It snowed in Paris last week. For everyone here, it was the only 'event' that disrupted the monotony of this city, where days unfold without surprise. But on the other side of my life that same evening, evacuation warnings from the Israeli army gave way to a rain of missiles on Beirut's southern suburbs.On my television screen, now the sole bridge between my two lives as an emigrant, an MTV reporter, clad in helmet and flak jacket, tallied the Israeli strikes, the buildings collapsing one after another. And perhaps, buried beneath the rubble, were those who refused to leave, now reduced to dust.Despite the cold, I needed fresh air. Inside the tabac, I watched her push open the door, a whirlwind against the backdrop of Parisian calm. She was my mother's age and in her eyes, I saw a familiar landscape—Lebanon. Before a single word, except...