September 27, 2024.
Beirut.
We have already lost one of our students. No. We have not lost him. He was killed. Murdered. Yes. Murdered in Beirut. No reason. He was an honors student. I am using the past tense. No. I will resort to the present tense. Maybe when we change our language, we change our reality. Maybe when we go back to University, he will show up in Tina’s class. Again. Tina has lost one of her students — shattered and sinking in grief. Will his seat really remain empty? No. This is just a nightmare, and when we wake up in the morning, J will be alive again…..
***
We are online with a group of educators. Three wonderful psychologists are sharing insight and tips; they have done work around trauma and PTSD, and this is their cup of tea. Added to their expertise, these specialists are living through the horrible war/genocide — just like us. As fate would have it, in the middle of the session, I hear loud booms — unbelievable moments reminiscent of August 4th. The building shakes violently, as I feel my arrhythmia dance like that of the erratic bombs. I run down the corridor and into the bathroom, disregarding my knee pain. I cry out to my husband. He runs into the bathroom and holds me. Bella and Lulu, our dogs, follow us, and cry. Bella, our superhero guard dog, cries. We both cry. Lulu cannot hear well. But she cries as well. It’s the impact. It’s the sadness. It’s the empathy. It’s the compassion. Even dogs have it. After ten or fifteen minutes, when I am a bit more composed, I re-open my laptop and realize that one of the psychologists also had to take shelter. She is back, to talk to us about what to do when there is a strike; how not to panic; how to cook up “grace under pressure.” I want to hold her hand and tell her that I am scared too.
Beyond fear; I want to normalize fear. I don’t like the lectures I receive telling me not to be afraid, or to “swallow” my fear.
The least I can do is be afraid.
How can you not be scared of those visitors in the sky? The uninvited ones.
When we had guests who would overstay their welcome, my Mom — back in the good old days — used to tell us to put a needle on the broomstick. It would make them leave.
Our broomsticks are full of needles.
October 1, 2024
I hear voices. They are not in my head.
Just noise from the dishwasher. The washing machine. The fridge. Too many machines working.
I hear the buzzing in the skies. Airplanes all the time.
I hear voices that are not there. I hear voices.
The drones.
I have internalized them. I hear those drones even when not there.
I hear voices that are in my head.
October 3, 2024
Last night’s “program” was rich and versatile, catered to different tastes and smells, with white phosphorus the cherry on top.
It rained hate last night.
I closed the windows and the shutters. Calculated risks. We are told not to close windows too tightly, the lessons of August 4 — shattered glass is so difficult to deal with. Especially when it goes into our eyes. But there was no white phosphorus then. Or was there? I worried about the white phosphorus. I texted my friends, a group of nurses and Nadia, who was still awake at 3:00 am, sent us instructions on what to do. I remembered one of my students in Oral Comm this past summer had researched white phosphorus and its side effects. I even remember how she had filmed her presentation — from her home in the South of Lebanon. Her act of resistance. I wonder now what happened to that home.
***
From a psychological perspective, what happens to a person whose friends and family members are massacred? Is there any explanation for the ones who actually become the perpetrators? How in order to atone for the atrocities done to their parents/kin/family members/communities, they do the same to other people? Blood begets blood.
I asked my best friend how she is doing and she replied, “well,” but her father’s graveyard is not. Bachoura is close to the graveyard. Some of the cemeteries there were destroyed as a result of a nearby strike, including her father’s. Bones are powerful: let’s get rid of bones— as well.
***
I hear the sounds and noise — those of drones; explosions; sonic booms — with a strange resonance… I feel the vibrations in my hands — and in my chest — a sinking feeling.
October 5, 2024
Craving going to the market, I am becoming restless at home. Yesterday, I was in bed most of the day. Not trying to make sense, just detaching from the news all around.
