Travelers at the Beirut international airport. (Credit: AFP archive photo)
She was promised that this feeling would only be temporary and that she would soon adapt to her new “home.” Two years later, feeling homesick “is only growing,” said Malak, 26, who has been in Dubai since 2021, for economic reasons.
“Since Sept. 15, 2021, at 10:30 p.m., to be precise,” she said.
Malak is one of over 240,000 Lebanese nationals who have left the country since 2019, according to Information International. They left everything behind: their jobs, their homes, their friends, their families.
“I feel like I was forced to leave, because life had become unbearable,” said Georges*, 48, who moved with his family to Paris in 2021.
Whether they live in London, Paris, Saudi Arabia, Dubai or the US, each one of them has experienced separation from home differently.
The wind of gherbeh [being away from home] blows differently as time goes by. In the beginning, you turn around when you hear someone speaking your language in the street, Georges recounted. “Then you notice what you miss in France, which is mainly being close to your loved ones.”
After more than two years in Dubai, Lina and Malak, who had never considered leaving the country before the crisis, dream of just one thing: returning to Lebanon. While they both appreciate this new life “enriching” experience that allows their professional careers to evolve, the shadow of Lebanon is never far away.
“I started to adapt, but this feeling won’t leave me. I miss everything,” said Lina, who works in communications.
Jad*, in his 20s, has been in Saudi Arabia since 2020. Sabine moved to the US in 2022. They always knew they would have to move to another country for professional reasons.
“It’s true that the crisis was the catalyst. I didn’t want to worry about day-to-day problems like electricity cuts or insecurity,” said Jad, who works in investment banking.
For him, it’s the family, friends, memories, a sense of belonging, culture and habits that he misses. “I love my life in Saudi Arabia, I have no regrets, but it’s impossible not to miss Lebanon,” he said.
Wrath and nostalgia
Sabine’s blood was boiling when she left. “This country took everything from us with the outbreak of COVID-19, the crisis, the explosion … All I wanted was to escape that reality,” said Sabine, who has been pursuing her studies in Pittsburgh since 2022, after graduating in medicine from the American University of Beirut.
Her connection with the country is a “kind of toxic relationship.”
“Even though all my needs are met in the US, it’s not my home. Here, you feel isolated,” she said.
For her, as for Amanda, it’s “the old Lebanon” that they miss most. “I know now that it was all an illusion. We thought we were booming, but it was just the opposite,” said Amanda, a “full-time mom” who moved to London in 2020 to look after her seven- and five-year-old daughters.
Today, Amanda, in her 30s, no longer recognizes her surroundings. “I have more and more Lebanese friends abroad; most of them left the country,” she said.
It’s by reaching out to the Lebanese abroad that most of them stay connected to the country. If Lina chose Dubai, it was not for its bling-bling, but rather because many of her friends fled the crisis to Dubai, because of the language and because it is close.
The same goes for Sabine, who found friends who had settled in Pittsburg. “We stay together,” she added.
As for Georges and his family, they have joined as many Lebanese initiatives as possible. “We go to cultural events, political gatherings, we mobilize to send medicines. We also help those who come to live in Paris,” he said.
But trips back home are becoming rare. “Travel is becoming more difficult because of the flight ticket prices. In the end, we feel far away,” he added.
‘Life is made up of difficult choices’
For those who can afford it, express holidays are a great way to unwind. “Every time I feel homesick, I go back for the weekend. It allows me to see how difficult the situation is, and I leave lighthearted for having made the right decision,” said Jad, whose two brothers also live in Saudi Arabia.
Amanda and her children return every six weeks. “I want my children to see their grandparents. It allows me to enjoy the sunshine, the sea, and human warmth,” she said.
Malak, too, doesn’t skimp on travel. “I don’t want my nieces to see me only as the aunt who comes to the holidays. I want to be part of their lives,” she said.
But despite all the travel, it’s hard to be there through the good and bad times. A week after arriving in Saudi Arabia, Jad, who was still waiting for his residence permit, lost one of his loved ones.
“I couldn’t go to the funeral or be there for my family … That’s the moment when you understand that life is made up of difficult choices.” He had to choose his professional career. “I hate spending years away from my parents and friends. But I’m also grateful for the fact that I’m able to support them whenever they need me,” he said.
Amanda, for her part, decided to return home in the near future to be next to her parents. Lina too. But for both of them, no date has yet been set.
“I know everything that’s going wrong, but I can’t hold out much longer,” said Lina.
For Amanda, this return is not without apprehension. “There is instability in the country. I’m afraid of the decline in education and of having to leave again. But I want my children to feel that they have a home,” she said.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known that when you decide to live in Lebanon, you need a plan B.”
Jad will also return, but when he retires. “Or when I have children. I want them to be attached to their homeland.”
Georges already moved to Paris once before, but he decided to return to Lebanon in 2010 to be close to his family and his roots. “We went through enough to not want to go back. You don’t just move away geographically, you also move away emotionally, and that’s what I’m starting to feel.”
This article was originally published in French in L'Orient-Le Jour. Translation by Joelle El Khoury.
