Love Letter to Lebanon

“Make sure you sit on the left side of the plane,” said Edwina. After checking into my connecting flight from Istanbul to Beirut, I realized I had an aisle seat in the third row on the right side of the plane, much to my dismay. The attendant at the flight counter looked at me, perplexed as I insisted on switching to a seat on the left side of the plane, even though the only remaining seat was in the back row, adjacent to the bathroom.

I woke from my nap in the clouds to the announcement of our imminent descent into Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport. As I gazed out the window, the Mediterranean stretched before me, its azure waters sparkling. The coastline hugs the sea as if they’ve shared a thousand lifetimes together. Rising boldly from the depths of the sea are the Pigeon Rocks, monument-like stones shaped by time and carved by the restless hands of wind and waves. Weathered yet unwavering, they stand tall.

After a week in Lebanon, I would come to understand that the landscape that first welcomed me was more than a breathtaking view. It is a living metaphor, a testament to the beauty that runs deep through this land, the warmth felt in every embrace, and the soul of a people who carry their history and heritage like poetry in their veins.

My dear friend Edwina invited loved ones from each corner of the world and each chapter of her life. This trip was a celebration of two important milestones, her 30th year around the sun and her achievement of earning a Master of Science degree in Sustainability Management from Columbia University. But more than that, this was a “homecoming” to Lebanon.

To Edwina, Lebanon is her everything. She says Lebanon is her home: “It’s memory, it’s resilience, it’s love. It’s where my ancestors are buried and where my wildest dreams are rooted. It’s where the mountains meet the sea in a way that feels like poetry, and where joy and pain live side by side: both loud and sacred. Returning to Lebanon always brings me back to myself. Planning this journey was my way of giving that feeling back to the people I love.”

Over the course of the week, Edwina showed us Lebanon through her eyes. One of the most special days of the trip was when we visited Daher Farms, Edwina’s family’s land in the Bekaa Valley. It was a way to introduce everyone to where much of her story began.

The day started with a delicious, traditional spread catered by ADIRA, a brand she strongly resonates with for their work with Lebanese women and farmers in the Central Bekaa region. ADIRA’s products blend tradition and innovation, and their mission reflects so much of what Edwina loves about this country: care for the land, pride in culture, and investment in community.

We also toured the Daher Foundation, led by Edwina’s mother, Marleine. Daher Foundation is committed to improving healthcare access, empowering youth, and creating more sustainable livelihoods in rural Lebanon.

As Edwina said, “It meant so much to me to show everyone the work we’ve been doing behind the scenes: initiatives that center dignity, well-being, and long-term impact. Seeing the group’s engagement and curiosity reminded me how powerful it is when global and local communities come together with open hearts.”

We ended the day at Tawlet Ammiq, a breathtaking farm-to-table restaurant that sits at the edge of the Bekaa Valley, overlooking its patchwork of fields. It was one of those rare pauses where everyone felt connected to something bigger—the land, the people, the purpose.

A few days later, we ventured an hour north of Beirut to Batroun. Founded by the Phoenicians, Batroun is a 4,000-year-old fishing village and is considered one of the oldest cities in the world. A historical tour followed by shawarma and Batrouni lemonade brought us to Arnaoon, a centuries-old Lebanese village cradled by the mountains. We danced our way into Arnaoon, stomping to dabkeh and synchronizing our steps to the derbakeh.

The traditional Lebanese architecture set against mountain peaks and lush vegetation transported me to a place I couldn’t describe, only feel. Yara had the right words to capture the dizzying magic of Arnaoon. She commended its authenticity and purity for transporting visitors, “grounding them in something both real and timeless.”

To Yara, Arnaoon is a land deeply rooted in her heart. Perhaps, it’s because her parents discovered a hidden gem and felt called to revive the echoes of a village of five small Lebanese goat herders’ cottages dating back 500 years ago. When Yara’s parents first stumbled upon this land, something about it captivated them. She said they often describe it as a calling, a mission to breathe life into a dream. Yara’s parents didn’t know the path ahead, and she said they lacked the means to realize the vision they carried. But they chose to take the first step, regardless. That step led to something far greater than they had ever imagined.

In Yara’s words, “Arnaoon became a place of happiness, dreams, and opportunity. [It’s] a home to a community of pure- hearted people who reflect the very soul of the land itself.”

