Meaning

Sun setting on Beirut. August, 2019.

I left Beirut in October 2019 and for the first time in a long time, I was happy to leave. It was a long, hot summer—power cuts were longer and more frequent, there was a shortage of water, for the first time I couldn’t access US dollars from ATMs, and bread (a staple in the Middle East) was getting harder to find. The chaos and traffic of the city was getting to me, as it does. The heat and humidity of August left me weary. 

This all should have been a warning that everything in Beirut was about to change.  

Usually when I leave Beirut, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to come back and I have tears streaming down my face as I board my flight. For going on 18 years, my life there has hung by a single thread that is constantly unraveling; it’s fragile and I know every second (even the miserable ones) is something to savor because it can end in a second. In the fall of 2019, I didn’t care if I saw it again. I wanted out, and I needed out. I left early in the morning, heart numbed, body exhausted, and mind frazzled. Not a single tear shed. 

Little did I know a week later there would be massive anti-government protests and an economic freefall. Within 6 months, a pandemic would add to crippling the country further and 10 months later, a powerful blast would level a good portion of Beirut, kill over 200 people and displace 300,000. A year later, the country has collapsed—the currency has lost 90% of its value. The country ran out of fuel two weeks ago, government electricity is supplied for 2 hours a day, food prices are up 400%, and in 2020 inflation hit 84.9%. 

Over 50% of the Lebanese citizens are living below the poverty line and 49% of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon are making $25 a month.

I did not know when I left that early October morning, the country would quickly freefall. But, yeah, maybe I did. It is always a possibility. I decided when I got back to the US that in 2020, I wouldn’t spend as much time in the Middle East. I guess I’m lucky I decided that before 2020 had plans of its own. 

This has been the longest I have been out of Beirut and the Middle East. This means it is also the longest consecutive amount of time I have been in my own country in nearly two decades. I’ve still been deeply connected with our partners and able to work. Thank you, technology! It’s not the same. Part of my heart has been cut off and I’ve tucked it neatly away. I feel pretty isolated in America. I am definitely different from most of my fellow Americans. I have a hard time relating. 

I miss people desperately in Beirut and Amman. To be honest, I have spent many nights awake worrying about them and feeling helpless to do anything for them. 

I think this separation, coupled with a pandemic, has brought about an existential crisis for me. I’ve repeatedly wondered what the meaning of life is. Like really. What is the purpose of being on this earth? What is the most important aspect of life for me? What am I most passionate about? 

I’m not sure I have an answer. But, I know I’d like to live with meaning. 

A few weeks ago, Lebanon ran out of fuel. AUBMC (American University Beirut Medical Center) sent out an email stating they had run out of fuel for their generators and had no prospects of getting a supply. This meant they would have to turn off ventilators and stop operating in 48 hours. Spoiler alert, private citizens and fuel companies stepped in and averted the catastrophe. This hospital was one of the most prestigious in the Middle East.  

I don’t know why, but this was my breaking point. I experimented with the idea of going to the Middle East earlier and to go to Beirut separately to bring a few suitcases of medicine. Yeah, pharmacies in Lebanon are emptied. You cannot find basic over-the-counter medications such as Advil or cough syrup. A few days earlier I had sent out a feeler on social media of what medications people needed in Lebanon. I was overwhelmed by the responses. People told me everything to anything. I also had requests for chemotherapy medicine, insulin, and thyroid medication. 

Devastating. 

This felt like I needed to go now while I still can. My board of advisors agreed after 18 months of telling me it’s too risky to travel. Ironically, I’m walking into the most unstable and most dangerous Beirut has been in our volatile 18-year relationship. That meeting felt very heavy because the board realized what they were sending me into. I realized it as well and yet, I feel compelled to go. Because if I am not willing to go even though I have relationships, knowledge of the city, and a damn healthy respect for how explosive (literally) Beirut can be, who would go? 

Maybe this is the meaning of life, to accept risk and willingly give up safety for people you love. 

That’s what this is about for me. Love. If I say I love Beirut and my friends, then this is what it means for me to live with meaning. 

I write the above with tears streaming down my face, some trepidation of what is to come, and much resolve. 

Because Beirut, always Beirut. 

I’d like to thank every single donor for giving so generously to supply over-the-counter medications to Lebanon. Also, so many people volunteered to make this happen from graphic design to translating medication names to American brands to agreeing to be a drop-off site. Whatever I have needed and have asked for, you, dear friends have gone above and beyond. I am overwhelmed with your kindness and generosity.