, whether it was the beaches in New York, the lakes in Maryland, or the Ligurian Sea in Italy. This beach trip was at the end of August, a few weeks after the Beirut explosion. The waves were oddly unpredictable in size and intensity, and as I floated, dived, and rode each wave, I liked to think that it was the sea communicating with me. Yes, I know that the sea isn’t something that talks back when you talk to her. But, you know. I know you know.

Ever since I can remember, I remember the sea. Like most Lebanese people who have had the privilege to spend time in Libnan, I remember learning how to swim in the sea, fish in the sea, ride in the sea, take care of the sea, learn the smell of the sea, even the taste. My father would wake up before sunrise to go fishing at the Raoushe. My mother would skip school (sorry, mama) to go to the beach and tan all day with her sisters. I’ve always felt a connection to the sea (I’m also a water sign, so there’s that), and being able to visit the sea always grounds me.

It’s been particularly difficult to be away right now. With the ongoing revolution, the spread of coronavirus, and the explosion, I’m fearful of how long it will be until I get to visit again. The land of the biggest 3abootas and even bigger families, the tastiest falafel, and the most beautiful sea, awaits.

[ it's probably a cultural thing ]

“I heard you waxed your legs…” he said to me while giggling as he nervously scurried out of the gymnasium. It was the end of the school year, and my mom had just waxed my legs for my elementary school graduation. Since we used sikkar, or sugar wax, the sugar had gotten stuck to my skin and caused bruising on my thigh. Visible bruising.

“It’s probably a cultural thing..” two strangers across from me said to each other on the train as they loudly have a conversation about how they see body hair on women. I was coming home from work on a packed train, and my legs were crossed which showed a sliver of skin and hair in between the top of my shoes and the ends of my pants. I didn’t quite get the beginning of the conversation, but I remember loud laughing before I started paying attention to the words coming out of their mouths. 

“You know what Baba told me this morning? He asked me to say something to you about the hair on your legs.” It was May of 2020, and the world was on lockdown due to the Coronavirus. I had just started embracing growing out my hair, and even started seeing someone that only loved it the more it grew. I was staying with the family at the time, and felt uneasy. One, because it’s my body and hair is natural. And two, because I had already planned to wax (by my own decision and on my own time), and didn’t want it to seem like I was waxing because someone told me to. Because my dad (via my mom) told me to.

Hair has been a constant part of my Arab-American life, and the bigger half of it was more negative than anything. So much money, time, patience, and pain has been spent on hair removal all across the family. We would lock ourselves in the bathroom to bleach the thick and dark hair on our backs, get wax burns on our upper lip from trying too hard, and get nauseous from the notorious stench of Nair. Frankly, I got tired of it.

I like to think that the female experience in an Arab household has shifted drastically in the last decade. Along with freedom in career paths, relationships, and style, body hair has taken a front seat at my table of ways to take back control. It’s the freedom to choose; the freedom to choose what I want to keep wild and growing or smooth and hairless. I am navigating my new-found comfort with leaving my body hair alone, and I still struggle in certain situations where I feel like I shouldn’t. Unnecessary comments. Obvious stares. Not-so-funny jokes. Last time I visited Lebanon, I waxed before arriving. Often times I don’t have the energy or patience to deal with comments that I know are coming. I rarely get to visit now because of work, time, and money. I wax and shave not because I feel that I need to, but because I don’t want to spend those two short weeks that I have trying to embarrassingly cover up, or defend my choices to family members.

I’m not sure when I’ll be visiting Lebanon again, but I know that I’ll be growing more confident in myself and my hair in the time between then and now. I will channel those comments and stares and turn them into doors that broaden the image of what an Arab woman looks like. Because she doesn’t look like one thing or another. She is herself. And within that, I want to dismantle the idea that an Arab woman is for you. Because she is not. She is for herself.

as happy as distance

A young girl lived here once

she was as happy

as beautiful

as —

you.

You used to sing to me in your mother tongue

and I will sing to mine

just as you sang to yours.

