First published in Sight Magazine, 30 July 2025
This Life: The luggage of life in Lebanon – discovering their robust armour
It was the first ‘pilgrimage’ back to my Lebanese birthplace in nearly 20 years. My last trip ended prematurely during the ‘unholy’ Israel-Hezbollah war of July-August, 2006, when hundreds of Australians were evacuated, thousands of Lebanese were killed, and over a million were displaced. I remember the bombing and sonic boom of a nearby telecommunications tower by a drone.
In my lexicon, this was life-threatening trauma with a capital T.
Since the COVID pandemic and the loneliness epidemic, Australian mental health professionals have noted the (over)use of ‘trauma’, and the responsive rise of resilience programs.
Curious about comparing our trauma and resilience levels with Lebanon, it was ironic that my trip was heralded with fluorescent ‘fragile’ stickers at the Australian baggage carousels.
In Lebanon, I listened to dozens of relatives and taxi drivers. How the intercepting missiles during the recent Israel-Iran 12 day war became ‘daily theatre’ in Lebanese skies. How the Beirut port explosion on 4th August, 2020, could have killed hundreds of children if not for the summer vacation. How wages barely pay for fuel to drive to work. How child labour is rife among refugee families. How underpaid army officers, police officers and engineers are forced to drive taxis after hours and forfeit family time just to make ends meet: ‘Like you, we have dreams for our family.’
If global suicide rates (WHO) are any barometer to resilience, why does Lebanon rank 164 yet Australia ranks 57?
One relative explained that asking about resilience was the wrong question. He defined resilience as the capacity to bounce back to his feet after getting knocked down to his knees: “I don’t let anyone or anything bring me to my knees except God. I fall to my knees when I need His strength to gain hope, not when life makes me lose hope.”
What invisible armour was he wearing that kept him standing in the face of so much adversity and consecutive crises?
Other relatives provided the lens to see these riches beneath the material poverty.
First, strong faith was the sword of the spirit. God’s name is evoked in every conversation, every hope (Insha Allah – God willing) and every blessing (nishkur Allah – thank God). They insisted that ‘faith commands us to keep walking and have no fear. To fear God alone.’ The Arabic word for fear (khawf) has positive connotations of awe and reverence.
Second, the family bond provides a shield from poison arrows of despair: ‘When we feel weak, we prop each other up, we take it in turns, we don’t collapse on the ground. We lean on each other like candles and stay alight.’ If the family is absent, deceased or emigrated, they lean on their congregation or neighbours.
Third, they evoke their Phoenician ancestry as the helmet, with its roots in the phoenix (firebird) that keeps rising from the ashes. ‘It’s in our blood. We are sha’ab al jabbar’ – people who intrinsically mend what is broken. My grandfather was the village jabbar who used a splint to heal broken bones.
When I returned to Australia, the ‘Fragile’ stickers at the carousel had a new layer. Perhaps the contents would be less fragile if the packaging were more…robust, not resilient. So it does not break in the first place when tossed around by…life!
Then it dawned on me: what do these pieces of invisible armour, worn by these invisible warriors (not worriers), have in common that I missed all along?
The recurring word was the plural nahnu (we) not the singular anna (I).