September 1975. A militiaman stands amid the ruins of the Azarieh center in Beirut. (Credit: Georges Boustany Collection)
This photo is almost half a century old.It caught my eye as April 13, 2025, approached. On that day, “our war” will turn 50. “Our war.” “The Lebanese war.” “The war of others.” How many quotation marks are needed to give a name to the unnameable? How many questions will remain unanswered? When will this never-ending parenthesis be closed? Fifteen years? Fifty?Soon, we’ll be gone without having said everything.This photo marks the starting point of the madness that demolished my childhood and adolescence. And then those of my children. It reeks of gunpowder, heavy and sticky, like the smell of too many cigarettes. Burned rubber. Old wood collapsing into flames. Moldy paper. Urine. Feces.It reeks of death. How do you forget the smell of death? That sweet, sickening scent that grabs your throat and never lets go.We were told to forget. But...
This photo is almost half a century old.It caught my eye as April 13, 2025, approached. On that day, “our war” will turn 50. “Our war.” “The Lebanese war.” “The war of others.” How many quotation marks are needed to give a name to the unnameable? How many questions will remain unanswered? When will this never-ending parenthesis be closed? Fifteen years? Fifty?Soon, we’ll be gone without having said everything.This photo marks the starting point of the madness that demolished my childhood and adolescence. And then those of my children. It reeks of gunpowder, heavy and sticky, like the smell of too many cigarettes. Burned rubber. Old wood collapsing into flames. Moldy paper. Urine. Feces.It reeks of death. How do you forget the smell of death? That sweet, sickening scent that grabs your throat and never lets go.We were...