Hoarding 101. Having grown up in Lebanon, hoarding — and especially that of food — is something we are not taught to do. We internalize it. For the longest time, I avoided buying MaLing or any type of processed meat. War trauma, I guess. I now realize the wisdom behind MaLing: it’s protein, needs no refrigeration or electricity. MaLing; tuna; pasta; rice; chickpeas; lentils. But mostly MaLing. I meet a woman at my friend’s shop and she tells us that the minute the war started her mom bought MaLing. Now she will go home and “enjoy” MaLing with eggs. Talk about twisted war nostalgia.
Last night, I must have fallen asleep at 3:00 am or maybe it was 4:00 am. My niece was to travel in the morning; I prayed for her. I am no longer sure what I believe, but I prayed to the supernatural power above; and to the God my Evangelical school taught me to believe in.
By the time I was in first grade, my classmates and I knew everything that would stop this genocide. And the one in Gaza. Kindness was imperative; empathy and compassion went in tandem with kindness; helping others: the elderly, people who were ill; respecting everyone, including ourselves; not intruding into other people’s freedom; not taking something that is not ours; respecting the dead; respecting places of worship. Respecting other people’s departed family and friends. Sharing happiness and grief.
And how about the opposite of these antidotes? Building happiness on the distress of others. Building homes over mass graveyards. How did you do it, Gaza? How?
October 6, 2024
I just spoke to my bestest friend on the phone. I know. Bestest is a word now. Says I. We’ve got to start twisting language so that people get the message. So far, with proper grammar and all, it’s just been useless.
We shall now resort to grammar distortion and slight or “targeted” modifications.
My bestest friend told me that the trick is to sleep early. “Fall asleep by 11:00 pm at the latest”… That was my intention last night, but the night did not go as planned. I tried listening to music; I downloaded an app for meditation and relaxation; but I got fires burning inside of me. I got fires of anger towards inhumanity. Please don’t call this just a war. This is not only war. Not only a war. This is a genocide. And I will not capitalize genocide, because maybe, for once, you will get the message, and stop doing it. The meditation music fades as the music outside takes over — incessant, brutal, careless, off tune.
I am nostalgic for those times in history books where the strong men would go to the fields and fight, face to face. No computers involved; no fancy technology; no weaponry even. Just human dignity.
October 22nd, 2024
I walk into my classroom of 28 students, now only a few attending in person; the rest joining us online. It’s the first time I’m seeing them since the beginning of the war. After greeting them, and asking them about their “wellbeing”, we talk about the roads, and the “safety” of the situation. Reny admits that she will never again complain about academia or deadlines or homework, as she has now experienced real life difficulties. We need the tragi-comic relief. She’s always been the funny student — eager to make us laugh.
I open my laptop and start talking about paraphrasing. We have missed out on a lot, so I feel pressure to catch up. The teacher in me is anxious. After a few minutes, a student raises his hand, hesitant, and proposes, “Please, let’s not talk about paraphrasing.” I smile, nodding, “and what would you like us to speak about?” This is the second course he is taking with me, and I am already familiar with his rare but powerful comments. “Just us, me, you, her, our friends; just us.” I look at the PowerPoint I prepared last night, using up-to-date interactive methods, and the futility of it all hits me. How can I possibly talk to them about paraphrasing?
We have tried. We have tried to say it in so many different ways, but this language that we have adopted as close to our heart, is failing us. We tried paraphrasing, but they still did not understand. We tried using different words, using synonyms, changing structure, changing order, but they still did not listen. We even plagiarized and used their words, but they still did not understand.
October 29, 2024
Farouk joins class today, in person. It has been over a month that I have not seen him. I look into his eyes, and I feel that even our class clown has aged.
After class, he tells me that he would like to apologize. I look at him, confused. He says because he has not been keeping up with classes. I smile. No need to apologize. How are you? How is your family? “We had burgers yesterday, Hamdellah. Today we will have pizza. My aunt makes amazing pizza. Come and eat with us, really. We have been staying at her house. Ours is not there. Gone with the wind. Miss, you know, I feel so bad about my cousins and neighbors. I want to help, but who will I help? I wanted to join the Hizb as a fighter, but I am scared. I don’t tell people about that. But you understand me, right? It’s ok to be afraid. I want to live and love. Have many kids. Own a shoe business. I got my laptop, so now I can follow up with classes. You will see; I will make you proud. Will probably get a B. And I will tell you when I use ChatGPT.”
