Clouds Over Jabal Al-Sheikh

“Jabal al Sheikh, in your shadow the mountain that cradles my father,

Let your white cap protect those whose embrace you hold, let it shine your ancient wisdom on those who wish to destroy them.”

- Mathew Jammaz

I wrote, in my debut book, “You’re Already Dead,” about my recollection and experience visiting Lebanon as a seven-year-old in 1992. I hint about my current understanding of the geopolitical situation in the Middle East as a grown man, but in the chapter on community, as I recall my first-ever trip to Lebanon as a seven-year-old, it was one of childhood ignorance.

The freedom to do whatever I wanted with my dad was great—he let me come and go as I pleased, which I wasn’t used to. In Edmonton, I was used to being told not to go too far around the block on my bike. But there, the community was family; they were one and the same.

Looking back now, I remember wondering why so many buildings had pockmarks or were reduced to rubble. At the time, my dad explained it away by saying there was a war. My kid mind knew what war was; at the time, to me, it just meant people fighting with guns. As I grew older, gained more knowledge, read more books, talked to more people, and learned about history, I realized war was more than just people fighting with guns. It was people betraying the essence of what it means, in my opinion, to be a human being.

Living in Canada, we are privileged. Privileged in the sense that we don’t have to worry about fighter jets overhead, roadside bombs, or our close neighbors wanting to murder us. Although we can’t diminish our own problems—as many of us are struggling for survival, physically, mentally, and spiritually—the bombs don’t manifest in physical shrapnel but perhaps in shrapnel made from socio-economic pressures, mental pressures, physical ailments, and so on.

So many times I heard my dad say one day he will retire in Lebanon. “When things get better,” was always a phrase in our household. He even built a house there, as was tradition to do. You build a house, you got married, you moved in. And your children would do the same, and so on. But he was never able to do that, even before he got sick and passed away. The ‘Civil War’ ended in 1990 (I put that in quotes because although it was fought by warring Lebanese factions, they were merely proxies of other countries). Then came the clashes of 2000 between Hezbollah and Israel, followed by the war of 2006, from which Lebanon has yet to recover. Thousands of innocent people murdered through no fault of their own. And then more border clashes in 2010. My dad passed in 2011, resting on the mountains of Chouaya, being watched over by Jabal al-Sheikh.

And now, after his passing, more war, more strife. Periods of calm, where we block out the past as though just to feel sunlight on our faces, knowing another cloud is just beyond the horizon, drifting north, not knowing how long it will block out the sun again.

In this pursuit of sunlight, my father found a sanctuary in Canada. He adored his adopted country, often declaring it the greatest country in the world—not for its landscapes or wealth but for the peace and safety it afforded him and his family. This sanctuary is what every person seeks, irrespective of their roots—a place not defined merely by birth or belief but by the security and tranquility it offers.

With this current manifestation of violence in the Middle East, I hope and pray that there’s something left over for us to build peace on. So we can go back, and perhaps not build a home, but memories of love, joy, and experience. These little nations that we trace our roots from, they hold so much sway over the most powerful and biggest countries. I hope one day we are no longer their playground for war, but their playground for life.

I don’t have all the answers in the world. I do my best to see the viewpoints and perspectives of many different people, even if that might be truly impossible because I am not in their shoes, but we can do our best to understand one thing, and that is most people just want to live in peace. They want prosperity, they want freedom.

No matter your perspective and what you think is yours, nothing can justify the butchery, the savagery, and the tragedy that is killing innocent civilians.

Once, working at a fast-food restaurant, I would see flies fighting each other. I thought to myself, well, if a being as small as a fly can fight each other, perhaps it is in our nature to always fight. But the difference is we have words. We can talk. If war is inevitable, so be it, but no matter what your persuasions, perspectives, or politics are, nothing can ever justify killing innocent people, or noncombatants. Nothing can justify genocide. History tends to repeat itself, yet the vow of ‘never again’ should be a commitment made for all people.

The fate of Lebanon has long been entangled with that of the Palestinian people—a shared narrative written in the ink of struggle and hope. Just as my father’s house, built with dreams of a peaceful retirement, stands in Lebanon, so too do the aspirations of the Palestinian people stand against the test of time. The turmoil that rocks Palestine reverberates through the valleys and mountains of Lebanon, reminding us that the tranquility we occasionally enjoy is as fragile as the calm before the storm. Each new clash within Palestinian borders casts a long shadow, much like the cloud that drifts north, promising to shroud our momentary sunlight. As I witness the current suffering of the Palestinian people, it’s as if I can see that same cloud, its edges darkening, threatening to engulf Lebanon once more.

Here’s to hoping that this time, the cloud evaporates, sparing both our lands from another eclipse.

Thank you for reading.