My Lebanon

Very few people know this... but I’m not really Lebanese. I mean , I am Lebanese but not in the traditional sense; I became Lebanese only about 13 years ago, before that I was something else, I don’t know what I was. I had a nationality, but I was never really a real citizen of that country. From the roof of my building this week, I watched as French, British, and American evacuees boarded chartered cruise ships in Beirut's port about a 2 km east of my home. And over the last few days, while bombs and artillery pummeled the southern part of the city, My family and I made the decision not to leave Lebanon. Explosions rock the city even as I write this, but we are staying put. I'm not crazy, and I harbor no death wish. This is simply the rational decision of someone who has built a life in Lebanon, who believes in this place and its ability to bounce back. I choose to bet on Beirut. So although I'm not Lebanese by blood, I have become Beiruti. There are plenty of us who fit that description. One friend, an American college student interning for the summer with a member of the Lebanese parliament, called in tears en route to the northern border to tell me her parents had forced her to leave. "I'm going to stay in Syria as long as I can," she vowed. "In case things settle down and I can come back." This summer started off strong, with concerts by major Western artists that allowed the Lebanese to hope their country was returning to the prewar days when everyone who was anyone’s icons like Ella Fitzgerald, Marlon Brando, and Brigitte Bardot made regular stops in the country. Ricky Martin and 50 Cent performed in May and June, respectively, Sean Paul was on deck for July, and negotiations were under way to bring Snoop Dogg later in the summer. But the most anticipated concert was set for late July: the three-night return of legendary Lebanese diva Fairouz to the Baalbeck festival, where she first earned her fame in the 1950s and '60s. Now those magnificent ruins are surrounded by newer ones: The city of Baalbeck, long a Shiite stronghold, has received a heavy share of the Israeli bombardment.Falling bombs erase entire villages, fire and smoke cover the horizon, and visions of that promised summer have, in just over a week, evaporated. On the beaches of Damour and Jiyeh, the foreign visitors aren't European sun junkies but Israeli missiles. And thecruise ships docked in the port aren't bringing tourists to Lebanon, they're taking them away. The contrast between Beirut today and Beirut two weeks ago is so stark, it would be unbearable if it weren't so surreal. This isn't my Beirut. This isn't anyone's Beirut. The frantic, vibrant city has shrunk into a sleepy town, with empty streets and only a handful of restaurants, bars, and shops open for business. It's amazing how quickly you can get used to living under siege. We've taped our windows, stocked up on supplies, and settled into a perversion of normal life. Electric generators succeed where embattled power stations fail. I even have like 20 people living with me and my family, which is rather fun and weird at the same time. Smaller explosions and the rushing of Israeli fighter jets overhead don't startle or frighten us anymore. We are exhausted and have to save our emotional energy for the moments where panic is needed. Still, when larger blasts rattle my windowpanes and make thehouse shudder, we rush to the balcony to figure out which part of my city is being hit, a new Beiruti tradition I guess. I know I'm reasonably safe in my corner of Beirut, andwe have a place to go in the mountains if that ceases to be true, or at least this is what my dad says maybe just to make us feel better. There is painfully little we, the ordinary people of Lebanon, can do to help the situation. So, instead, we do what we can to help each other by donating food and supplies, opening our doors to friends and strangers, and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. We aren't giving up. After the foreigners are gone, local wisdom predicts that the fighting will only get worse. At the very least, there will be less protective padding - a fear of foreign casualties that may have restrained Israel to some degree. Evacuating Beirut would feel a lot like abandoning it. I know that my staying won't keep the Israelis from intensifying their attacks, but at least I won't be complicit, seeing events unfold on a TV screen from the comfort of Cyprus.So, I'll watch those ships pull away without regret. Lebanon has given me more than I ever could've asked: a home, a sense of belonging, an almost indecent number of happy memories. But aside from any debt to Lebanon, I won't leave because I know how miserable I would be watching the war ravage my country from the outside. As long as my feet are firmly planted on Lebanese soil, I somehow know the country will survive.People ask me if I'm scared, and I am - but for Lebanon more than for myself. This place and its people deserve far better than what they're getting.