A Sensory Study of Lebanese Culture
Wrinkled fingertips graze the lips of older women, while shrill and unyielding cries pierce through the air — the pitch of the zalagheet (ululation) underscoring their joy. Rice and flower petals at your every step: attacking, welcoming, loving. A sloppy, unhygienic kiss is planted on your cheek from your favorite khalto (aunt), a tug at your dress from the boy you've always bought candy for, and your parents' entire street is lined along your path. It's a celebration undefined by words, and a love unbound by conditions. 'I love you,' 'Thank you,' ' A'abelik [a phrase said to single people to wish marriage and happiness].'
The khodarje 's (vegetable vendor) calloused, dry, yet somehow warm hands pick out what your mom wrote on an old receipt for today's tabkha (meal), gently removing the yellowed and the imperfect produce — summarizing 50 years and almost three generations of friendship and respect in giving you the good peppers only. Rice and vermicelli sit against red and green, old white floral ceramic pots and stainless steel. The soft clunk of a plate filled to the brim disturb the wooden table. The click-clack of the coffee merchant echoes: ceramic against ceramic, cardamom against a century-old cobblestone, and giggles float over shared rakwehs (coffee pot). 'I'd like it bitter, please,' 'Half-half,' 'Save the grounds for me, if you may.'
'Ahla bhal talleh [a welcoming phrase]! Beirut brightens at your presence.' The pouring of a clear, sweet syrup flows. 'There's no way you eat it without ater (sugar syrup). Are you sure? You don't need the diet, smallah a'alayke [may God protect you]. The sweetness of this knefeh comes from you, not the syrup.' 'Here, take this za'atar and zaytoun sandwich wrapped with love.' Customs won't mind, but I'll mind your absence more.
Someone yells from the veranda, someone else answers from dekeneh (minimarket) below — a basket tied to a rope dancing in between. 'The list and the money are in the basket. Please fill it out, and keep the rest.' The smells from the kitchen swirl upwards, mixing with floral scents.'What have you been using for your laundry? Look at it — so pearly white, and the scent flowing everywhere,' one says from a neighboring building. 'Oh, thank you! It's this detergent, and a new Gardenia bush that my in-laws brought over.'
The prayer beads sway, mosques and churches take turns, the silence during each call and bell ring, and the care at each 'pass me this' and ' sahten ' (bon appétit) over iftars and Christmas dinners. There is always someone home, even if they're not. An invitation is extended, a thank you, and a kiss on each cheek — left, right, left again — even if you saw them yesterday.
A bowl of foul (beans) is served. Rivers of oil flow between each bite, while tender palms take the bread apart for you. Ma betshabbe3 ella le2mit l em (Only a mother's food is filling). You were not hungry, but you ate anyway. You weren't crying, but you teared up anyway. You did not plan on staying long but conversed over a cup of sour carrots and nuts long past sunrise. Our tête-à-têtes range from politics and wars to love and heartbreak, still managing to weave sarcasm and chuckles between each syllable. Bye-byes and au revoirs are said a thousand times at the steps of metal doors, right before launching into another conversation. Stay a bit longer, linger, look back after you wave at me.
Our fridges are never full, but there is always a pot covered with a plate, ready for when someone comes over. You are always someone to feed here, someone to welcome, someone to kiss on the forehead and whisper a small prayer for when you're going home. You are someone, but your name is no longer your first and last only — you are not just Layla, you are Layla bint Jamila, bint Um Ahmad, bint Maarouf. You descend from those who birthed you, those who raised and loved you as their own — regardless of biology.
The sounds of watermelons being slapped in the summer ring, later cracked open under the silver, full moon. The crackle of plastic-covered sofas, the hiss of soda being poured over ice, the popping of burnt wood for when the kids are begging for s'mores, or for when the adults have dusted off and brought out their hookahs. It's a bit chilly, isn't it? Come, there are plenty of jackets and blankets inside. But, a battle ensues between linen and affectionate arms: what warms you faster?
And perhaps that's what it means to fully preserve a culture — not by safeguarding it in glass boxes and transcribing it down in museums and exhibitions, but by living it; by breathing in every scent and taste and touch it has to offer. No one taught us that this is our heritage; we just knew it. Modernity knocks on our doors with convenience, speed and efficiency, but we answer slowly, warmly, with a pot on the stove and a story on our lips. We are not just adapting; we are translating memory into motion, keeping pace without losing rhythm. We are still here: in the cracks of cobblestones, the weight of names, the laughter that outlives sorrow. And as long as someone still says sahten, still pours ater for you, still ties the rope to the basket and lowers it down, we have not forgotten where we come from. We carry it forward. We wave, we linger, and then we look back.
