December 2024: Is it over?
A ceasefire hangs on by a thread and the return of war is just a tantrum away
I’m too tired to write about this week, I’m too tired to expel all that’s inside me as it’s still making it’s way through my digestive system. All that would come up now is bile and cornflakes.
It wasn’t until I read a post in Arabic that said, “the war ends” that I allowed myself to believe it long enough to let my muscles relax. I let my shoulders drop for an afternoon until the drones came back to sing us to sleep a couple nights later.
I’m home in Beirut now and reconnected to the world after no WiFi for a few days. It’s one thing to be addicted to the internet but it’s another to be addicted in the tense days after a so-called ceasefire and be alone in your dusty apartment. It wasn’t how I imagined my return would be but at least it is a return. At least my dirty dishes are still here waiting for me.
I hate Beirut when it decides to move on. When it decides not to waste any time washing its carcass after we have been buried in mud. My dad’s commentary of traffic went from walla ka2eno fi 7areb to walla ka2eno ken fi 7areb. There have been no days of mourning, no speeches that consoled wounds, no reckoning with what this pause has left us with. There is no talk of ta3weed, damage assessment, or surveys. Instead, there’s money to be made, parties to be hosted, expats to drain dollars from. This is not a place of war, peace grows here. We will not wash the body. We must be grateful and we mustn’t close our eyes to all that we still have. We must take advantage of this eye because more storms always come.
Before the ceasefire, I was thinking about our shrinking proximity to danger. Up until the pagers exploded on the torsos of our men, the South was considered far away enough that the war there was not our war. As Israel published death notices on Twitter, the proximity to danger shrunk to a mere few kilometers. In the final weeks of November, it was reduced to blocks. Then on November 26th, Israel rained terror on us all. You will be safe nowhere. Now, I think about the ceiling collapsing when I’m in the shower, or in my bed, or sitting on the couch with Penny curled up on my feet. I can’t turn off my internal siren.
Once again, we have no ending or closure. The bleeding continues.
It’s like how we say al marfa when we’re talking about the explosion but al por when we’re talking about the port as a place even though the words mean the same thing. It’s like how on the day after most of Beirut didn’t sleep because of Israeli strikes on Basta at 4 in the morning, multiple people talked about where they were on August 4th. It’s like how those of us who are old enough keep referencing the summer weeks of 2006.
On Sunday morning, I drove on the usual road to my parents’ house which is on the outskirts of Dahiyeh. I passed 7-8 crushed buildings, including one scattered across the street like a fallen Jenga tower. Peoples’ entire lives neatly corralled on the side of the road like the pile of dust on my kitchen floor. On this particular route, there were more pictures of a smiling Sayyed Hassan than dropped buildings. I unexpectedly had a breakdown while driving down the highway. It smelled like it does after fireworks. That, and burnt plastic.
Many southerners (and others) have returned home and to see them do so was cathartic. The borderlands remain inaccessible, under an occupation we won’t admit is happening. I want to go South and then I remember that there is no house to return to, that there may not even be a stone left to pocket if we ever get to see the rubble.
I have friends that suggest a short flight somewhere as a breather but, beyond my finances not being where I’d like for a vacation, I’m also afraid of being abroad when it’s safe to go South (or worse, being abroad as war kicks off again). I don’t want to miss the first return to the jnoub even if it’s to visit a giant gravesite. I want to see if there’s something to save but every morning since the ceasefire, I wake up to a notification from the death watch beetle (I don’t want to unfollow him yet). Every morning, he tells us that our southern belt, the one that they stole, is still off-limits.
Unsurprisingly, the only acknowledgment of what we just went through comes in the form of an email from a local group of anthropologists who host monthly salons. In it, they write that no meeting will be held in December as, “we want to respect the space needed for returning home, mourning, processing, or welcoming people arriving back.”
I’m afraid to hope and I’m also weary of vigilance. Death has not left this land and it still visits our neighbors daily. Reaching for delirious yet fleeting joy is tempting. The desire to be irresponsibly decadent is a dying star we keep chasing like moths to a fading green light across the water.
I have some restrained relief in all this but it feels incomplete, it doesn’t feel over.
The dust won’t settle, it’s just another eye.
Dear Farah, I am South African, as in this is where I was born and live, but I don't see myself as such. I am as Lebanese as the genes that pulse through my veins. My heart and soul and genetics have always belonged to Lebanon. As such, I too am holding my breath as days roll on, regularly checking in with friends and family to make sure that they are safe. Every day my heart breaks, albeit from afar, as I see historical sites, buildings and homes and livelihoods demolished. My heart is broken and yet I wait in anticipation for the indomitable Lebanese spirit to rise again. I pray that the spirit has not grown too weary after too much heartache. Please know that there are too many of us to count around the world who may not have been born in Lebanon but we are as much Lebanese as you, doing what we can. We stand with you all. Sending love from Cape Town, South Africa. Sophia xx