Beirut, a memory Tanya Traboulsi

Summer 1983

I’m seven years old and I’m leaving Beirut.

I sit in the backseat of my parents’ car with my younger sister. The car doors are wide open and the summer sun glistens around us. I can smell the salty breeze of the Mediterranean Sea I swam in just last week. We’re at the port of Beirut, waiting to board the ferry that will take us away from Beirut.

Boxes and luggage with all our belongings are piled around us. My parents are somewhere nearby sorting out the documents for the trip. An officer appears at my door; I can’t hear him clearly - the busy sounds around us muffle his voice. My father speaks to him and then gets into the driver’s seat as my mother takes the passenger seat. The car doors close and the officer walks away; we start moving into the belly of the ferry. It gets dark, the pungent smell of oil and gasoline permeates the air.

I stand on the deck of the ferry. We’ve been moving for what feels like an eternity but I can still see Beirut slowly vanishing at the edge of its shore. Only a few hundred meters of sea separate me from the city I will dream of, and yearn for, over the next thirteen years.

Winter 2009

I stand on the waterfront promenade, camera in hand, to capture what was my last visual memory of Beirut for many years.

It was the vivid memories that drew me back—the familiar echoes of car horns, the fragrant scent of zaatar mingling with orange blossom, the faint saltiness in the air along the corniche, even the checkpoints on the way to school and the sugary smell of burning garbage.

At the edge of its shore, only a few hundred meters of sea separate me from the city I now live in, the home I have returned to.

Summer 2024

“Sawreena, sawreena!” The boys run toward me with enthusiasm, eager to show off something they’re proud of. They dive off the rocks and into the sea, glancing back to ensure I’m ready to capture them on camera.

I’m in Dalieh near the Raouché rocks. It’s a slow and lazy July afternoon. The air is thick and heavy with humidity; my hair is salty from the sea breeze.

I feel safe here.