I arrived in Lebanon for the first time on October 4, 2019. I had never been to the Middle East, but arrived with an open mind and an open heart. My Lebanese friend had been sending me pictures of Byblos, the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city; Beirut and its famed Zaitunay Bay; and Batroun, with its seaside resorts and Phoenician wall. In truth, I had done minimal research about Lebanon before getting on my flight to Beirut. 

My friend, who would also be my host for the trip, and her cousin picked me up from Beirut-Rafic Harriri International Airport at night. We drove through Beirut and stopped once at a popular Lebanese restaurant chain Zaatar W Zeit. My friend ordered us the Wild Zaatar, which is also known as thyme bread, and sunny side up eggs. We talked about what to expect and they asked about my initial observations — the first of which was that the country was dark or dim-lit at best. The street lights looming over the country’s main highway were completely turned off. I had not given much thought to that at the time because, from what I was seeing flashing past in the darkness, Lebanon was not all too different from many American cities and towns, except of course for the Arabic names on the buildings, signs, and businesses — none of which I could read. I only knew a few words, including habibi, hayete, and the names of certain food dishes like hummus, moutabbal, and tabbouleh. 

My second night in Lebanon, we went to La Mezcaleria back when it was a rooftop bar with a distant view of Mohammad Al-Amin Mosque, the picturesque Blue Mosque of Beirut; the adjacent St. George Maronite Cathedral with its orange-lit cross; Martyr’s Square; the art deco Cinema Opera; and the Beirut Port, which would be the source of the devastation produced by the blast on August 4 just one year later. After dancing to a live mix of Arabic and English songs played by skillful Lebanese musicians, whose music filled the crisp fall air, my friend showed me the Roman baths and other ancient Roman ruins near the Lebanese Parliament as well as an Ottoman era clocktower in the middle of a lively square — all of which would be inaccessible behind barriers, barbed wire, and guards mere weeks later.

On October 17, 2019, thirteen days after I arrived, the Lebanese Revolution began. I learned a new Arabic word during this time — “Thawra,” which means revolution. It became the battle cry of the suffering Lebanese, from the youth to the elderly, resonating worldwide except perhaps on the deaf ears of the local politicians. I was ignorant about Lebanon’s politics at the time, but it seemed that this uprising was inevitable. A powder keg situation. The protests were triggered by proposed taxes on tobacco, gasoline, and applications such as WhatsApp. It was perceived that the ruling class and politicians were looking to take advantage of the citizenry instead of tackling the stagnant economy, widespread unemployment, endemic corruption, and the governmental failure to provide water, electricity, and sanitation to the country. The protests culminated in Prime Minister Saad Hariri’s resignation along with a new cabinet — however, this cabinet also resigned after the Beirut Blast.

My first trip to Lebanon lasted about three turbulent months. I left in January of 2020 to visit my uncle in England before returning to Atlanta, Georgia. During my stay in Lebanon, most of our attempts to go places and explore the country were blocked by burning tires and throngs of protestors. In fact, preventing any movement is fairly easy in Lebanon given that traveling by car relies heavily on one main highway that runs north to south along the seaside. When we did go out, there were several occasions when we returned back to the apartment only to see on the news that riots had broken out where we had just been. Having said that, I was never in any danger and would call much of this first experience more of an inconvenience than a threat.

But besides wanting to see my friend again, I knew I would be back. I was living in Los Angeles working as a consultant for a startup when the pandemic and the subsequent restrictions and lockdowns came full swing. Through a series of events, I booked a ticket back to Beirut and returned on July 4, 2020. This was when flights only had about a handful of people on them and airports were post-apocalyptic empty. After a layover in Qatar, I arrived in Lebanon at night once again — this time, perhaps a smidge more prepared. 

From my last visit and brief stints in the ancient city, I knew that I wanted to try out living in Byblos for a bit. Byblos has been continuously inhabited since 5000 BCE and has changed hands between numerous civilizations, groups, and empires, including the Phoenicians, Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Ottomans, Crusaders, and more. Coming from the United States, a relative baby of a country, the idea of a place being home to that rich of a historical heritage was beyond attractive to me. Of course, it isn’t just the history that holds the appeal — Byblos is picturesque and romantic in every way. I spent my time strolling the old souks beneath a canopy of pink and purple bougainvilleas or meandering along the ancient port and fishing harbor. I found hidden rooftop spots above those same souks with views of the Byblos Crusader Castle. I regularly spent a few Lebanese pounds to roam the archaeological site with its necropolis, ancient temples, underground secrets, and amphitheater — each time uncovering something I’d missed before. I watched many sunsets at the seaside bars. I collected sea glass at its public beach right near Byblos Sur Mer. When I wasn’t working or spending time with my adoptive Lebanese family and friends, I alternated between these activities. Byblos was where I began to fall in love with Lebanon. It’s also where my “complicated relationship” with the country — a description many Lebanese will understand — truly began. 