Knowing the unparalleled generosity and hospitality of Lebanese people, I was not shocked to learn that Yara and Edwina became friends by a serendipitous chance of fate. A simple offer to help a stranger on the street unfolded into a collaboration and showcase of shared purpose and heart, rooted in a mutual love for their land and people. From early planning to the final farewell, every detail was approached with intention. Over three immersive days, they curated experiences in each corner of Arnaoon, with each moment crafted to invite connection, joy, and belonging. “I imagined guests living a different story in each corner of Arnaoon, experiencing a unique emotion in every zone,” said Yara. Yara strived to connect people and “create magic for those who are already magical.”

Amongst rolling hills and a moon so full it could burst, Ranim and Bernard invited us to experience the land that shaped them through the quiet power of our stillness and breath. Though they had only just met on this trip, their energies were unmistakably aligned.

“I’ve always thought I wanted to travel the world—little did I know the world would come to my homeland, and I’d get to connect with it through the presence of such beautiful souls,” said Ranim. She wanted to offer the group a taste of what Lebanon has taught her, which is “resilience, joy, creative chaos, unconditional love, and the miracle of holding paradoxes.”

Bernard also wanted to offer something from the heart. Through yoga, meditation, and the soulful resonance of the handpan, he created a space where we could feel Lebanon not just with our eyes, but with breath, body, and heart. “This offering was my way of showing another face of Lebanon, not the one shaped by headlines, but the one rooted in resilience, warmth, and soul. I wanted to reflect the peace that exists here, even in the midst of complexity.”

Ranim and Bernard showed us how intention and presence can become a bridge that connects us not only to ourselves, but to the spirit of a land, its people, and wisdom held beneath the surface.

After Arnaoon, we spent time in Anfeh, a coastal town in northern Lebanon. Known for its striking blue-white seaside chalets and crystal-clear waters, Anfeh is often compared to the Greek Islands. But it has a character all on its own. Perched on a rocky peninsula with archeological remains including salt pans and Crusader-era ruins, the land tells a story shaped by centuries of trade, conquest, and monastic devotion. The landscape is rugged and serene, dotted with ancient chapels, windswept cliffs, and the shimmering sea. Today, Anfeh remains a peaceful retreat, where the past lingers gently and nature speaks in the language of waves and stone.

I ended my trip in Lebanon with a few days in Beirut. Beirut could and should be its own story, because Beirut is the blueprint. The blueprint for a city characterized by persistence, reinvention, and soul. A mosaic made whole by every fracture. A pulse that never stops. Beirut shows the world how to hold contradictions: churches and mosques share a skyline, laughter echoes louder after loss, ruins become roots. Here, you rebuild not just buildings, but belief. Beirut showed me who I am when everything familiar falls away, a believer in resilience, beauty after ruin, and the quiet power of beginning again.

Gin basils at the Albergo Hotel rooftop, shawarma at Em Shérif, dancing at GOU and AHM, strolling through Gemmayzeh and Saifi Village, and power blackouts at the hair salon were some of the memories formed in Beirut. The daytime was filled with discoveries, while evenings felt like the city’s true spirit came to life. Music spilling from every corner. Tables filled with mezze and laughter. It felt like time bent in Beirut.

I didn’t expect to stay a few extra days in Beirut, but after Israel initiated missile strikes on Iran, Beirut Rafic Hariri International Airport was temporarily closed with dozens of flights cancelled, including mine. It took days to rebook my flight, but I felt grateful to be safe and enjoy extra time in Lebanon. It was a privilege I do not take lightly or for granted.

Two days before I arrived in Lebanon, Israel bombed Beirut on the eve of Eid al-Adha. This attack in June 2025 marked the fourth Israeli strike in the area since a ceasefire was agreed on in November 2024. South Lebanon remains a military playground for the Israeli Occupation Forces. Despite the ceasefire, Israel has not withdrawn from Dawair, Hammaes, Jabal al-Deir, Jabal Blat, and Labbouneh in South Lebanon. In a recent article from Atalayar, Mohamed, a resident of Bint Jbeil, wrote, “The greatest danger is that people are getting used to nothing. That’s what the occupation wants, for us to forget our land.”

Much like their Palestinian brothers and sisters, the people of Lebanon are there to stay. The people of Lebanon are like the Pigeon Rocks that stand tall in the Mediterranean. Like the thick cedar trees found in the mountains and on the national flag, they remain rooted in the land they love.

I was deeply moved—and dare I say, changed—by my week in Lebanon. Lebanon feels like a warm embrace. The warmth of the sun hovering over the Mediterranean, the warmth of knafeh in ka’ik, the warmth of people who greet strangers as friends.

To know the Lebanese is to feel their soul in three sacred truths: the earth beneath them, rich with memory; the community around them, woven with resilience; and the heritage within them, carried like flame.

To Lebanon, with love. Until next time.