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L'Orient-Le Jour
07-05-2025
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A Sensory Study of Lebanese Culture
Wrinkled fingertips graze the lips of older women, while shrill and unyielding cries pierce through the air — the pitch of the zalagheet (ululation) underscoring their joy. Rice and flower petals at your every step: attacking, welcoming, loving. A sloppy, unhygienic kiss is planted on your cheek from your favorite khalto (aunt), a tug at your dress from the boy you've always bought candy for, and your parents' entire street is lined along your path. It's a celebration undefined by words, and a love unbound by conditions. 'I love you,' 'Thank you,' ' A'abelik [a phrase said to single people to wish marriage and happiness].' The khodarje 's (vegetable vendor) calloused, dry, yet somehow warm hands pick out what your mom wrote on an old receipt for today's tabkha (meal), gently removing the yellowed and the imperfect produce — summarizing 50 years and almost three generations of friendship and respect in giving you the good peppers only. Rice and vermicelli sit against red and green, old white floral ceramic pots and stainless steel. The soft clunk of a plate filled to the brim disturb the wooden table. The click-clack of the coffee merchant echoes: ceramic against ceramic, cardamom against a century-old cobblestone, and giggles float over shared rakwehs (coffee pot). 'I'd like it bitter, please,' 'Half-half,' 'Save the grounds for me, if you may.' 'Ahla bhal talleh [a welcoming phrase]! Beirut brightens at your presence.' The pouring of a clear, sweet syrup flows. 'There's no way you eat it without ater (sugar syrup). Are you sure? You don't need the diet, smallah a'alayke [may God protect you]. The sweetness of this knefeh comes from you, not the syrup.' 'Here, take this za'atar and zaytoun sandwich wrapped with love.' Customs won't mind, but I'll mind your absence more. Someone yells from the veranda, someone else answers from dekeneh (minimarket) below — a basket tied to a rope dancing in between. 'The list and the money are in the basket. Please fill it out, and keep the rest.' The smells from the kitchen swirl upwards, mixing with floral scents.'What have you been using for your laundry? Look at it — so pearly white, and the scent flowing everywhere,' one says from a neighboring building. 'Oh, thank you! It's this detergent, and a new Gardenia bush that my in-laws brought over.' The prayer beads sway, mosques and churches take turns, the silence during each call and bell ring, and the care at each 'pass me this' and ' sahten ' (bon appétit) over iftars and Christmas dinners. There is always someone home, even if they're not. An invitation is extended, a thank you, and a kiss on each cheek — left, right, left again — even if you saw them yesterday. A bowl of foul (beans) is served. Rivers of oil flow between each bite, while tender palms take the bread apart for you. Ma betshabbe3 ella le2mit l em (Only a mother's food is filling). You were not hungry, but you ate anyway. You weren't crying, but you teared up anyway. You did not plan on staying long but conversed over a cup of sour carrots and nuts long past sunrise. Our tête-à-têtes range from politics and wars to love and heartbreak, still managing to weave sarcasm and chuckles between each syllable. Bye-byes and au revoirs are said a thousand times at the steps of metal doors, right before launching into another conversation. Stay a bit longer, linger, look back after you wave at me. Our fridges are never full, but there is always a pot covered with a plate, ready for when someone comes over. You are always someone to feed here, someone to welcome, someone to kiss on the forehead and whisper a small prayer for when you're going home. You are someone, but your name is no longer your first and last only — you are not just Layla, you are Layla bint Jamila, bint Um Ahmad, bint Maarouf. You descend from those who birthed you, those who raised and loved you as their own — regardless of biology. The sounds of watermelons being slapped in the summer ring, later cracked open under the silver, full moon. The crackle of plastic-covered sofas, the hiss of soda being poured over ice, the popping of burnt wood for when the kids are begging for s'mores, or for when the adults have dusted off and brought out their hookahs. It's a bit chilly, isn't it? Come, there are plenty of jackets and blankets inside. But, a battle ensues between linen and affectionate arms: what warms you faster? And perhaps that's what it means to fully preserve a culture — not by safeguarding it in glass boxes and transcribing it down in museums and exhibitions, but by living it; by breathing in every scent and taste and touch it has to offer. No one taught us that this is our heritage; we just knew it. Modernity knocks on our doors with convenience, speed and efficiency, but we answer slowly, warmly, with a pot on the stove and a story on our lips. We are not just adapting; we are translating memory into motion, keeping pace without losing rhythm. We are still here: in the cracks of cobblestones, the weight of names, the laughter that outlives sorrow. And as long as someone still says sahten, still pours ater for you, still ties the rope to the basket and lowers it down, we have not forgotten where we come from. We carry it forward. We wave, we linger, and then we look back.
