PAULINE LETTER
Kareem Tayara (2003-08) writes from Lebanon I was born and raised in London to Lebanese parents; I am British, but I am also Lebanese. I have been visiting Lebanon for as long as I can remember, but until recently, I have always been just that – a visitor. Without first-hand experience, our opinions of a place are shaped by what we see, hear and read. And for Lebanon, that is shawarma, the odd explosion, falafel, Hezbollah, halloumi, and ‘best off the beaten path’ travel listicles. Even with first-hand experience, it is difficult to get the true flavour of a place. I have been to Lebanon probably over a hundred times, but only now feel like I am starting to ‘get’ it. For most of my life, my relationship with Lebanon has been largely one-way; to butcher a JFK quotation, I had only ever asked what my country could do for me, never what I could do for it. I would come to Lebanon, see my family, have fun, and leave. I like it here, but, until recently, I never really thought about it as ‘my’ country. That changed after a couple of events in summer 2020. On August 4th last year, a massive ammonium nitrate explosion – among the biggest non-nuclear explosions of all time – devastated the Lebanese capital Beirut. My family and I were in our house in the mountains, 25km away from the blast site, and it felt like an earthquake. Had we been in our apartment in Beirut, 1.5km from the blast site, we would have almost certainly ended up in the hospital, or being treated in the street because the hospitals were overflowing. The blast caused 218 deaths, 7,500 injuries, $15 billion in property damage, and left an estimated 300,000 people (5% of the population) homeless. A couple of weeks later, my friend Clem came up to visit. Clem is the founder of CodeBrave (www.codebrave.org), a charity that provides tech education to children from disadvantaged backgrounds in Lebanon. Having fallen in love with Lebanon during her year abroad studying Arabic, she moved here from the UK after university. At dinner, when my parents asked her why she decided to stay in Lebanon, she answered that the country “has a soul”. While volunteering at a shelter for the homeless, one of the boys asked to learn coding and she realised that tech education could give these young people the skills, confidence, and opportunities to access jobs of the future, so she decided to start CodeBrave. The confluence of the explosion and Clem’s visit made me feel…something. For three days afterwards, I was practically
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ATRIUM
AUTUMN / WINTER 2021
mute; I could not understand why I felt so troubled. Eventually, I realised it was a feeling of dissatisfaction and guilt at my apathy towards Lebanon. The explosion was one more kick in the teeth to a country already on its knees. But its needlessness, its severity and its tangibility brought to light for me how much this country has suffered. Clem’s perspective – that of someone not even Lebanese – made me understand that my attitude to my country was not a reflection of who I wanted to be. As a well-educated, well-connected diaspora member, I am in a position to help. To butcher another Kennedy quotation: if not me, who and if not now, when? I am not quite arrogant enough to believe that I alone can be Lebanon’s saviour, but collective action cannot happen without individual action. For the first time in my life, I am starting to put real thought into what I can do for Lebanon. During all my visits I found it easy to identify Lebanon’s faults, but I am finally appreciating why it is I care about this country – my country. There are the usual things you might hear about Lebanon; the food; the sights; that you can go to the beach and go skiing on the same day; the nightlife. They are rightfully praised, but there is so much more. There is a thriving creative scene. The nature here is genuinely breathtaking and, in a country half the size of Wales, there is a seemingly endless list of places to discover, each more beautiful than the next. Most of all, there is a resiliency and a sense of community that is truly remarkable. The people here know they cannot rely on their government so instead rely on their neighbours. My father and I hike for one to two hours most mornings. People say hello. They invite us into their houses. Some we know, some we do not, but that is how people are here. After the
