A Note on Memory
Apologies for the lack of posts, I’ve been in Lebanon the past month and a half, living it up in the homeland. I’ll be posting more on here, hopefully at least once a month. But until then, here’s a diary excerpt from my time in the mountains. Thanks for sticking around, and please do share this with whomever may enjoy.
I have nine days until I head back to Toronto. I’ve enjoyed every minute of my time here in Lebanon, I’m surrounded by family in a place I call home, and I can’t wait to come back again.
I’ve spent my day remembering my time here when I was younger. Last time I stayed in the country for more than a two-week span was about 10 years ago. The time before that, I was just a kid, seeing the homeland and actually being conscious about the things going on around me.
Everything was so big back then. Our apartment building in Beirut felt like a skyscraper, the 2L Pepsi’s were endless, and the road to the village felt like it took days, and our family home there felt like the entire village itself. I think because everything was still new, I felt like it was all larger than it actually was. We have Pepsi back in Canada and in the same 2L size, but Lebanon’s was just bigger.
All my memories here were full of joy, I had nothing to worry about while here when I was younger. The only thing I cared about was if the electricity would be back in time for me to watch my cartoons, and when I was going to see my grandma. Both are gone now.
I remember ripping paper into long strands with my sister on our Beirut balcony and letting them go through the bars that kept us from falling onto the street six stories below. We’d watch them dance in the air and laugh as they made their graceful descent to the earth, twirling along the way.
Another time in the village a fight broke out in front of me and one of my cousins, we ran back to the family home while yelling “there’s a fight there’s a fight come see!” and laughing at our reaction.
I used to stick around the elders of the village mainly, most have passed away from when I was a kid, now I stay around the ones who are still blessed to experience the mountain air.
The elders are living history and the kindest souls, they won’t hesitate to say a prayer blessing you and your family if you simply stop and ask how they are. They treat the younger generation as though they were their own children, offering food and drink, sometimes breaking off a piece of whatever they were eating and telling you “eat, it’s good for you.”
I want to live a life as full as theirs, I remember sitting in the square in front of the house my great-grandfather built, talking to one of the elders. After he finished his story, he looked off at the setting sun and said, “I’m 90 years old now, thank God.”
Another time, a few family members and I were sitting through a thunderstorm. The smallest age difference between us was 40 years and the largest about 60. The power was out, and we were sat by the lantern’s dancing flame. I remember how the rain grew stronger when they each spoke about their past, as though each droplet wanted the chance to hear what the 70-year-old uncle was up to in his 20s.
My time here has been bittersweet, every step is a memory trip back to my younger years; getting angry over a card game at 2am, lighting firecrackers under people’s chairs, multiple scraps with cousins over something stupid.
Everything seems to have changed. The village mosque has different carpets now, people I’ve had conversations with are gone now.
It’s sad knowing that I’ll never be that young again, I’ll never be that carefree again, I’ve lost the feeling of childhood joy with age.
These leaps through memories can be like a net, but I can’t get caught up and stay stuck. There are new ones to make that’ll keep me reminiscing later in life.
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Some Recommendations:
Don’t Eat Before Reading This by Anthony Bourdain
Simone de Beauvoir, The Art of Fiction No. 35
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