Lebanon has a way of capturing the imagination. Part of the reason why many Lebanese feel deeply conflicted is because the country has already proven what it could be half a century ago. Once upon a time, Beirut was considered to be the Paris of the Middle East, and Lebanon was likened to Switzerland. This former French colony boasted art, modernity, fashion, intellectualism, and openness to peoples and cultures. Simply look at images of 1970s Lebanon before the civil war and the glamor of what many see as the country’s golden age is apparent. Even as an outsider, eyeing these photographs makes you feel nostalgic for something you never experienced, which leaves you wondering how painful it must be for the Lebanese who are left yearning for yesteryear and those storied days — and why they hold to their hopes so tightly. I am told by the Lebanese that the infrastructure has regressed in many ways (nowadays, 24-hour electricity is almost non-existent in Lebanon, with many households having power for just a couple of hours per day) and that time, unlike in many other places around the world where it has helped progress, has worked against them here. But in just a few years of living here, I’ve heard a gradual shift in tone. They used to say that the country would recover and would be better than ever. Now, parents and the older generation, encourage their kids and youth to leave. They still love Lebanon and always will, but they are broken-hearted at what has happened to it. Who is to blame? What is to blame? There are no easy answers. This is a complicated country (so much so that there’s a Lebanese joke that says: If you think you understand Lebanon, someone has explained it badly.) with complicated politics, a complicated past, and a vague future with vague promises. And the people are tired. Indomitable, but tired. 

They’ve lived through wars, the Beirut Blast, and now, the worst economic and currency crises in Lebanese history. The Lebanese pound has crashed from 1500 LBP equating to 1 USD to 38000 LBP equalling 1 USD in less than three years. And the country is essentially a Tale of Two Cities. The middle class is disappearing and the divide is almost directly correlated to those who earn or can acquire US dollars and those who cannot. For the people who are stuck earning in Lebanese pounds, their money is depreciating about as rapidly as they could possibly hope to earn it. Meanwhile, the banks have been withholding people’s dollars from them, which has prompted a series of bank robberies — though it’s difficult to say if robbery is even the accurate term considering the money these individuals have demanded is in fact their own. One “robber” needed his frozen savings of $210,000 to pay for his father’s hospital bill. Another needed her frozen savings to pay for her sister’s cancer treatment. 

You will observe children as young as three and four years old begging for money on the streets, unaccompanied. Other children, maybe a couple years older, will attempt to sell you roses. I have been told that these children are usually abused — especially if they do not return home with a suitable amount of money. At an intersection, my friend once told me not to give out cash. I did not listen. Moments later, our car was swarmed by children, several of whom were banging on the windows, sobbing out of desperation, and trying to rip the car doors open before we drove away. I wish there was some moral or answer to derive from it or some solution to be offered, but somehow, at least to me, it just reinforces the idea that nothing is simple in this place. Not even charity.

In the same breath as I could tell you about the obvious struggles you might see if you stay long enough, you will also find extravagant beach resorts and high-end nightclubs with beautiful women that rival any around the world. You can enjoy the famous Lebanese food, tour world class wineries, seek peace and sanctuary in the ancient churches and monasteries, or find cuisine ranked in the top 50 MENA list in Beirut. You can be happily lost exploring any one of its 5 UNESCO World Heritage Sites. And with enough capital and privilege you can insulate yourself to an extent. Not entirely, but perhaps, mostly. 

Every great thing you hear about Lebanon is probably true (yes, you really can ski and go to the beach on the same day). Every negative thing you hear likely also has a seed of truth to it. And this is the reason for this love-hate relationship; the reason people will endure wars, corruption, and decay. It’s also the reason why foreign powers have continued to jockey for the country and its remaining resources. 

If you visit Lebanon, a part of you will fall in love with it. You will be awestruck by the grandeur of Baalbek with its temples rivaling any of Rome’s best in size and exquisiteness; you will come to understand why it is written in the Epic of Gilgamesh that its cedar forests were fought over by man and demigods or why they are mentioned in the Bible more than 100 times; and how this small country and the Lebanese diaspora has influenced the world in profound ways, from the maritime Phoenicians to the poet Kahlil Gibran. You will admire the kindness, resilience, and multiculturalism of the people, who often speak Arabic, French, English, and sometimes a fourth language such as Armenian. And for all of the challenges the Lebanese endure, you’ll also find yourself wanting to fit in and be a part of this place.