Leba-Zine

Photo by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

Leba-zine Leba-zine Leba-zine Leba-zine

A collection of work from and for Lebanese folks united in resistance.

Zine by Marianne El-Mikati

editor’s note The 2019-2020 Lebanese revolution coupled with the August 4th, 2020 Beirut explosion has awoken a movement within the Lebanese diaspora. Resistance weaved together folks who may not have visited the homeland in years, with those who stood fearlessly at the frontlines. Lebanese identities — ones characterized by delicious food, breathtaking lookouts and entrancing music — often contradict Lebanese realities — ones shaped by struggle and hopelessness. My family emigrated to Canada 13 years ago, and I still remember the conversation my dad had with my sister and I at the airport. He reminded us of the land, our roots, our ancestors, and our mission to succeed here so that we could go back home. In 2020, at a Vancouver vigil held after the Beirut explosion, an older lady told us her story although her voice shook. She recounted her life, her emigration to Canada decades ago, her journey of motherhood, and her recent revelations. She felt shameful for ‘abandoning’ her land, her roots and her ancestors in order to give her family a chance at a better life. She teared up as she told us that she has rooted her life in Vancouver, but her daughter chose to immigrate to Lebanon, and start hers in the homeland.

No matter which land our physical bodies rest on, our souls are infinitely intertwined with the smell of cedar trees, the taste of knefeh, the views from Baalbek, the feeling of midnight air on your skin, and the sound of a wedding zaffeh.

Being Lebanese is envisioning a hopeful future for ourselves, not just for our children.

Being Lebanese is working everyday to make this imagined future our present.

I acknowledge that this online magazine is being curated and produced by an uninvited guest on the traditional, ancestral and unceded territory of the Semiahmoo First Nation, noting that the submissions have come from all over Turtle Island and the world.

Marianne El-Mikati

zine contributors Thank you to these folks (who are Lebanese and/or have been affected by the recent events) for creating and submitting art for this zine! I hope this collection of work is a reminder of the power, resilience, solidarity and strength ingrained in us all.

Ivan Debs Roya Semaan

Melanie Kahwaji Marianne El-Mikati

Nida Syed Mariane Tanios Ahmad Diabmarzouk Zeinab Hamdar Lyne Gandour

Jude Chehab Nataly El-Bittar

If you can, please consider donating to organizations working on the frontlines to rebuilt Beirut following the recent tragedies. The last couple of pages include information about Al-Makan, a collective working on the front lines that needs your support. Thank you.

photo by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

photo by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

written by Zeinab Hamdar

We’re dead people walking.

It’s no longer a place, only remnants of all the laughter we once had.

The laughter, the ‫بزر‬, the ‫ أركيلة‬bubbling, on the verge of a city so compressed it burst in its own flames, suffocated in its madness, and died from lack of life.

The lives we once had got snatched out of our hearts in a nightmare we bore witness to in our wake.

Snatched, and glued to the telly looking for that light in the midst of news storms Beirut somehow always promised.

One loss after the other, and we had nothing more to lose except our sanity. It got eaten up slowly until we collectively ran out of any sanity we had stocked up next to our piles of resilience which living in Beirut gradually drained too.

Our Beirut that was once shimmering with city lights— bustling with people and their stories— withered away and got buried under its own debris. It buried itself the way we bury our people today.

Cigarette buttons, ‫عرانيس وترمس وفول وحامض‬, and smoke— a lot of smoke— opposite an ocean of promises in the distance, glistening, reassuring us that whatever happens, it’ll always be there.

Until it got destroyed too.

It stood still, not a single wave, not a single glisten.

written by Zeinab Hamdar The lights were shut down and the moon that shone brightly once was so careful not to touch the ocean where it hurts, so it turned its moonlight off as well.

The wind blew in the dark, motionless in the air. It was made heavy with bombs for tears, waiting for the right moment to blow Beirut up with screeches and cries of broken hearts upon broken dreams for broken bones now lost, lost without a chance of getting buried down under. They were always under; hollow bodies which fear and horror fed on long before.

And they bled. They bled until their veins cracked with death, wishing for an ending, for their ending.

We’re dead people walking.

Put your ears against our hearts and all you’ll hear is dead pulses and pauses: A moment of silence for the people A moment of silence for the land And a thousand lost moments for our dreams that have been silenced.

Silenced.

