Zainab Nasser
Mondoweiss / August 4, 2024
Living in Beirut as an expatriate from Gaza is a constant balancing act where the peace of my daily life is marred by the chaos of my thoughts of home.
The sun rises over Beirut, casting a warm glow over the city as it stirs to life. For many, it’s a new day filled with promise and potential, maybe hope or pain. But for me, a Gaza-born expatriate who spent 25 years in Gaza, each dawn brings a blend of hope and dread. The constant hum of the city contrasts sharply with the cacophony of my thoughts, filled with the memories of home and the ongoing conflict that plagues it.
My morning routine begins with a ritual that has become a source of both comfort and pain: checking the news from Gaza. The headlines are rarely kind. Each notification on my phone feels like a blow, a reminder of the violence and suffering that my family, friends, and loved ones endure daily. The images and stories are gut-wrenching, depicting a world I know too well, filled with tons of memories but can no longer touch. I feel distracted, knowing that I lost 25 years of memories at my place, which was destroyed by a bomb in the middle of Khan Younis.
In Beirut, I am surrounded by a bustling metropolis, full of life and energy. Yet, there’s a persistent hollowness inside me, a void that echoes the cries of my homeland.
In Beirut, I am surrounded by a bustling metropolis, full of life and energy. Yet, there’s a persistent hollowness inside me, a void that echoes the cries of my homeland. My daily life here is a stark contrast to the existence of those in Gaza. While I navigate the streets of Beirut, going about my day, my thoughts are tethered to the alleys and homes of Gaza, where the threat of destruction looms large.
Breakfast is a solitary affair, a quiet moment where I try to gather my thoughts and steel myself for the day ahead. The simple act of eating feels like a betrayal sometimes, knowing that so many back home struggle to find their next meal. Food in Gaza is scarce, and the blockade has made basic necessities luxuries that many cannot afford. As I sip my coffee, I remember the stories my father told me of rationing and the constant uncertainty of where the next provision would come from.
Searching for work provides a temporary escape, a way to channel my anxiety into something productive. But even here, the shadow of the conflict follows me. Sometimes I feel an unspoken gap between myself and those around me.
The hours pass, and with each break, I return to my phone, scrolling through updates and reaching out to family. Video calls are bittersweet; they bring a fleeting connection to those I miss dearly but also highlight the chasm that separates us. My friends’ faces are etched with worry, their voices tinged with resignation. The background sounds of Gaza – sirens, explosions, the hum of drones – seep through the screen, a haunting reminder of the life they cannot escape. My best friend, Mohammad Abu Samara, was killed in an airstrike, and his absence haunts me daily. I miss spending time with you, Mohammad, arguing about feminism or how to cook maqluba and mulukhiyah.
Lunchtime in Beirut is a time to socialize, to step outside and enjoy the city’s offerings. For me, it’s another moment of dissonance. I join my colleagues, but my mind remains divided. The laughter and chatter around me feel distant, muffled by the relentless thoughts of home. Each bite of my meal is accompanied by a pang of guilt, knowing that my family might be struggling to find theirs. The privilege of peace and safety is a stark reminder of the unfairness that defines our lives.
Afternoons offer a brief respite from my constant anxiety. I find solace in my sports routine, a crucial outlet that helps me manage the stress of job hunting and the relentless worry for my loved ones. As I immerse myself in exercise, the physical exertion provides a temporary escape from my turbulent thoughts. Yet, even during these moments of relief, my mind often drifts back to Gaza. The news of bombings and violence infiltrates my calm, reminding me of the stark contrast between my life here and the daily struggles faced by my family. Each workout is a battle, not just against my physical limits, but also against the emotional weight of being so far from home.
The journey home is a time for reflection. The streets of Beirut are alive with activity, although southern Lebanon is also being subjected to violence, a stark contrast to the curfews and restrictions in Gaza. I think of my friends, who have never known the freedom to move about as they please, whose lives are dictated by the whims of a conflict that seems endless. The guilt of my relative freedom weighs heavily on me, a constant reminder of the disparities that define our existences.
Back in my apartment, the solitude is both a curse and a blessing. It’s a time to decompress, to shed the facade of normalcy I maintain throughout the day. But it’s also when the floodgates open, and the full weight of my emotions crashes down. The tears come easily, a release of the pent-up sorrow and frustration that have no other outlet. The walls of my apartment bear witness to my grief, the silent cries for a home that seems further away with each passing day.
Dinner is a quiet affair, a moment of stillness where I try to find some semblance of peace. Cooking has become a form of therapy, a way to ground myself in the present. The aromas and flavors remind me of home, of the meals shared with friends in happier times. But even this solace is fleeting, overshadowed by the knowledge of what my loved ones are enduring.
The night brings a restless sleep, haunted by dreams of Gaza. The faces of those I miss appear vividly, their voices echoing in my mind. I wake often, the sounds of the city outside blending with the imagined cacophony of conflict. The distinction between dream and reality blurs, leaving me in a state of perpetual unrest. I am also worried about the situation in the south of Lebanon, adding to my already heavy heart. “Where should I go if the situation in the south of Lebanon escalates?” is the main question in my head every night.
Living in Beirut as an expatriate from Gaza is a constant balancing act. It’s a life of dualities, where the peace of my surroundings is marred by the chaos of my thoughts. Every day is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a struggle to find hope amidst despair. My existence here is a paradox, defined by the freedom to move and speak juxtaposed with the chains of my memories and fears.
In this complex web of emotions, I find strength in the connections I maintain, the support of my community, and the relentless hope for a better future. The fight for liberation, both personal and collective, is a journey that defines my days and shapes my dreams. And through it all, the love for my homeland remains a guiding light, a beacon that sustains me as I navigate the tumultuous waters of life as an expatriate from Gaza in Beirut.
Zainab Nasser is a dedicated human rights advocate with a master’s degree in human rights and democracy from Saint Joseph University (USJ) in Beirut