LBCI
07-03-2025
- LBCI
Nine Egyptians freed after 19 months in Sudanese captivity
Nine Egyptians freed after being held for 19 months by Sudan's paramilitary Rapid Support Forces arrived in Egypt to celebrations on Thursday morning as the Sudanese army advanced in Khartoum. "Praise be to God. A new age begins for us today. Our life starts anew from today," said Ahmed Aziz Masry surrounded by dozens of people who came to congratulate him on his return to the village of Abo Shanab. Residents flooded the streets of the village, 110 km (70 miles) southwest of Cairo, home to seven of the freed captives. Reuters
L'Orient-Le Jour
07-01-2025
- L'Orient-Le Jour
The miracle of being able to return to Lebanon
Just a month ago, they had stopped believing. From Paris, London, Dubai, Riyadh, New York, Milan, Berlin, Sydney or Montreal, glued to their smartphones, engrossed in the news, connected to Lebanon through screens or familiar but distant voices, they had become powerless spectators of a war that kept extending and intensifying, defying science fiction. From afar, they watched their Lebanon getting consumed by Israeli fire, and they definitely no longer believed. Day by day, hour by hour, they saw cease-fire attempts failing one after another, and with them, the hope of a return seemed increasingly impossible. Just a month ago, for all of them, the mere idea of returning for the holidays, going back home, seemed unreal. Over the phone, with cracked and breathless voices, their parents told them more or less the same thing, "Make other plans for Christmas, it's impossible for you to come to Beirut this year," "Forget Lebanon, there's no question of you returning," "Stay away, stay safe, I forbid you from coming here," "This is going to last, it will never end." Gradually, even though their hearts and bodies refused, they reluctantly accepted that indeed, this year, Christmas would have to be without Lebanon. A possible return But how to cope without a Christmas in Lebanon? And then, just like that, while they endlessly pondered this question with their hearts in a thousand pieces, they woke up one late November morning with the same hangover, looked at their screens which for three months had been pouring out the worst news, and it was like a miracle. A cease-fire, for real this time. A truce? An end? A moment to catch their breath? No one really understood what had unfolded behind the scenes, so strangely and in such a short time, but it didn't matter. From Paris, London, Dubai, Riyadh, New York, Milan, Berlin, Sydney, or Montreal, the first thought, the first thing that crossed their minds was this sudden and unexpected possibility of returning home. And just like that, almost with a snap of their fingers, they all rushed to the Middle East website. Tickets to Beirut cost a fortune, but the now miraculous chance to return was priceless, especially since the night before, they went to bed not believing it. Especially since just a handful of days earlier, they wondered if there would be anything left of their country by the end of the year. And just like that, almost in the blink of an eye, the distant and familiar voices of their loved ones and parents magically regained life by saying: "Did you book your ticket? Hurry, there are almost no seats left on the planes!" And just like that, without having taken or had the time to understand or digest anything, their parents, who the day before had urged them to forget Lebanon, told them, "Come, we're waiting for you." Their mothers decorated the house for them, pulled out the Nativity scene and the childhood Christmas tree, filled candy jars with those same chocolates in gold and silver wrappers. They refueled their cars, put fresh sheets on their eternal children's beds, filled the fridge, and started preparing the dishes they love and dream of all year long. And then, from Paris, London, Dubai, Riyadh, New York, Milan, Berlin, Sydney, or Montreal, they boarded planes that, just days earlier, took off amid missiles and explosions. The Smell of Tangerines on Their Fingers But this time, this year, everything took on a different dimension for them. In their eyes, every moment of this journey resembled a small miracle. The landing in this city with its lights and life regained when no one believed it anymore. The bustling arrivals at Beirut airport, and the crowd of parents, children, seniors, lovers, and friends who managed once again, and no one really knows how to stand back up and relearn hope. The taxi crossing a highway and neighborhoods where, just a month earlier, only death dared to venture. The light seen in some apartments in those suburbs, and the strength of those Lebanese ready to come back and start over despite everything. In their eyes, every moment of this return had never been so precious. Everything, every smell, every taste, every face, every part of the landscape that a month earlier was destined to disappear suddenly took on the dimension of a treasure. Just being able to breathe in their grandparents' fragrance, just being able to reunite with childhood and lifelong friends in the places where they left their teenage memories, just being able to spend a night with a past lover whose skin smells like Beirut, only these perhaps trivial moments contained all the world's wonder. In their eyes, even a trivial sunbeam on their skin looked like gold. Just a sip of arak or beer mixed with the scent of iodine was enough to make their eyes squint with pleasure. Just the sounds of the city coming back to life, just the warm laughter of people at the end of the evening, with a manousheh in hand and the cottony sun rising behind them, became the most beautiful moment. Just the aroma of Arabic coffee in the morning, the taste of a shawarma sandwich, the scent of tangerines on their fingers, the smell of bleach poured on the stairway, or the smile of the corner grocer, contained something that went beyond happiness. And deep down, just being there, just being able to return; just that had been, for all those who, a month earlier, no longer believed, a miracle.
