That has been my problem when it came to sitting down to complete this reflection about my time in Lebanon the whole way through. I would write away until the energy that was draining from my hands built a full five story structure of words on the page before me. But when I went back to read it, I would chip a bit off here, hack a chunk off there, knock a wall down over there while ripping out some wires over here. It was never right. It was never whole.

            Because how can anyone capture the entire essence of Lebanon and contain it to a few hundred black and white words to a page? How can anyone wake up to the busy heat and musical traffic of a Beirut morning and fall asleep to the painted sunset over the quiet valleys of Deir al-Qamar and then fall asleep to that same musical traffic and warm breeze through the windows that close so little that they’ve probably forgotten how to do so? And then to wake up to the same bothersome rooster across the valley while the Sun slaps them into full consciousness through the trusty wrought-iron windows whose dancing shadows flitted into their dreams the night before… and even begin to figure out how to capture that on paper?

            All my visits to Lebanon have left me with the inspiration to try. Notebook after notebook was carried around, filled up, and preceded another. And every time, as Sylvia pointed out, I have either over dramatized, underplayed, or exaggerated parts while leaving out other important ones. I never wrote it quite the way I wanted to. I always focused on what was there: The mountains, the cities, the people, and how they made me feel about my own life. I got lost in the beauty that is the Lebanese landscape and its endless contours that reach into my soul and stretch themselves out where it is safe—the realm in every Lebanese soul that is reserved for their home. The place that warms you up from the inside to the outside and gives life to that voice in your head that demands you go forward for what is right. It is the place that sets your cheeks aflame with that red flush whenever you greet an opportunity to speak up and it assures you that every breath for the cause is one well spent.

            Before, when I would see what was going on around me in Lebanon and struggle to understand, I would look to the sky and release those fears and incomprehension to Someone that could translate and answer them better than I could. I would listen to the arguments breaking out around me and fail to piece the sound bites together to form a coherent thesis of my own. So I kept my mouth shut. But I could always faintly hear a voice inside of me, muffled, annoyed, and angrily pacing up and down the creaky floorboards behind a locked door at the end of the hallway of my consciousness. I just never knew what it was saying. But I still knew something was wrong. Now I know that the voice was frustrated at me for thinking I could get away with calling myself Lebanese and not trying to understand what that means for our society. I get it now. I’m getting close to writing it the way I want to.

            Though, I still stand by my thought that I don’t think anyone could write Lebanon quite the way they want to.

            Riding on the bus everyday, I would tune out the music from the radio and stare out the window at the dirt by the side of the road. I had all of Jounieh and its crescent coast to feast my eyes on but it was the parched, littered dirt by the side of the road that ultimately drew my attention because every time I would remark at how dead it looked, a faded pink flower would enter my line of vision. Sprouting there, amongst the broken glass, trampled aluminum cans, and ancient cigarette butts, it would sway back and forth in the breeze. Every time an onslaught of cars roared by it would be whipped to its knees violently, every which way and that too. It would always spring back up once the dust had settled, though. We took the same road everyday and I watched the same flowers everyday. I concluded that the littered, tired-looking side of the road was Lebanon and the flowers were the Lebanese people who sprung back up every time they got knocked down. And when the flowers waved in the breeze, it was the Lebanese people reminding the rest of the world that they were still there. That underneath the glass, and cigarette butts, and bullets hurled at them, they still had enough nutrients in their soil to stand their ground; enough fire in their soul to keep their mission in view. I think the flowers are nature’s way of letting us know that it believes in us—it believes in our urge to bring equilibrium back to Lebanon, instead of the state of things now, when the country is stretched this way and that by those it does not belong to that inject it with poison to slow us down in its veins until we conglomerate in politically isolated clots and rupture, instead of flowing together to make things happen.

            I thought about those flowers everyday, and I still haven’t written them quite the way I want to.

            I met political figures that took me inside the mechanics of the government and gave me a glimpse into what, arguably, used to be a well-oiled machine that has long since began to rust. I’ve worn clothes that were too wrinkle-free, held my hair together with a little too much hairspray, crossed my legs together and kept reminding myself to adjust my posture all while listening to those political figures evade the root of a question with the figurative barrel of a gun held to the back of their heads. I’ve scratched the bug bites on my wrist, fiddled with my bracelets and stared around at the fervent faces of the amazing friends around me before I would see the gleam in the eyes of religious leaders that saw hope in my friends and I as we sat before them, willing to give back to this country. I could never sit still during those meetings because it was so much information— so many new ideas to process, inspiration to conceptualize, and questions to ask. It’s kind of like when your cell phone has been off for a few days and when you finally turn it on, it won’t stay still or go quiet because of all the voicemails, text messages—essentially, information—that is finally reaching it. I guess I finally turned on the political lobe in my brain.

