mylightspirit

May 25, 2000. I was 8 years old. I remember that day, like it was just yesterday.

We were at school. It was an unusual day; we were told we’d be let out early. The land was liberated. As a kid, I didn’t understand what was going on. Everyone was just super happy that day. I barely knew how the world worked back then. But I remember the joy! My grandpa drove us in his white Mercedes W123 Coupe; my grandma beside him with my cousin Yara on her lap, and in the back, my mom, my brother Hikmat, my cousins Farah and Tala, and I. He took us to an amazing, enchanting new part of the world. It was as if we were in Wonderland.

You know, Alice in Wonderland? We were in our Wonderland. Wonderland of Maydani valley; a new part of Kafarrouman village we never knew existed. It was the 1st time we’d seen it, all five of us kids fascinated by this new exploration. This was the part of the village that had been occupied since before we were born. It was the 1st time we saw it with our own eyes. My grandpa told us and my mom how these fields used to be full of citrus trees, all kinds of oranges and lemons, and how this side used to be a valley of flowers. It used to be so beautiful. Everywhere we looked, there were queues, crowds, noise, bursts of joy and happiness; I couldn’t imagine how anything could be more beautiful than this. It was enchanting. They took us up to the mountain locations that used to be Israeli military bases, now empty.

We looked at everything left behind. I remember the smell; the military bases, the oil, the gunpowder. I remember the voices, the place. It was something I never knew would shape my memory this much. At 8 years old. I remember my grandma trying to teach my cousin Yara to say my name. She couldn’t; it was too hard for her. That was funny.

And yet my grandpa kept saying it used to be even more beautiful than this; much, much more. I couldn’t believe him. It was a part of heaven. How could anything be more beautiful than what I was seeing, for the 1st time, right in front of me?

May 25, 2026. At the national theater in Hamra, I’m attending a play. A play of truth and reality; memories recalled by children from Gaza and South Lebanon. Children from Gaza who have suffered through the war these past years; they are injured and they are in Lebanon to be treated. And children from South Lebanon, displaced to Hamra, Beirut, since the war of 2026, the recent war of March 2026. All of them stood on stage recalling their stories; the miseries of displacement, of death, of grieving, of the land and of the roots.

I was interrupted by a couple who needed some translation, as it was in Arabic and they didn’t understand what was happening. So, I translated for them, just to help them follow along. I was listening and translating the harshest miseries and memories of those children, and how they ended it with a ray of hope.

By the end of the show, we had a small chit chat. They asked me if I was Palestinian, and I said no, actually, I’m Lebanese. That was followed by the question of whether I was from Beirut, and I corrected them; I’m from the South. But actually, my husband is Palestinian; which lit up their faces: “how authentic, how amazing, beautiful, and unique, this bond of a Palestinian and a Southerner.” After the show, my friends and I laughed about how they’d reacted ; oh wow, you two, wow, a Palestinian and a Southerner.

Since that day, with every image of my hometown being destroyed, with every piece of news, every loss, every martyr, with every piece of our small hearts aching, it sends me back to that moment of astonishment on their faces, romanticizing this bond. I think to myself, over and over: would people have reacted the same if we were just two different people from two different countries? Or is it the bond of sharing the same destiny, of where we come from? Is it the bond of sacrifice, of resistance, of fighting over and over and over again for our land and our rights? I was born into half an occupied village, with early childhood memories of trauma and terror, and over the years, over and over and over, we’re still resisting, we’re still fighting for our rights, for the land, for that piece of heaven on earth that’s ours; our Wonderland! It’s our part of the world. My husband, born and raised in exile, where someone one day simply decided to take over his people’s land and gift it to a colonizer.

We’re bonded by this romanticized bond, and we’re still fighting colonization. We’re still fighting all kinds of these ugly things. So; if it wasn’t this kind of bond, would the reaction be different?

If we were just different people from different places, it just wouldn’t be that enchanting. The world took us down so many different roads and journeys, and then we met. We were meant to complete each other’s story; for one another, it is just a story of love.

Like all people out there, we fell in love and we’re trying to build a life, a family. Just like any other person in this part of the world, but this place made it so enchanting and authentic.

Oh wow. I don’t want people to look at us and say, oh wow. This is our right.

This is our land. This is our place. And we didn’t choose each other because we’re from here.

We were destined to belong to this place, and this is our journey. Till when will we keep romanticizing this kind of life, till when will we be astonished by it, till when will we have to pay and fight for our land?! So, rather than romanticizing us and our love story, maybe it is time to look beyond this and really dig into when this will end ; when the land will return, beyond this huge colony that is trapping us all in!