Another car bomb went off in our fair city yesterday, claiming the life of an MP, 7 unfortunate souls who were nearby, and injured 25 others. In a tiny country that prides itself on its intimate support networks, I was paradoxically grateful that I did not know any of the victims, and suddenly wondered, morbidly, how long my luck would last.
It was another car bomb in our city. After two months of relative calm, this triggered the old mechanisms in all of us… I was at a seaside café when we heard the news. People leaving quietly and abruptly should have given it away, but our reflexes were rusty. After getting an update from my companion’s mother, we made the necessary calls to reassure family that we were alright, and to check on friends who live or might have been in the area, put away our cell phones and continued our conversation. My mother pleaded with me to go home, not realizing the safety I felt in staying still. Jumana texted from abroad, and when I replied that we were by the sea, returned with “Lebanon is a strange place”.
I suppose it is.
But here is what I continue to learn – that survival has many forms, one of which is standing perfectly still and not flinching; that a drop of hope carries people a long, long way; and that sometimes, when the problem is that much bigger than you, keeping it in the background can be an effective tactic.
Just a thought…