            I learned something new from important people everyday, and I still haven’t written them quite the way I want to.

            There was one day when we were driving back from Zahle. I can’t remember the name of the road or the mountain we were climbing, but I do remember the way the sunlight was dipping into the curves of the mountains and how the breeze coming through the open windows was ruffling everyone’s hair. Questions, ideas, logistics, memories, and high spirits were bouncing around the bus and I remember feeling so inspired by everything that I heard. Even though dusk fell on us and the air got cooler, I think that we all felt like we were on fire.

            These friends inspired me more than anyone has in a long time, and I still haven’t written them quite the way I want to.

            There was another night I spent on the roof with some friends that I met about a week and a half previously but felt that I’d known for much longer. They declared everything to the night sky, while I jumped in paranoia every time I heard a non-existent whisper from the trees. It was the quietest night of the trip, and a test, I suppose. I think it was the Universe’s way of testing that change in me that I was so sure took place. It was also a reminder of the fear that comes from speaking freely in a place almost overtaken by people with guns. I listened more than I spoke that night, but the more I thought about my paranoia, the more I felt embarrassed for letting those guns trick their way into my mindset.

            That’s exactly what they wanted. They don’t have what is right on their side, so they cling to their weapons to intimidate those who do from speaking of what is fair. I hope by writing this, I am making up for that night on the roof when I was too nervous to remember why it is important to speak freely and not just talk about speaking freely. I’m proud to find that all the people I met that identified with the Lebanese Forces, were never afraid to speak up. I’m not so proud to admit that it took learning from these people to fully grasp just how brave my own uncle is in the words that he speaks and the cause he works for, when I could have tried to understand on my own a long time ago.

            This is what gets me, though. I’m over feeling silly for so recently grasping who and where and how and why and what is going on. What I’ve found with this experience is that everything I’ve ever believed about Life, principally speaking, is instilled in the overall theme of these pages in History that LF is writing. The theme of What is Right and how What is Right will always find its way if you help it get back on its feet when others knock it down.

            And yeah, obviously there are going to be uneducated, bandwagon hopping zealots that make the movement look bad. But isn’t it the same for every controversial movement that dabbles in the nebulous realm of ethics? There are going to be people that cling to one idea and ignore the rest that it complements because it is all they can grasp. But bringing all the ideas together from the nebula to form what we believe to be best for Lebanon and not for our personal agendas? That is something I’ve found LF to be very good at because all these ideas point to a better Lebanon—

Run by the Lebanese.

For the Lebanese.

Equally.

            Being in the program I was a part of, cynics called me a victim of brainwashing. Initially, I was insulted for being underestimated like that. Then I realized that it was amusing that these people accusing me of being brainwashed couldn’t take a hint from something that I noticed long before I became politically aware to the situation in Lebanon: Have you ever really looked at the flags of the strongest parties in the political forefront today? How many of them are stitched with Lebanese colors? How many of them are waving with a Cedar, the symbol of Lebanese perseverance, and not with a Gun, the symbol of Lebanese destruction?

            A Gun is not a thinking organ. And large sums of money may be transfused into our system by outside sources, but money is not the same as the blood, sweat and tears that go into working for the greater good. It is not organic because it does not come from the soul of someone that cares about Lebanon. It comes from the wallet of someone that sees Lebanon as a pawn. If diplomacy is one excruciatingly perpetual game of chess, let’s be real here: The game is always changing, the pawns are always moving, and wallets are going to run dry. But the spirit that comes from wanting Lebanon for the Lebanese is a renewable resource. You can hack a tree down, but not before it scatters its seeds.

           I’m still not sure that I’ve written this quite the way I want to. Writing is what I do. It is how I think. It is how I try to make a difference. Maybe that’s why I can’t write this quite the way I want to—because Lebanon cannot count on paper with a few hundred words on it to change anything. It needs the minds behind the pens, the hearts behind the words, and the action those words inspire. What I want to do for Lebanon is bigger than words on a page—but that’s where it always begins. I’ve never been more inspired.