Farouk tells me that the minute he could, he went back to his then existing home, got his cat, and since his aunt does not like cats, he made sure Tiggy came to University. “Now she is in the business building, Miss. I feed her every day. She is one spoiled Princessa. I sit with her in between classes and tell her that we will go back home. Soon. My friends also feed her.”
You make me proud, Farouk. Without the B or the A. You make me proud.
November 9, 2024
I miss those days when students’ “excuses” were: getting stuck in traffic; too many exams; not enough sleep; too much rain; break-up scenarios; grandfather scenarios.
Now, the real life scenarios include: “We lost our home yesterday. Sorry. Still processing”; “My aunt did not make it out on time. She is gone.”; “We had to travel and pack everything in two hours. We are staying with relatives in …….. Nowhere like home truly.”; “Grieving my friend. Painful. Reconsidering/re-evaluating the meaning of life. I knew it would happen, but did not know it would happen at 18.”; “My dad is stuck in ……. Just so worried about him. My uncle also.”; “I’m staying in Beirut for my exams. My family is still in ….. Counting the minutes until I get to see them during the weekend. Cannot go without home-cooked meals for longer.”; “I almost went to heaven, Miss. I was driving back home. Lucky to be alive. They hit a car just behind us.” Real scenes. Real people. Raw pain. How to answer these emails.
November 26, 2024
In the morning, when I wake up, I want to go to work. This is how I wake up everyday. I check the news. I speak with my husband who is already at work. They have started their strikes early today. I decide to stay at home and teach online. Am scared. I have this feeling of uneasiness and overwhelming stress. I want to curl in bed and sleep. I want to shut out everything. All the news channels. All the evil in the world. I know the end is near, and this is what I tell my students when we meet online. I tell them I am hopeful, and I will cling on to the hope that there will be a ceasefire soon. That we will be meeting on-campus soon and we can go back to making silly jokes about the classroom air conditioner. Mazen is somewhat duped by my optimism and expresses his concern about not being able to return to Lebanon any time soon. He wants to, but his family is advising him not to. He is the same student who asked me a week ago why I have not travelled yet; I don’t remember my answer. It was not a very coherent one.
I join my second class at 2:00 pm. The internet has been so spotty. I sit in the salon, closer to the router, with Bella and Loulou. Around 2:30 pm., I move to the kitchen, as my back has been hurting for the past week or so. I usually feel better when I sit up straight on our kitchen chair. We have been talking about synthesis writing. The topic, ironically, has been academic performance and mental health. Lin sends me an email, and informs me that she has lost connection and cannot join the class. I text her back quickly, assuring her that I am recording, as usual. At 2:45 pm, right when I have shared the synthesis essay outline with my students and explained the introductory paragraph, I scream. Unintentionally. I scream as I hear a loud boom that is somewhat different from what we have been experiencing lately. I feel my body shake, and I automatically mute myself. “I am Ok,” I type. “Just give me a few minutes.” I go to the salon. I grab a bottle of water and take sips. I feel my right hand shaking uncontrollably. As I sit in the salon, I hear some students asking: “Miss, are you ok?” “Miss, please tell us if you are ok…” I summon all my strength and go back to the kitchen. “I am well,” I text. I don’t want them to hear the vibrations in my voice: I am not crying, but I could be. I return to the salon again. I don’t want to read the news. I sit down for a few minutes. I smell my tea tree oil. It calms me down. Maybe.
As I sink into the sofa, I notice that the same number has called me twice already. It is a four digit number. My mind wanders and I feel my hands become numb. I remember what Tarek, my student, told me about these numbers calling us: they either ask for information about the Hizb or advise us to evacuate our buildings. I cannot answer this call. I hear my students calling me from behind the screen.
