Joumana Bou-harb
” Childhood is the most magical part of one’s life. When there is a curiosity to know everything, with thousands of questions, a phase of life, when you are trying to understand everything. These are also the times when most of us are busy making some lovely memories, which will last forever. But not all childhoods are the same.
Some childhoods are marred with bad memories of fear and destruction. These children’s normal lives suffer so much that something as ordinary as going to school and playing with their friends seems like an uphill struggle. Fear of losing their loved ones, loom large on them. And if they survive all this, many of them can never come out of it, and then they carry their insecurities to their adult lives. It’s heart-breaking even to envisage that this is the kind of world we will leave to our children!
I was born in a Christian family in Lebanon to a businessman father and homemaker mother. I was the second among four children. With my two sisters and a brother, I didn’t have to look for friends outside our family. We were always there for each other.
Our get-togethers with our extended family meant spending time with cousins, laughing and talking loudly, a table full of lovely Lebanese food, and eating so much that you couldn’t eat anymore. There were good times, but life was not fun all the time. There were some hard times too.
My earliest memory goes back to when I was little. While an ordinary childhood would comprise sounds of laughter and shrieks of happiness, mine included whistling noise of the bombs passing above our buildings.
My parents dreaded those noises. It could happen at any time of the day, while we were all sitting together eating food, sleeping, playing with friends, or out in the market shopping for daily needs. Moment bombs were heard; we were all huddled together and sent to our house’s safe shelters.
Some people, running with a piece of bread in their hands because they were having food, or wearing just one shoe because they didn’t get the chance to put on the other shoe and children sleepwalking because they woke up from their deep sleep were quite frequent sights.
The streets would go empty swiftly with signs of wreckage everywhere. One could hear children crying and see numerous people out on the streets looking for their loved ones.
And when the destruction would cease for some time, my parents would hurriedly pack some essentials. They would drive us to the airport, get us into a plane, and leave for the closest safest country, Cyprus, to go away for an indefinite time, from destruction.
Fortunately, my parents could afford to take us to safety, but not everyone had this privilege. Some people didn’t have the means to escape the destruction and bloodshed. So, they stayed behind, living in uncertainty, continually worrying about their family and children and hence feeling terrible for not being able to protect them.
When my parents felt safe, we returned home, with the aftermath of violence and wreckage, awaiting us. The streets smelled of death, surrounded by an eerie silence. Men and women in black could be seen everywhere, mourning the deaths of their loved ones. An age when parents try to protect their children from stark facts of life, I had seen the end up close.
When my parents felt safe, we returned home, with the aftermath of violence and wreckage, awaiting us. The streets smelled of death, surrounded by an eerie silence. Men and women in black could be seen everywhere, mourning the deaths of their loved ones. An age when parents try to protect their children from stark facts of life, I had seen the end up close.
That is what human resilience is. I didn’t know it back then, but now I do!
We all had something common in us, a silent resolute to come over the difficulties. Our strength connected us. In peaceful times, we pretended to forget everything, we laughed, talked loudly, sang merrily, and danced like there was no tomorrow and shed tears for the loved ones we lost. We, the people of Lebanon, had learned to snatch moments of happiness from those trying times.
It was 30 years ago I moved to the UK to pursue higher studies. I left the life of uncertainty and decided to come here. After I completed my education, I took up a job. I met the love of my life and got married to him. Even after coming to the UK, I still share very close relationships with my siblings.
Along with English, I taught my child Arabic. I love to cook Lebanese food. We welcomed our son Oliver and made my home in a place where I could keep my child safe, something, I did not experience as a child.
There is nothing more gratifying for parents when they tuck their children into their beds at night, knowing they are safe. To many, perhaps it’s nothing extraordinary, yet for people like me, who have seen destruction so closely, every day and every night is a time of gratitude.
Things had finally started to look up, and people were hoping Lebanon was on its way to recovery when there was another explosion on the 4th of August. The catastrophe shook the whole country, not only Beirut. Buildings were flattened entirely within a matter of a few seconds. It was like the sky folded onto itself in a loud crackling that shook the ground like an earthquake. There was so much devastation that four hospitals were wholly transformed into rubble.
My mum’s house, not very far from the port where the explosion occurred, was shattered completely with glass scattered everywhere. She had glass injuries, and though few of the injuries were quite grave, she survived. Unfortunately, a lot of other people were not that lucky. There were bodies strewn across the streets as the city burnt.
I feel this unexplainable deep sorrow in my heart for my people and my country of birth. People of Lebanon have already suffered a lot, and they do not deserve any of this. Whether it is mothers losing their children, sisters losing their brothers or children getting orphaned, it’s a complete disregard for human lives and their fundamental rights. It’s humanity at its worst!!
The bright light among all this, as always people of Lebanon, are united in their grief. Every morning they wake up and clean the streets and the rubble. They are there for each other, trying to help one another to rebuild their lives. I am sure they will rise again from this tragedy. But when will this disregard to human beings stop? Just because some selfish people can’t see beyond themselves, their needs, and their political ambitions, people will suffer.
Is World Peace just a fancy word that is used generously in International platforms? Can we not do something for world peace? Is releasing white doves in public functions exempts our leaders from doing anything purposeful for world peace? Can ordinary people not make a difference? When was the last time you raised your voice in a peaceful way when you saw someone being marginalized, ignored, and left out?
I like to stand up against the injustice of any kind. I, in my peaceful way, condemn the atrocities against the people of Lebanon. For many people around the world ‘Peace’ is a luxury and I do hope a day comes when each one of us is safe in our homes, streets, cities and countries. Till then, I will keep trying and striving for it by doing my bit even if it’s just a drop in a vast ocean!”
“If we were to have peace on earth… our loyalties must transcend our race, our tribe, our class, and our nation; and this means we must develop a world perspective.” Martin Luther King junior
Joumana Bou-harb, lives with her eight-year-old son and husband in Essex. A cook par excellence, she loves gardening in her spare time.
Picture Credit : Joumana Bou-harb
https://www.facebook.com/joumana.bouharb
Written By : Vibha S. Kapil
https://www.facebook.com/vibha.kapil