Silenced by no other than the roaring terrors of simply existing in a country that didn’t know the silence that befalls it today.

We’ll carry the silence as well as we’ve carried our bleeding hearts all this while.

But how long will we have to carry burdens of the like just because we carry them exceptionally well.

artwork by Ivan Debs

artwork by Ivan Debs

love of the human is greater than the love of land

‫ولكن حب اإلنسان أعظم من‬ ‫حب األرض‬ ‫صدرك اصبح الساحل‬ ‫وذراعك غصن‬ ‫وعقلك حبة‬ ‫وقلبك حفرة‬ ‫أُدفن فيك‬ ‫وأحيا فيك‬ ‫وليس لي ارضا ً غيرك‬ ‫ولست أريد ارضا ً غيرك‬ photo and poetry by Jude Chehab

your chest has become the coast your arms the branch your mind the seed your heart the hole I’m buried in you I’m reborn in you I have no land but you And I want no land but you

On the land in which my grandfather was born On the land in which my grandfather was buried

‫في أرض خلق عليها جدي‬

love arrived

‫في أرض دفن فيه جدي‬

for in life there is love

‫أزهر الحب‬

and in death there is love

‫ففي الحياة حب‬

it is the same love

‫وفي املوت حب‬

but it’s presence differs

‫الحب ذاته و وجوده يختلف‬

what is land but a hole

‫ما هي األرض بل حفرة‬

we dig, plant, and grow

‫نحفر ونزرع وننبت‬

photo and poetry by Jude Chehab

photos by Mariane Tanios

photos by Mariane Tanios

when I forget, I am my grandmother’s overgrown garden, and the violet hydrangeas she left behind.

I am the balcony floor which cradled my past self as she watched bombs drop on her city.

I am the smell of cedar trees.

I am the incessant honking that keeps Beirut’s roads alive.

I am the friendly bodega owner who saved my sister and I a chocolate bar for our daily walks home from school.

I am the graveyard in which my grandfather was buried.

I am the unlocked door which invites the hungry in for iftar.

I am Fairouz playing faintly in the mornings.

I am the insults hurled at a television screen during the nightly news.

I am the smell of freshly-baked pita bread.

I am the sign held up by a protester as she fights for the freedom of her brothers and sisters.

I am the heads held high of the women who formed a wall to push forward the revolution.

remind me.

I am the abandoned homes of those whose eyes were tired of crying, whose hands were shaking as they signed immigration papers, whose broken hearts were left bleeding beneath the rubble.

I am the long-distance phone calls home that end in prayer.

I am the anger, the hope, the loss, the unity, the resistance of my people.

written by Marianne El-Mikati

t will time things take me.

I know take time

fore things worktake thisme. time?

But will time Before things work this time?

I know things take time But will time take me Before things work this time?

e time me k this time?

I know things take time But will time take me, Before things work this time?

I know things take time But will time take me.

Before things work this time?

written by Zeinab Hamdar

I know things take time I know things take time But will time take me.

But will time take me.

Before things work this time?

Before things work this time?

I know things take time But will time take me Before things work this time?

But will time take me But will time take me Before things work this time?

Before things work this time?

I know things tak But will time take Before things wor

take me time?

I know things take time But will time take me, Before things work this time?

I know things take time I know things take time But will time take me But will time take me Before things work this time?

Before things work this time?

things take time

I know things take time But will time take me Before things work this time? written by Zeinab Hamdar

photos by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

photos by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

written by Melanie Kahwaji, artwork by Ivan Debs

I’ve had the privilege of visiting Lebanon more than 20 times. I spent 2 months every summer between my mom’s neighborhood north of Beirut and my dad’s village in the south. My childhood and adulthood memories are rooted in Lebanese culture; my favourite food, music, dances are all Lebanese. Lebanese people are incredibly kind and generous. Even if they don’t have much, they’ll always invite you for a meal and feed you until you cannot breathe. They don’t need to know you to invite you over for a coffee. It’s common to walk around a village and hear “tfadalo” meaning “welcome”.

As a Lebanese Canadian, I’ve embodied all the values and cultures of Lebanon. I am an active member of the Lebanese-Canadian community here in BC and have had the pleasure to represent Lebanon at many festivals. I encourage youth to participate and learn about Lebanon. If you know me, you know I’m the first to start the dabkeh or bellydance. I love and embrace Lebanese culture.

