Category Archives: Life

My First Airplane Ride

As I made it clear earlier, yours truly had never been on a airplane. Yes, I know it´s hard to believe for many of you but I was an airplane virgin up until very recently.  Last week to be exact.

I packed my oversized bag, put it in the bus that took us to Beirut International Airport (which in my head will forever be its true name). We got searched a little by General Security and then we went on board.
My first airline was Turkish Airline. And my first impression was: this is much smaller than I expected. The plane was quite compact.
I´m not sure if it was the airbus make but the thing was definitely much, much less impressive than I thought it would be inside.

And so I sat on an aisle seat. Yeah, not the best seat but that´s my luck. Next to me sat a non-Lebanese looking woman who basically remained silent throughout the whole flight.

Then it was time to take off. And the Lebanese guy sitting next to that woman started to Cross himself frantically. I followed suit. Not as frantically but I did Cross myself. After all, it never hurts, no?
And the plane started to lift off. The feeling was weird. It was like your stomach was rising inside your abdomen and then my ears started ringing. I felt naucious but I wasn´t afraid. It was more like excitement. But I really wanted that window seat and so I kept looking out at the window, trying to see the Beirut skyline as it faded. I´m half sure the woman thought I was staring or attempting to flirt. But no, she was quite older.

For the remainder of the flight, and even though I hadn´t slept the night before, I just couldn´t fall asleep, no matter how hard I tried. I looked around and the people I was traveling with were all snoring. Then breakfast was served. Not very impressive but you can´t go wrong with butter and jam and bread. The service was quite hospitable and warm, though.

And soon enough, it was time to land. After all, my layover in Istanbul cut the flight short. And if I ever felt nausea in my whole life, that was it. To say that my ears rang during lift off, I have to say my head was pounding as the plane descended. More like, my ears were beating and ringing like an 808 drum. But the plane landed… and then my group thought I got lost in Istanbul.

But that´s another story…

To Joseph

I said bye to you a few days ago – blame it on the French people for my early farewell.

But there are things that you cannot say to someone’s face – especially if the person who’s supposed to say them is someone like me.

Dear Joseph,

You’re going away for a year. You’re probably getting ready to leave to the airport now and you won’t get to read this until later. But it’s fine. I’m sure mom is crying now – or at least getting her tear-ducts ready for the upcoming waves. But it’s ok. You know why, because even though you might be seeing her cry and it will hurt you deep inside to let her go, you have to.

You’ve quoted this a while back on your Facebook profile. And I’ll say it again. “Moving on with the rest of your life starts with goodbye…”

Remember this sentence in your darkest days in Portland, when the only thing you want to do is come back and be with your Lebanese family again. Remember it when someone bullies you at school. Remember it when the only thing you want to do during one of Oregon’s many rainy days is to crawl up in bed and sleep…

You’re one of the strongest people I know. And you’re also one of the best people I know. And that’s not just because you are my brother. You were chosen to become a foreign exchange student because they saw in you an honorable and polite and decent Lebanese student who can give the best image possible about his country to people who don’t even know his country exists.

So be strong like you always are. Watch out for your sharp tongue. It will get you in trouble with people who might get you wrong or not be as used to your bursts as we are here.

Remember you have a family that loves you and who will always be there for you.

And even though you’re driving me mad with playing “Rolling In The Deep” in the next room as I’m typing this, let me tell you a secret. I will really, really miss you. It’s going to be hard to get used to you not being here, but you’ll only be a minute away, right?

So for now, I’ll leave you and wish you a safe flight and a happy time. Have fun. Enjoy the United States till you can’t hold your joy anymore, till your lungs feel like a balloon about to burst and till your muscles ache from laughter… for it is that happiness that you deserves.

P.S: I still got to go on an airplane before you.

Elie

Off to France and Spain

I’ve never traveled before. Ever. Unless you count that brief two day trip I took to Damascus last December and the one before to Northern Syria in July.

Well, if you do, let me tell you this: if you don’t go to your destination in an plane, then you haven’t really “traveled.” At least that’s how I understand it to be.

But I digress.

In a few hours, I will be taking my very first airplane ride to Southern France where I will spend four days before heading out to Spain for a thirteen day excursion.

I’m definitely excited. But also quite anxious. It could be that I haven’t packed yet. I just look at the suitcase and decide there’s still time.

