I struggled a lot to write this article on the potential role of Lebanese women in the diaspora. I began thinking about peace and recovery but it took me to a very dark place in my mind. Peace with whom? Peace how? What kind of recovery is even possible? How can we make peace with a group of politicians who left explosives at the port for six years and used our homes as shields for weapons? How can we recover from the banking collapse of the century? How can we move past the material and human loss that this political system has caused? I hesitated to write this essay but then decided that if right now peace and recovery are not an option, I must at least write the story and share our painful journey to this moment.
I was the last person you would expect to leave the country. In fact, I had made it my mission for many years to convince friends and colleagues to return to Beirut. I was convinced that we could collectively challenge and reform a century-old oppressive and violent system of governance. Challenge it we did, but reform it we could not. There were many people like me, my close friends and allies were all equally invested in Lebanon, we dedicated our lives to this beautiful country. It was not altruistic entirely, Lebanon gave us so much back. We had meaning and home, we had shared struggle and solidarity. We felt it was our turn to break the generational cycle of trauma, corruption, sectarianism, and abuse. We would do better for our children, students, and for our parents.
But 2020 came and with it not only the port explosion but the largest man-made financial crisis of the century. We lost our homes, hospitals, schools, and restaurants in the explosion. Our parents and us lost all our savings. Yes you read that right, the banks in Lebanon loaned the corrupt government for so long that they went bankrupt and defaulted. Every dollar saved was now worthless in a country with nearing 500% food inflation.
So I left, most of us did, some stayed. When I came to Barcelona, I realized that our experience is not unique. Many women migrants escape similar harsh realities, many activists are not able to fix their countries. In fact, all across the world, collective feminist mobilizing has come under attack and increasingly so. In this world of increased oppression, we barely hear about the lives of women who risk everything and who lose the battle for democracy and human rights. We know very little about those countries left to reel in poverty and destruction because warlords refuse to truly build an inclusive version of peace. This is an essay about a country that remained governed by warlords who constructed peace deals only to keep themselves in power, and with whom no peace can be inclusive and no recovery would be right. There is no peace and recovery without accountability for mass crimes.
This is an essay about a country that remained governed by warlords who built peace deals only to keep themselves in power, and with whom no peace can be inclusive and no recovery would be right
When I lived in Beirut, I had such a powerful voice and a great sense of clarity. I did not realize that voice and clarity at the time, I thought I was distraught and angry. Some of it of course was anger, you get to be angry when you live under the mercy of a century-old sectarian system ruled by a bunch of warlords. You get to be angry when the public sector that ought to protect you discriminates against you as a woman in every aspect of your private and public life. You get to be angry when those warlords coalesce to cause of the largest man-made economic collapses of the century. And you get to be angry when you realize that they had knowingly stored explosives at the port for years before it exploded in your face. Anger, I always thought, was an important impetus for taking action so much so that I used to start my courses by asking students what makes them angry to understand what moves them to take action. We were all very angry but we were powerful and clear, and we were altogether mobilized against all of them who were ruining our lives.
Today, four years after a crushed revolution, I am not sure if we constitute a diaspora or even what that means for the women who fled Lebanon. What I do know is that borders and time-zones are real and they separate us physically from being together. My memories of marching shoulder-to-shoulder are a painful reminder that we had to make the choice to walk alone, in a new country.
Leaving was the last coping mechanism we had against a political class so adamant on killing its own people. I know that many have stayed in Lebanon, voluntarily or involuntarily, and deserve our solidarity and attention. But this essay is about the ones who left and who – by leaving – lost any chance to march side-by-side again. We protested so much over the years in Lebanon I can still smell the tear gas, the sweat and blood, the burning tires, and the sound of broken glass under my feet. Equally important to protesting was all the generative co-creation and building of solidarity that we did around the issues that were harming us from marriage, divorce, sexual harassment, violence, and equal access to the labor-market. In the end, all of it was worth the time and energy because collective mobilizing offered us solace and community when we needed it the most.
Leaving was the last coping mechanism we had against a political class so adamant on killing its own people
This essay is another act of protest to make visible the invisible labor of so many women that created and sustained political activism for so long. It is about the women who helped break the silence on taboos, built inclusive organizations, and marched in their thousands. It is about labor and love that goes undocumented in history and which gets erased and forgotten when corrupt politicians re-emerge as victorious tyrants. It is also an act of protest against becoming invisible as migrants and the daily homework we do to lift each other up, aspiring one day to be together again albeit it in a new place.
