For someone born and raised in Lebanon, the most constant feeling I’ve known is contradiction: the quiet stillness of daily life, suddenly shattered by overwhelming complexity. Beauty and chaos unfolding in the same breath.
In Lebanon, the two are inseparable. The most breathtaking sunsets don’t just light up the skies of Batroun or the Qadisha Valley—they appear above crumbling buildings, framed by broken balconies and power lines. Disruption is our norm. Life is punctuated by power cuts, suffocating traffic, or the distant sound of bombs—gifts from our neighbors. Sticking to a plan is almost impossible. And yet, there’s laughter at weddings held just days after tragedies, and mourning woven into the fabric of our mornings, like background noise.
You don’t just learn to live with this duality—you begin to find meaning in it. Chaos doesn’t erase beauty. It reveals it.
I’m reminded of this every time I run along the Beirut corniche in the early morning. Before the city fully wakes, the sea offers a moment of suspension: waves crashing with rhythmic certainty, fishermen casting lines into the unknown, and the sky softening into gold. There’s peace—but never complete silence. Behind me lies a city of memories and noise that never fully fades.
War, for me, was never a coherent narrative. It came in fragments: stray bullets, sirens, shattered glass. But even then, I found inspiration. I told myself—if the sea still shimmered, if strangers still shared coffee by candlelight during blackouts, then something was still worth holding on to.
Our rooftop became both a watchtower and a sanctuary. I watched bombs fall on Beirut—terrifying, surreal. I once found a stray bullet tucked in a corner and wondered whether to keep it as a souvenir, before feeling absurd. And still, from that same rooftop, I saw open skies and flocks of birds flying as if nothing had changed.
Beauty in Lebanon lives in its people. In places like Burj Hammoud—densely packed, overlooked by the government, chaotic in every direction—life continues with stunning resilience. A smile from a stranger can shift the entire course of your day. Generosity exists where you least expect it.
Lebanon teaches you to hold everything at once: fear and wonder, grief and gratitude. Not balanced, but blended. Here, there’s no luxury of choosing between beauty and chaos. You learn to feel both—fully. And maybe, that’s what resilience truly is.