Morning mists of family

coffee kissed with cardamom

and distance.

We called it the bench of tears

after all the weeps and cries we had there.

Sights of the leaves

silently napping alongside parking meters

and the way you would call my name.

The same way violent cedar winds grazed my face

and entered through my hair.

A touch

a feeling.

It is there, still.

She was as happy

as distant

as she was home,

as she was with you.

A Hopeful New Beginning for Lebanon

Ever since my sisters and I were little, our parents would tell us vivid stories of a life in Beirut before the destruction of the Lebanese Civil War that lasted from 1975 to 1990. My father would explain how he could buy the best falafel sandwiches at the corner store with his own pocket change. He would reminisce about waking up before the sunrise to go fishing near the Raoushe. My mother would describe how she would stand on the balcony and let down a basket tied to a rope that would be filled with fresh bread from the local baker. She would laugh as she remembers the days her and her sisters would skip class to lay on the beach, catching that gold Mediterranean tan. Life was fruitful. Then, stories of life during the time of the civil war soon followed and still float throughout my family today, but never in the same way. The war ended almost 30 years ago, but many would argue that it never truly ended – until now.

In the last decade or so, there have been scattered protests against things like extremely low employment rates, poor waste management, and much more – but this time is different. This time we stand united from all religions, parties, sects, genders, and sexualities. This time we stand united from all around the world. This time we are all fighting for one thing, with all of our differences, and that is for a better Lebanon. One that we all so direly need and deserve.

Lebanon is (no, was) a country plagued by sectarianism from our government to our cities and everything in between. Ruling politicians have been constantly abusing their power for their own personal and financial gains, and have left us with a lack of basic rights and services like clean water, 24/7 electricity, proper waste management, and adequate infrastructure. Last month, several wildfires broke out in different parts of the country that turned our beloved forests into ash. We didn’t have properly working equipment (and leaders, for that matter) to deal with and control the fires accordingly. Shortly after, they proposed a new tax on calls made through WhatsApp, an app that many, if not all, people in Lebanon use on a daily basis to communicate with their friends and family. This was essentially the straw that broke the camels back.

Protesters in Lebanon have been going strong for over a month now. It’s become a part of their routine; wake up, eat, get ready, take to the streets for hours, come home, sleep, and repeat. They are reclaiming public spaces, holding talks and classes all around Beirut, taking initiative to clean the streets every morning, and feeding each other with home-cooked meals made by the hands and the hearts of the people. Brave Lebanese women have been the backbone of it all from acting as human barricades to protect others from police and political thugs to chanting powerful words through megaphones, demanding the resignation of all political leaders. “Killon ya3ne killon!” meaning “All of them means ALL of them”. I’ve never been this proud to be Lebanese.

The Lebanese in expatriation all around the world have also been taking part in this revolution, despite being away from our homeland. Protests have been organized in places like the US, France, Canada, Australia, Italy, Ghana, Switzerland, and more. This is a huge element in what makes this revolution so different; the scale of it all. I currently live in New York, and have been attending protests almost every week since the beginning. There have been weekly organized learning sessions, spoken words, Q&A’s, and fundraisers as well. The Lebanese youth all over the world are finally reclaiming what is theirs and building a better country from the ground up.

I urge everyone to not only become aware of this revolution, but to also recognize the same fight and its importance happening with our fellow revolutionaries in Iraq, Iran, Chile, and many more nations. People all around the world are finally waking up and resisting without fear and without segregation. People all around the world just want a better life for themselves, their children, and every generation that follows.

As I watch the events unfold in Lebanon through my phone screen, I do so with immense hope and a bit of sadness that I am not there with my people. Witnessing this during my lifetime, and especially during my parents lifetime, is so incredible beyond all the words of the world. Sure, this change won’t happen overnight. It’s a long road ahead, but I have so much trust and hope in the Lebanese people now, something we never really had before. We are bravely paving the way for a better country and a better future. Thawra.