This past week has been devastating. We called and messaged everyone back home to make sure they were safe. I was sitting in my living room watching the Lebanese news when my dad answered a call that one of his best friends died due to the explosion. We cried and were in pure disbelief at what we were seeing.

I spent the entirety of last summer at St. George hospital in Beirut with my late jedo Raymond, Allah yerhamo. That hospital was severely damaged by the explosion,

bhebak ya

written by Melanie Kahwaji, artwork by Ivan Debs

Lebnan

patients were transferred elsewhere, and 4 nurses died. Other hospitals were destroyed along with people’s homes, offices leaving thousands injured and hundreds dead.

It’s hard to explain this feeling of guilt living outside of Lebanon. I am not there in person to help. While my heart aches, I still have a bed to sleep in and food to eat. I have electricity 24 hours a day. I scroll through videos on Instagram/watch the news with tears in my eyes. I can’t put into words some of the videos that were sent from family and friends in Lebanon. Footage too graphic that it almost felt like a scene from a horror movie. I wake up thinking this is all a nightmare. The reality is that we are mourning and we are not even there! The people in Lebanon don’t deserve this.

My thoughts and prayers are with all my family and friends in Lebanon and to all the innocent people who lost their lives or have been affected by this tragedy.

I’ll end this off with the lyrics from one of my favourite Lebanese songs that resonates now from than ever: “Lebanon will return, and the right will never die, and the sun will rise and beautify Beirut’s sky..We will not quit from here, we will restrict them by our eyes, in this land we want to stay even if only 5 houses remained.”

“Lebnan ra7 yerja, wl 7a2 ma bi mout, wl shams ra7 tetla3, tzayn sama Beirut..Min hon ma mnfl, 7asron ba3ayn el kl, hal 2ared badna ndal, law b2y khams byout”.

Palmyra Hotel, Baalbeck.

“My mother is

photos and poetry by Jude Chehab

“You have your Lebanon and I have my Lebanon.”

a mountain.”

photos and poetry by Jude Chehab

written by Nataly El-Bittar I didn’t personally experience the explosion But it feels like I did.

I didn’t feel the shock wave But I definitely watched videos over a hundred times.

I didn’t lose a loved one But I lost locations and memories in Beirut.

I wasn’t injured But I have a broken heart.

I’m thankfully not homeless, But I feel hopeless because of the distance.

I don’t think our generation knows its power, But I hope they really it soon.

I have so much hope in Lebanon’s youth, But I hope they do too.

I hate seeing Beirut so broken, But I’m waiting for the day it rises again.

‫بحبك يا لبنان‬

artwork by Ivan Debs

written by Zeinab Hamdar

When I was in the UK I did everything to stay But I had to leave before dawn.

When I came back to Lebanon, I did everything to leave A life I would never perceive For myself And somewhere in between Staying and leaving My spirits got crushed Overtaken by nightmares I’ve never seen My mind got lost Overwhelmed with thoughts that rushed Through a sanity staying has cost

photos by Mariane Tanios

written by Zeinab Hamdar

Dead bodies in the distance One corpse upon the other Overlapping Like the dreams I had Now murdered in cold blood Spilling everywhere Over the bodies And into an abyss Of failed despair We call a country That sucked us dry Of everything we once feared losing Until we had nothing much to lose Except a life much like death Except that with death Comes mercy

photos by Mariane Tanios

the power lines, When I was younger, my dad would drive us from our Beirut apartment to our house in the mountains that he built with his father.

These memories smell like gasoline.

Our maroon Pontiac transported us there on Friday afternoons and back on Sunday evenings.

These memories smell like fresh air.

Beirut’s never-ending honking was the lullaby that put me to sleep, so that by the time we’d arrive in Ain Ksour, my dad would have to carry me into bed.

These memories smell like zaatar and milky tea.

Once, my aunt sent me a pink one-piece swim suit with a tiny blue elephant on the front from Canada, and I held on to it the whole car ride because I couldn’t wait to put it on.

These memories smell like inflatable paddling pools.

My weekend necessities consisted of my life-sized Mickey Mouse plushie, a tamagotchi, my diary and one of those glitter pens with a fluffy top.

These memories smell like pineapple Bonjus.

Sometimes, we’d pick up my grandparents on the way and my grandma would play with my hair the whole journey.

