Rebuilding Postwar Lebanon: What Money Can't Fix?

The sixth war that has ravaged my country came rather unexpectedly. However, anyone who dares to look beneath the surface could tell you that it has been in the making for a very long time. The chaotic atmosphere the war created took us all by surprise, leaving us startled like a deer caught in the headlights, unaware of what to do next, uncertainty and fear ultimately becoming the leading emotions in our lives. And as the chaos that had taken control over our lives finally spun itself into a silk of silence, we all darted around trying to regain some balance and stability into our shaken lives. It took me some time to readjust to the changes that had parachuted into my life, and I was finally able to pry myself away from university long enough to treat myself to a walk down the streets of Beirut and meet some friends over a cup of coffee. I don’t really know what it is but something about walking down those busy streets that are so saturated with the excitement and buzz of life seems to bring a weird sense of peace and serenity into my heart. However, now, the moment you walk onto the streets you can’t but notice the inevitable effect the war has had on everyone, including yourself. The sense of peace I hoped to regain was replaced by one of mere discomfort and alienation. The busy streets were no longer full with excitement, but more with dread and fear, and unanswered question of “where are we heading to next” hovering in the atmosphere. The bullet ridden buildings that blend so beautifully with up-to-date architecture, symbolizing the beauty of the struggle, now seemed to cry out in pain as its wounded country was once again bleeding. And as I stood there, so aware of the silent destruction that materialized itself so clearly in my surroundings, I couldn’t but wonder, to what extent can we really rebuild Lebanon?

See ever since the war has ended and we have kept ourselves busy with talks of rebuilding postwar Lebanon: buildings, bridges, infrastructure…etc. we put all our focus on the material damage, as if by that we can ignore the emotional one. As if by patching up the wounds done to the body, we can stifle the cries of the wounds rising from within, the ones done to the soul, the ones that really matter. We turn our attention to the shattered houses, not realizing the shattered hopes and dreams that lie a bit beneath the surface. But the question remains for how long can we keep that up? The majority of the people in this country have lived through one or more wars, and they have persevered, time and time again, helping their country to rise from within the ashes. However, the toll that war has taken on them is evident: the dead look always present in their eyes and the scarred soul they always try to hide. So let’s take a bit and look at the emotional damage this war has caused. This first came clear to me when I saw Ali, a 6 year old child whose family sought refugee in our village, sitting alone in the playground the day they were heading back to the South. As I asked him what was wrong, the answer I got was something I didn’t expect: “I don’t want to go back, not anymore. We have nothing there, no house, no friends, here I do.” Can we really blame him for holding on to his childhood? For trying to keep a normal life within this turmoil? The war forced these children to grow up; it robbed them of their innocence, and brought them face to face with life’s cruelty before their time. Can we really blame him? Ali’s story is one of many. Ali left and got me thinking about all the other refugees I had met during the war. What about Ahmad, the little kid who ended up in a wheelchair. I remember his answer as I asked him about the football he held so tightly in his hands: “I’m going to become a famous football player”. Ahmad is still unaware of the permanency of his case. The war robbed him of his dreams, who can give him that back? What about Fatima, the 70 year old woman, who spent her whole life in Lebanon. “I have never left my country once, and I will never leave. I was born in the South and I will die in the South” she said with a heavy southern accent and a patriotic tone. And she did die: a couple of hundred kilometers away, in a foreign village, drowned in sadness as she saw her village getting shelled over and over again. The war took away Fatima’s identity and let her go without a decent funeral, who will give Fatima that back? And Hassan who is confined to a hospital bed because of his wounds, convinced that his family is in another hospital, who will tell him that they all perished? Who will give him his family back? What about Sahar, the newlywed whose husband died in the army, who will give her the happiest days of her life back? And the stories go on. Every Lebanese family has a story, and every Lebanese family bears scars. The problem is that we keep on ignoring that. We only focus on what our money can fix, but there is a lot of pain in this country and a lot of wounds, ones that money cannot alleviate or heal. This part of Lebanon, the one that includes the citizens, their dreams, their hopes, and their lives has been destroyed six times, but never rebuilt.

So really, to what extent can we rebuild postwar lebanon?