What happened?
I often ask myself how I can explain what happened to people here in Barcelona, to new friends who care and want to know. Over the phone my friend cynically tells me to begin from 1943 when Lebanon gained its independence from the French and then walk people through until August 4, 2020 when the port exploded with 2,750 tons of ammonium nitrate. But that of course would be too long a story and too exhausting to narrate. I think it suffices to pause at three recent moments and what those moments illustrate about this tiny country’s complex history.
The first moment that comes to mind is the flame of hope and defiance that took over the streets of the country from North to South in October 2019. When Lebanon’s civil war ended in 1989 the warlords granted themselves amnesty for war crimes and proceeded to govern the country using the state as their private property. Thirty years of corruption had eroded public trust in the warlords and led to an unprecedented wave of mass protests crystalizing in a revolution against “all of them (kellon yaaneh kellon).” This “all of them” grouped together was more than a powerful slogan, it was an indictment of shared responsibility of the men who claimed charge of a country and who brought it to its knees. At the time, this revolution soothed an otherwise depressed nation and awakened in us the opportunity to speak out, stand together, and imagine the Lebanon we wanted.[1]
It was not long before “all of them” hammered down on peaceful protestors using their tyrannical expertise to oppress, violently beat up, arrest, and launch a unified counter-revolution. At the same time, another moment comes to mind in January 2020 when we realized that the banking system had collapsed taking with it all our deposits and stealing our parents’ hard-earned pension. This was the culmination of “all of them” stealing for so long leading to the banks defaulting and a 90% currency deflation.[2] As we watched our savings disappear, an estimated 80% of the country was pushed into poverty just at the time as COVID19 hit Lebanon. Suicides were becoming daily occurrences by parents who could not fee their families. Home to over 1 million refugees, Lebanon, as a non-signatory to the Geneva Convention, had no safety net for neither citizens nor refugees and had mismanaged what resources were provided by UN agencies to aid in the suffering of both refugee and host communities.
There is a shattered nation that has pushed hundreds of thousands into having to migrate therefore displacing the women who were so crucial to crafting hope
The final moment would come months after we were already isolated in our homes. Just before 6pm on August 4th, 2020 the Beirut port exploded killing more than 220 people, wounding 6,000, and destroying 300,000 homes, schools, hospitals, and small businesses.[3] It has been the fourth anniversary of this mass collective trauma and not a single person has gone on trial or to jail. In fact, just like the post-war era, it appears today that the criminals and perpetrators are stronger than ever obstructing justice, refusing to elect a president, and evading all reforms that would help the economy recover. Which leads us to this moment now of a shattered nation that has pushed hundreds of thousands into having to migrate therefore displacing the women who were so crucial to crafting hope.
Politicizing hope and despair
Lebanon’s women, Lebanese or non-Lebanese, were historically at the forefront of organizing for equal rights, mitigating conflict, and collectively mobilizing. Lebanon’s political system hurts its women the most and women have always had the most to lose if the warlords prevail. With no right to pass nationality to our children, no civil court system, no equal employment rights, and no laws to protect from violence, of course we had no choice but to self-organize. Everywhere you look over the last few years, it was us who came together to protest putting up tents, taking turns to babysit, shut down roads, and craft a narrative that would include our rights in the ongoing revolution.
During COVID19 and financial collapse, it was us who set up support networks, fundraised to save students and colleagues from eviction, and broke the silence on the increased domestic violence. After the explosion, it took us less than a day to mobilize for relief and recovery across the city. You could see us showing up with brooms to clean wipe glass, attend public funerals, and pick up the pieces left of local businesses, schools, and hospitals. Hope was a political project woven by pieces of co-creation, moments of movement, and the desire to not slip into unsurmountable sadness. Hope was a strategy to defy what we were told was impossible. What was true of hope became also true of despair.