My stay in Spain will involve three cities: Toledo, Madrid and Sevilla. No Barcelona for me, sadly. But I guess there’s a time for everything. And with a Schengen on my passport, it’ll be easier to go there some other time.

While in Spain, I will be participating in the international Catholic Youth Day, formally known as JMJ: Journee Mondiale de la Jeunesse, which will be an opportunity for me to meet the pope – although I have low hopes about actually “meeting” him unless you consider spotting someone in a sea of a million people “meeting.”

While I’m definitely not the most religious of people, I think this will serve as an opportunity for me to meet lots of new people. Let me tell you a secret though, my group is going to miss out on most of the religion sessions and we’ll be going touring the cities we’re in. Awesome, right?

France should be great as well. I’m not doing the cliche France trip of going to Paris and staying there for the whole vacation, which I honestly would have loved to do – there’s just something about Paris, right? My French stay will give me an opportunity to practice my dying French skills. Yes, AUB, I blame you.

A woman in my travel group is of Argentinian origins and she was giving us Spanish lessons the other day in order to get around in Spain. Apparently the people who speak something other than Spanish are rare over there. Who would’ve thought? Needless to say, only one sentence got stuck in my head. And no, it’s not good morning or good evening.

“No habla espagnol, habla inglese?” will be my motto for the upcoming two weeks. I’m sure you can deduce what it means quite easily.

As for now, I’ll leave you and hope you come to read the posts that I’ve written and scheduled to be posted. There will be a book reviews, a short story split in seven parts, among other things… And if I get the chance to tell you how my French and Spanish adventures are going, well, why not, I guess.

Don’t Take Your Health Lightly


I’ve found this to be an almost natural – and quite comical – attribute to the Lebanese person (and possibly applicable everywhere too), which is: there’s nothing wrong with me unless I can’t stand on both feet anymore.

Take my mother for instance. Yesterday evening, she was shaking and trembling, suffering from acute pain in her lower back area, and she was hypothermic. I insisted we’d take her to the hospital because what was happening to her was not normal. But she vehemently refused. And soon enough, after taking a collection of over-the-counter drugs, she felt good enough to function.

My dad woke me up this morning, a scene that is oddly deja-vu, to tell me that we have to take my mother to the hospital. Why? She was having the exact same episode she had the night before. So we took my mom to the hospital and she got examined by an ER doctor who determined that she might be suffering from kidney stones. Further tests need to be done, obviously, but this is not something that over-the-counter drugs can fix.

The scene of my dad waking me up to take my mother to the hospital is deja-vu because it happened eighteen months ago when, after suffering from a mild stomach-ache which she dismissed as stomach flu, my mother couldn’t walk from pain in her lower-right abdomen the following day. Yes, you guessed it: appendicitis.

And the “funny” thing is that this doesn’t apply to my mom alone. Have you ever found yourself in the midst of those visits where people start chit-chatting about their health and prescribing drugs to each other? Well, if you haven’t  let me lay out the scenario.

Person A knocks on person B’s door. Warm Lebanese greetings ensue. Person A enters and sits down. Person B goes to prepare coffee or calls up on the maid to do so. Coffee is served. Person A and Person B start chatting about the most mundane of things. Then Person A mentions that they’ve been having this weird rash on their back. Person B knows just the thing for that! This ointment that he got prescribed by Person C who got it from Person D, etc…

It baffles me how some people can conceive and fully accept the idea that they know more about their health than a physician who went through a decade long educational process and who – in his/her most rudimentary mental form – knows at least a little more about that rash or ache.

So people, instead of seeking help from people who’s only medical knowledge is what they watch on Doctors, how about you go see a real doctor next time? Pain is the body’s way of telling  you something’s wrong. Consider it as a text message. You always reply to text messages (when you have credit). How about a text message that might be the difference between you staying alive or dying?

The July 2006 Lebanon/Israel War: My Story

This is a guest post by my good friend Hala Hassan.

Hear it from those who were there.

A neighboring country at war, you sympathize.

Innocent civilians torn into pieces under the wreckage of their houses, you shed a couple of tears.

Frightened children and sick elderly begging for international intervention, you pray deaf ears listen somehow.

