Photos by Natasha Jahchan.
beirut and mount lebanon
my dear:
after the noise & flash of beirut, at last we are collecting ourselves for a short while in the mountains: the district of mtein, where my partner’s grandparents have built an enormous, open home meant for hosting grandchildren. my own grandparents’ district is not far, another set of green hilltops. across the whole of the mount lebanon the air is filtered by pines, fragrant with wildflowers, saturated with butterflies of every color. the view is one that stops your breath the instant you glimpse it: the hills are entirely green with conifers, dotted by white stone houses & their red roofs. spring has coaxed vibrant flowers & succulents from the orange soil. these plants have forms so alien that were they to appear before you without this backdrop, they’d sooner resemble movie props than natural growth. like everything here, always, their antiquity gives them a classic, untouched glow—as if they’re announcing they’ve been here for eras & will be here for many more. in our stupor we respond “inshAllah.”
the mountains are their own glory, their majesty completely distinct (though no less present) than that of beirut—in the city, you would have loved the small boutiques, cafes, restaurants, theaters—all advertised on their signage in arabic as “gathering place.” it is unlike any city in the world, seemingly built exclusively by artists, the houses painted tastefully to reflect the natural wildflowers along the corniche (yellows, pinks), the balconies alive with greenery, well-used chairs, & drying clothes, the doves flocking from telephone wires to the cobblestone beneath. at the bars, late (beirut sleeps at 5 am), the instant sense is that everyone knows one another. people come in, kiss & greet the staff, kiss & greet everyone who is seated, kiss & meet the new. there is the outrage (towards my partner, who everyone knows) of “you were in beirut & did not tell us?!” followed immediately by “yallah let’s make plans—how long are you staying? is this her? wow!” having never stayed in the city myself, and personally despising nightlife in new york, i am overwhelmed to feel so deeply & thoroughly welcomed & enjoyed. as you sip your drink and pluck a cigarette from any one of the packages that’s offered to you, you hardly notice the sun setting, the neon coming alive above you, the salty air finally cool as it blows through your clothes, which you find you want to remove with an urgency of a kid along the beach.
there is a safety in this kind of love—generalized, earnest, delighted—that i can’t describe in any language, though if i chose to try in english, arabic, french, italian, spanish, or german, they would all understand. i’ve never heard more young polyglots together, flitting between languages like hummingbirds, fully alive with their own mirth, than in the bars of beirut. my partner’s friends are delighted with the arabic i speak, the dialect my lebanese parents passed down in ohio—i must sound a bit ancient, removed from time, made new. what an oddity to be fluent in the rural dialect of those who emigrated, tinted with the american accent of the midwestern diaspora. “say this word again,” they beg, & i am reminded of my childhood visits here. i am finally old enough to say the words proudly, like a flirt, & i laugh too.
so looking forward to seeing you again, though not looking forward to returning to the drudgery & monotone of the states. yallah, come visit us here—what was true for me as a child remains true as a woman. whenever i am reminded of this place i never want to leave.
Ghinwa Jawhari is the author of the chapbook BINT, which was selected by Aria Aber for Radix Media’s Own Voices Chapbook Prize. Her poetry, essays, and fiction appear in Al Rawiya, ACACIA, Rusted Radishes, Salt Hill Journal, and elsewhere. She is a recipient of fellowships from Kundiman and the Asian American Writers’ Workshop.
