My father tells me, “We’re Lebanese; we were born resilient,” while on the other end of the phone, my focus shifts to the television noise in the background. The news anchor is talking about Israel’s ground invasion in Lebanon. The ongoing war, fueled by historical tensions and geopolitical interests, has once again escalated into terror.
On October 1, Israel launched a ground invasion in Lebanon targeting the Iran-backed militant group Hezbollah. Lebanon’s Health Ministry has announced that more than 2,000 people have been killed by Israeli attacks, 127 of which are children and 261 of which are women. As I begin to ask my father about my family on the ground, I get interrupted by a buzz from my phone. It’s the news. The headline banner reads, “Beirut in shock and fear of all-out war.”
My father and I eventually hung up. But no time to dwell — we’re Lebanese, we were born resilient, right? We have to be. The day doesn’t pause for war, does it? No, life moves forward like nothing has changed. It’s a regular Monday here at USC. I have a class in an hour, and assignments are piling up. But I still carry the weight of that headline, the weight of the news, and the weight of the endless terror unfolding in Lebanon. And, as I try to navigate this strange duality torn between a world of peace and one of war, there’s a quiet tension. A dissonance. One between the safety I walk through and the fear my people live in.
Lebanon, already grappling with a severe economic crisis, now faces a growing humanitarian disaster. On October 4, Israel has launched its heaviest airstrike on the Lebanese capital, Beirut. Civilians are facing the worst of the violence. Hospitals are overflowing, and neighborhoods are reduced to rubble. According to the Lebanese Prime Minister, Najib Mikati, 1.2 million people — one-quarter of the population — have fled their homes as a result of Israel’s attacks. The streets of Beirut, once sung to life by Fairuz, now echo with the sounds of sirens and bombings. Lebanese civilians are trapped in this nightmare, with no clear end in sight.
These very circumstances remind me of why my parents decided to leave Lebanon in the first place. Born in 1970, my parents are part of what we call the “generation of war.” They grew up during the Lebanese Civil War, through bombings and invasions, and in a country torn apart by sectarian violence. “We’re Lebanese; we were born resilient.” My dad’s words start to make sense as survival imprinted his very birth. My parents’ generation had to endure, to adapt — they had to be resilient.
Despite the fear instilled by war, my parents carried with them the most profound love for their homeland. They carry with them a pride in being Lebanese that no invasion, intrusion or conflict could ever take away. My parents never knew a life without war, resilience is woven into the fabric of their existence. Their resilience wasn’t just in war; their resilience was in choosing a future where my sisters and I have the ability to live without the constant shadow of conflict. So, they moved abroad and created a vibrant home where Lebanese food filled our table daily, and Lebanese music echoed through our walls. My parents did not leave their country behind; they carried it fiercely, weaving it into our lives, homes and hearts.
I am Lebanese, and with the unshakable pride I carry for my country, I watch the terror unfold in despair. I watch in despair as a weeping father calls out for his daughter trapped under the rubble of a collapsed building in Beirut. I watch in despair as my father’s city, Saida, gets carpet-bombed. I watch in despair as health workers are murdered. I watch in despair as Israel invades Lebanon.
In these times, I think of my father’s words: “We’re Lebanese; we were born resilient.” But is resilience synonymous with normalizing terror? Is resilience the expectation placed on us simply because the world assumes that conflict is part of our identity?
I refuse to let resilience be reduced to absorbing indifference. Resilience is the mother hoping for the return of her martyred son. Resilience is the ability to rebuild, love and find hope even when uncertain. Resilience carries the beauty of Lebanon, its culture and our memories when it’s torn apart. It means carrying the weight of history but never letting it crush your spirit. It’s finding strength in your roots; resilience is always believing that no matter how many times we fall, we will rise again.