The Beiruter

Leaving Lebanon upon coming of age has become a rite of passage, something to be anticipated. Hands down, every Lebanese has family members living overseas. 

When Lebanese reach adulthood and life takes the inevitable serious turn, the opportunity to study or work abroad is the golden ticket. Typically, it is gut-wrenching for parents to see their child leave the nest, but even more so when they leave the country. 

But it is a lottery to jumpstart a new life. A chance to establish oneself from the bottom up and gain a (much-desired) second passport along the way. 

Then again, Lebanon has a long migration history.  People have been departing in waves, starting from the late 19th century. In those days, people were triggered by economic hardships, political instability, and sectarian tensions with the Ottoman Empire. The once-thriving silk production in Lebanon started to dwindle, and many factories closed down because of competition from Asia and changing market conditions. It was another major reason for setting sail.

As we know, our earliest emigrants flocked mostly to the Americas and to West Africa. In the Americas, where industries were quickly flourishing, Lebanese often worked as peddlers and small business owners. Similarly, the rapidly developing West Africa countries were attractive to Lebanese to work in trade and infrastructure development. 

It is no surprise to anyone that 150 Lebanese passengers were aboard the Titanic when it sank. They made up 7 percent of the total number of passengers. Most were in third-class and most were from Mount Lebanon and Bekaa villages such as Hardine, Zgharta and Kfarmichki. Only 29 of them survived the catastrophe. 

During the 20th century, the Lebanese headed to more territories: Europe, the Arabian Gulf and Australia. The reasons for leaving were, sadly, almost identical to today: high living costs, famine, unemployment, and eternal political instability. 

It has slowly become vital to have a family member abroad, able to provide remittances to sustain the lives of those who remained in Lebanon. 

The Lebanese flag over Beirut at sunset

The “missing home” syndrome

Emigrating to establish a new life elsewhere requires bravado, plenty of hard work, self-discipline, and a dose of good old luck. It also requires sacrifice: cutting emotional ties with your former routine, familiarities, and, hardest of all, your country. This is why, no matter where Lebanese settle, they continue to manifest their ‘Lebaneseness’. Whether in Rio de Janeiro, Freetown, or Abu Dhabi. 

This can be witnessed in first-generation Lebanese in particular. As the adage goes, ‘you can take the girl out of the country but not the country out of the girl’. In the early days of expatriation, you are typically ruminating on your former Lebanese life and try to find places, things, and people: the ubiquitous Al Jaliya Al Lubnaniya, the Lebanese expat community, to remind you of home. You may have spotted Lebanese wine being sold in your local supermarket for the first time or heard Elissa serenading from a car driving past you. 

Nothing special…Sightings you would normally not bat an eyelid at back in Lebanon. But now you feel a trickle of excitement. These micro traces of Lebanon bring you flickers of joy in the big, vast diaspora because your (still) homesick wound found a band-aid emblazoned with a cedar tree on it.

If you are not physically seeking out a Little Lebanon wherever you live, you constantly scroll down on Instagram to see new restaurants, boutique hotels, cool initiatives, or events happening in Lebanon. Not only do you get caught up in a FOMO frenzy, but you almost convince yourself that these developments alone mean the country is finally on an upward path of prosperity. “Hmmm, maybe I should seriously consider moving back?” you start thinking to yourself.  But, with time, your heart toughens and you do assimilate. You start to forget your old self in Lebanon and eventually move on, like life itself.

In reality, there are two camps of Lebanese expats: those who left and never returned, and those who left but dream of returning one day to a much-improved and more stable Lebanon. The first category visit for the odd holiday or the family obligatory trips, such as funerals or inheritance matters.

I admittedly belong to the second camp. Regularly fantasizing about gazing at the golden Lebanese sunset with a cocktail in hand, happily straddling between the country’s two natural assets: the mountain and the sea, and spending my golden years with close friends and family in Lebanon. 

The fantasy of return 

Of course, you long for strictly the desirable traits of Lebanese life, and you wish the downside did not exist. You willingly disregard the ultra-humid summers, debilitating traffic jams, overpriced (pretty much) everything nowadays, the normalized wasta to get jobs and things done, the archaic patriarchal norms (such as allowing only men to pass on the Lebanese nationality), and stifling religious laws. 

Let’s face it, there are endless pet peeves about life in Lebanon, and once you start comparing your generally comfortable and predictable life abroad to the reality of living in Lebanon, you may rethink the big return altogether. 

But here’s the catch: what Lebanon has you still cannot find elsewhere. It’s a feeling more than anything else. And it is frankly hard to pin down. Arguably, the country may no longer hold the mantle of “Paris of the Middle East,” but its light still shines very brightly for a myriad of reasons.  For one, Lebanon has snow-capped mountains, which means a decent water supply all year. It also has hospitable, service-oriented people, great cuisine (no question!), a high literacy rate, strong family ties and social connections, a pretty vibrant arts and a wonderful culture scene … I could go on and on! 

Collectively, as Lebanese, wherever we are, we feel a certain maternal-like protectiveness towards our nation, every inch of its 10,545 km2. 

They say living abroad enhances patriotism because we can truly appreciate Lebanon, although we once eagerly wanted to leave. Perhaps, the most famous Lebanese expat there ever was, Khalil Gibran, put it best: “You have your Lebanon with her problems, and I have my Lebanon with her beauty. Your Lebanon is empty and fleeting, my Lebanon will endure forever.”