I join my students again. I continue to speak about the literature review essay. I want them all to be able to complete this assignment. I say I am hoping we can write the literature review essay together on campus. In our classroom. With the moody air conditioner. Right when I am about to share a sample essay, my phone rings again. It’s that four digit number. I take a deep breath and I mute myself again. What if they ask us to evacuate the building? What will I do? What will I take with me? My dogs? My neighbor who hasn’t been able to walk for a month? “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice. “Hello, is this Mrs. Nayiri?” “Hello,” I manage to mumble. “Who is this?” I don’t want to sound too audible. “It’s… from the … University. I am calling on behalf of the chairperson…. Concerning the student ….”. My mind goes blank. I take a deeper breath. I don’t think my speech is coherent as I ask the person’s name twice, just to be sure. I am safe. For now, at least.
I go back to my students, and just for a few minutes, pretend that we are going back to the classroom very soon. After all, I was always so good at playing pretend.
I will play pretend now.
We are in the classroom… Walid walks in late most of the time. Mounir and Nada sit next to each other giggling and chitchatting. I encourage them to change their seats, laughing with them, telling them it’s tempting to always sit next to your friends. I sense they are more than friends, because Nada’s eyes sparkle when Mounir is around. And then, the following day, Nada and Mounir are sitting next to each other again. I am not even upset. I’m happy with their company.
I watch the news. More strikes. 28 so far on Dahieh. Noueiry. Basta. Hamra. LAU and AUB (the two universities in Hamra) have opened their gates for their neighbors. People, so many, wander the streets. Where to go? The roads are extremely congested. Dangerous. I call up Ghada, my friend who lives in Hamra. “Please come over,” I say. “Habibti, I have three houses, and they are all in Ras Beirut. Not leaving. I made vegetable soup. I will heat it up and eat it. It smells like sweet carrot cake.”
Maybe I should bake a carrot cake.
Breaking news. 8:04 pm. Israeli Ministers agree on ceasefire terms to go into effect as of 4:00 am. So there is more time for destruction. I feel nothing. I know that until the ceasefire is effective, it will be hell in Beirut and all around. Devoid of feelings, I am tired. Fatigued. Exhausted. I am glad I showered. Salma, my best friend from University, used to say during the 2006 war: always make sure you have clean underwear on. So I shower. All my clothes and underpants are clean. Neatly washed and pressed. I also wear my bra, just in case we need to run away. Where would we go?
It’s going to be a heavy night.
2:00 am
The worst part of wars and genocides is that your other problems do not just disappear. Wars and genocides force you to redefine your priorities. But all your other problems linger on and wait like ghosts behind the door, ready to pour onto you the minute a ceasefire is announced.
Waiting for the ceasefire. No electricity. 2:55 am. Ceasefire should start at 4:00 am. Friends are texting from all over the world; we are all counting down. Praying. Hoping. I think of all my students who are still at university and were not able to go back home.
So what happens tomorrow? From where do we start? How do we heal? It’s only a ceasefire… Does the war ever end? Do genocides ever end? At times, I still feel I am re-living the Armenian genocide of 1915 — the one my grandfathers survived. The horrific stories that live through me every single day are not simply stories. They are testimonies of loss, and loss, and garod [longing/ yearning] towards what could have been; and towards people and lands that we have lost.
4:05 am. Hello world. Still alive. Just like Bisan from Gaza.
So what happens now?
I am sorry, Bisan.
I am sorry, Gaza.
I am sorry, Gaza.
Image: heart-beirut by John Evans, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Teaching in the Times of Genocide - March 17, 2025
A beautiful poignant piece Nayiri. It is heavy on the heart. I loved it, although it made me cry.
I love your raw words that are deeply and painfully moving, hauntingly real, yet humorously resilient. Thank you Nayiri for sharing. I am sorry too !