These memories smell like her perfume.

written by Marianne El-Mikati

and the moon.

I don’t remember much from back home, but I remember those car rides. I remember hearing my dad sing Om Kulthum as I drifted in and out of sleep. I remember staring out of the car window, witnessing trees whiz by and thanking them for shading me from the sun. I remember people-watching at red lights, and wondering where their weekends would be spent. I remember the specific left turn my dad would take into the parking lot of the store where he would buy my sister and I Strawberry Shortcake sticker packs. I remember the relief and excitement I felt when we would pull up the long driveway and finally pile out of the car, ready for a weekend of playing with my cousins. I remember the twinge of sadness I felt when those weekends would end. I remember counting every single turn and bend from Beirut to Ain Ksour.

I remember the power lines, and the moon.

I remember getting buckled up in my car seat, leaning my head on the head rest, and allowing the power lines to lead the way. I never asked my dad ‘if we were there yet’ because I knew the journey off by heart. I remember feeling like the power lines linked my weeks in the city and my weekends in the mountains. The way that watching the power lines occupied my mind made me feel at home. I remember believing that if I ever got lost, they would guide me back to safety.

written by Marianne El-Mikati

the power lines, I remember landing in Canada in December. I remember crossing the street from the airport to where my uncle’s minivan was parked. I remember thinking that the roads were eerily quiet. I remember looking at the piles of snow that lined them. I remember sitting in my uncle’s car, squished between my sister and the car door, getting tossed around at every sharp turn and unfamiliar bend. I remember how echoey the adult’s small talk sounded. I remember my uncle pointing out the school my sister and I would be going to the following Monday. I remember feeling out of place. I remember squeezing my sister’s hand and seeing in her eyes that she felt the same.

But then I looked up at the power lines, and the moon.

I knew that if I slunk down in the car seat far enough, and angled my head just right, I could pretend like we were back in Lebanon, where everyone and everything felt like home.

I took a deep breath and imagined that these power lines were taking me somewhere familiar, somewhere that smelled like zaatar and my grandma’s perfume, rather than somewhere foreign.

Even now, whenever I can’t seem to find clarity, I look up at the power lines, and the moon, and they lead the way.

written by Marianne El-Mikati

and the moon.

painted by Marianne El-Mikati

photos by Mariane Tanios

photos by Mariane Tanios

photo project by Lyne Gandour

photo project by Lyne Gandour

“whisper into our city’s broken ground for the one in the sky to hear”

Mountain home Aley, Lebanon

photos and poetry by Jude Chehab

‫أنا من الشرق‬ ‫أنا من بالد سميت باسم وجودها‬ ‫تشرق الشمس في الشرق‬ ‫ونحن من هناك‬ ‫نحن أوالد العرب الذي أشرقت الشمس باسمهم‬ ‫نحن أشعة النور‬ ‫افتخر يا عربي فلوال وجودك لكنا ما زلنا في الظالم‬ ‫‪photo and poetry by Jude Chehab‬‬

photos by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

photos by Ahmad Diabmarzouk

BEIRUT, I artwork by Roya Semaan

MISS YOU. artwork by Roya Semaan

photo project by Lyne Gandour, artwork by Ivan Debs

photo project by Lyne Gandour, artwork by Ivan Debs

Nida Syed is an American Pakistani artist and illustrator who uses her art to uplift oppressed voices. The work of Lebanon’s Al-Makan (some of whose members are pictured below) inspired Nida to illustrate the piece, because they are helping their Lebanese community rebuild in more ways than she could have imagined. They are uplifting and empowering those affected, and creating sustainable change for the future generation as well. Nida hopes to see more of this kind of change for those affected by the kafala system as well.

illustration by Nida Syed

“Al-Makan is a much-needed third space in the heart of Beirut that aims at empowering women, cultivating entrepreneurial spirit, providing mental health support, increasing art appreciation, cultivating cultural exchange, and engaging in intellectual dialogue.� — Jude Chehab

Following the Lebanese explosion, Al-Makan have worked tirelessly to rebuild their city. From repairing the shattered windows of those affected, to collecting baby products for those in need, their ongoing relief efforts are directly helping those who need it. This is the kind of grassroots community work that uplifts, unites and reinvents. See some of their work in the photos below.

To support their relief funds, please donate directly to: www.paypal.me/judechehab Venmo: judechehab

by Al-Makan

by Al-Makan