But what if you were that citizen in that country, held up in your house, scared like you’ve never been, reciting every single prayer that ever crossed your mind for those bombshells to stop and those warplanes hovering in the sky to go away…

Yes, it’s been 5 years since “July war”, “the 33 days war”, “the 6th Lebanese/Israeli war” or whatever they want to call it. But for that traumatized girl, it still feels like yesterday…

To survive a war is one supposedly satisfying ending. Not to have lost a family member is considered a blessing. But for a 17 year old, survival was not enough to overcome such an altering experience: A slamming door, a blowing wind, even fireworks… any sound still triggers her fearful memories and is capable of causing her a panic attack.

She still remembers each day and date in the intricate details of their events. She still remembers that Wednesday July 12th when her father called asking her not to be alarmed if she hears distant explosions. She remembers how he came back that afternoon ‘whistling’ trying to make her and her sisters feel like everything was just fine. She remembers how she had to share a bed with her older sister that night, freezing at instances and suffocating at others out of fear.  The warplanes had started violating her sky that day. They wouldn’t leave till late August.

She still remembers the following two days she spent in the supposedly “safest room” of the house – back then “safe” meant having a double ceiling, no glass windows and least furniture – and how she kept on squeezing her mom’s hand relentlessly all night like a 2 year old.

She still remembers the voice that emanated from the radio, her only way of communication with the world, asking her and other Southern residents to leave their villages. Or else. That radio also conveyed news about those innocent civilians, who got betrayed by their naïve expectations, upon leaving their houses thinking that a white flag would save them from being savagely murdered.

She still remembers that shelter in her grandparents’ house: a tight narrow tunnel lacking light and at some points oxygen in which she sought mistaken safety with other family members and neighbors. She still remembers the smell of those sweaty fearful souls and the cries of those frightened hungry kids.

She still remembers July 19th when her peaceful village was attacked by deadly showers of cluster bombs, those internationally banned bombs that kept on dropping like rain for hours during which she felt the epitome of fear, leaving behind a dead woman and many serious injuries. She still remembers that awful silence following the disaster, a silence which was not broken until a few of hours later by the siren of an ambulance that waited a long time to be given permission to come for rescue.

She still remembers July 21st when a vehicle of the Lebanese army was bombarded in her village leaving behind severely burnt soldiers, even though the army was left outside the equation back then.

She still remembers her 8-year-old sister hugging her physician father as he was leaving them to help in rescue efforts, begging him not to leave as everyone watched the scene and wept.

That day was her last in her beloved village because the citizens whose cars “survived” the attacks decided to leave. Food, water and medication had become scarce. And most importantly it had become obvious to them that they were targeted to be killed.

That day she saw her father covering their car with a big white piece of fabric. She saw frightened people struggling for seats in the leaving cars, which got stuffed with traumatized flesh and blood seeking refuge…. The last face she saw was that of her grandfather at the house gate. He refused to leave because for him life does not exist beyond that gate.

She still remembers that cursed journey to the Bekaa, every moment she spent looking through her window praying for that Apache not to show up in the sky and turn her and her family into pieces. She still remembers those endless days she spent crying and thinking of the life she left behind, wondering if she’ll ever be back.

Who said time makes people forget their previous fears and overcome past sufferings? Well, here is something that girl has come to learn: child or elderly, woman or man, illiterate or educated, everyone who survived that war has suffered and still is. They are all hidden victims that no one ever bothered to soothe their psychological needs and problems.

That 17 year old is turning 22 soon. She is a graduate of the American University of Beirut and planning a medical degree, which makes her someone who supposedly has been provided with the best education and environment to overcome whatever distress she has been through. And yet that girl is still held up in that summer. As a friend of hers always suggests, therapy might be the best solution for her condition. Therapy might put an end to the nightmares. It might alleviate the effects of the past pain… but the scar will always remain, carved with blood and tears in her memory.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. For that girl, this saying has become a belief. 4 days after the battles stopped, there she was, back in her village along with most of those who left, challenging all the difficulties and threats. Everyone had one common goal: rebuild the destruction, heal the wounds and restore life in their beloved South. After all, it’s Lebanese determination that was being tested. Who is better at acing such a test than those who have endured vicious wars throughout the years, one after the other? History will probably keep on telling their stories of glory and courage until the end of days.