April 2025

You’re looking at Beirut’s sea as I captured it last Sunday on my early morning walk. The laps I could have had in those waters had we had the sense to keep them pristine.

I’ve noticed it across the years. A desperate moment, a rupture, a new patch-up, half-written, half-agreed, a new president and cabinet, a loud sigh of relief.

In the very early days of peace after the 15-year Lebanese civil war–– the Haririan era, we call it –– you couldn’t really tell: was all the pomp and ceremony meant to trumpet the magnificent achievements or cover for their absence? It didn’t take very long to have our answer, whichever side of the Haririan fence we stood. The argument was (and remains) only about who’s to blame.

You’re looking at the beachfront of Zeitouneh in the 1950s. Alas, unrecognizable to those of us who never lived it?

Every once in a while, I revisit old writings, much like I do old friends. I revisit in search of memories. But more. I revisit in search of answers to questions that seem eternal to me: do I recognize myself on the page? Who was I then? In prose, have I aged well? In wisdom, have I become wiser? It’s like peering in the mirror every ten years or so to trace time’s stories on one’s face.