In my ongoing research with feminist activists in migration today the most repeated sentiment is something a former colleague told me, “We were so naïve, I hope that I will never become naïve again.” For a long time, I mis-interpreted despair as withdrawal and as a finality. But as I listened carefully, I realized that the politics of despair can be a powerful coping mechanism. Lebanon’s women are not so naïve as to think that they can take over a killing machine. We knew when to protest and we knew the moment when protest was falling on deaf ears, and we carefully withdrew to protect our wellbeing and that of our loved ones. “It made sense that we all go together to the streets but when I saw many people getting hurt and bleed, it also made sense for me to stay home for the sake of my children,” my friend recounted.
We had no choice but to self-organize. Everywhere you look over it was the women who came together to protest putting up tents, taking turns to babysit and craft a narrative that would include our rights
This withdrawal from political confrontation brought with it three elements of migration that are salient in our experiences. First, is the physical migration away from a public sphere that is literally trying to burry us alive.[4] This entails a first stage in our migratory process that focuses on our corporeality as a first step in restoring a sense of control over our bodies. “Every time they shot at us I felt my dignity shattered again for being in harm’s way as I demanded peacefully that those men be held accountable,” my friend put it very eloquently. Second, is the psychological migration away from ideals that no longer served us as individuals and as a collective. To me personally, I felt a sense of responsibility to change my narrative because I was worried that my students would continue protesting a losing cause. As my colleague put it, “so much has been burnt down and destroyed, I would not be able to live with myself if another young man or woman are dragged into a police interrogation.” With this psychological migration came a new political voice that was slowly making sense of the great loss we had endured both morally and financially. Third, is the act of geographically migrating away from the country. There is not a single woman I know who would describe this migration as voluntary. “We were pushed to leave, I know I am lucky to be alive and to have this privilege, but I do feel displaced and even three years later I do not feel part of this new land I am inhabiting,” my friend contends.
The day-to-day
I have to be honest, I love living in Barcelona and this is unique among my friends who moved to other places around the world. I do not feel like a stranger every day, even though I know that I am not from here. And I do not feel excluded. I say this to explain that for me, this essay is not about how I feel out of place and how much I miss home, which I do. I rather want to explain the day-to-day experience of this physical, psychological, and geographical migration that we have had to undertake in order to preserve our physical wellbeing and slowly to work towards our mental wellbeing and recovery. This movement away from Lebanon has taken away so much from us. Not only do we have to watch our aging parents from afar, miss our siblings, and continue to witness the country’s deterioration, we also do this without a breath left to shout.
I want to explain the day-to-day experience of this physical, psychological, and geographical migration that we have had to undertake in order to preserve our physical wellbeing and slowly to work towards our mental wellbeing and recovery
Back in Lebanon, we were activists, nurses, professors, actors, sisters, and daughters. In migration we are an individual, not a collective, trying to navigate endless labyrinths of bureaucracy which we have no say in. Our professional careers take a step back as we tend to accept whatever jobs allow us to stay afloat. Migration isolates us and personalizes our experiences. What we used to do collectively is now up to us individually to figure out.
I know that this magazine is dedicated to diasporas mobilizing. But I do not know what sort of diaspora our generation of feminist activists constitute. I am not sure if we will ever collectively work to try to democratize Lebanon again. I am not sure that this is the best option for our safety and wellbeing. I am not sure if that goal is worth a lifetime of work. What I am sure of is that we did survive the unthinkable and in migration – much like in Lebanon – the seeds for solace and healing will come from us and for us, and that keeps me doing every day. I am also sure that our struggle is not unique and that there are countless women like us. Finally, I am sure that our new homes in migration need us too, we have a perspective on collective action and navigating geopolitics that makes us see the world in multi-dimensions. We can contribute to peace and recovery, but maybe not for the goals of a nation taken hostage by corrupt criminals. Time will tell.
[1] For more on mental health and revolution in Lebanon, see “Revolution Soothes a Depressed Nation”, by Carmen Geha in The New Arab published December 2019.
[2] See: European Parliament, “Situation in Lebanon: Severe and Prolonged Economic Depression”.
[3] See: Human Rights Watch, “They Killed us from Within”.
[4] See, “The Feeling of being Buried Alive,” by Carmen Geha in The New Arab, August 2020.
Photography
Beirut Port Massive Explosion site. Hundreds of tonnes of wheat appear among the rubble as Lebanon’s backup wheat silos got demolished, 2020. Author: Ali Chehade Farhat.