A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli

I left one ghurbe for another.

I missed you, my Tripoli, so I sought another.

Here they always ask, Syrian?
No, I say, Lebanese.

And their faces light up like it’s the better answer.
I know what they’re thinking.
Beirut, glamour, Switzerland of the East, loud laughter over mezze,
girls with confidence and French-tipped nails.

A Lebanese girl, fun, open-minded,
who drinks arak by the sea,
who wears her hair in a chic manner,
who speaks in that flirty accent they’ve heard in songs and movies.

But I am not from the Lebanon they know.
I am not from Beirut.

I am from Tripoli, and somehow, that changes everything.

The moment I say it, the energy shifts.
Tripoli? they repeat, like they heard wrong,
like they are waiting for me to correct myself.

I don’t.

To outsiders, Tripoli is Libya because why would they know Lebanon has a second city?

And to many in Lebanon, Tripoli is another world entirely.
Um al-Fakir, mother of the poor, they call you, remembered only when it makes the news for all the wrong reasons, of course. Tripoli is the name they see on the highway signs, as they head to Batroun, to Byblos, a sign they glance at like street decoration, but never really notice. Never getting too close. Never stepping foot. Only remembering it exists when it burns. 

I want to be the fun Lebanese girl they expect.
But how can I when all I think about is you, Tripoli, the past, the present, and the future?
I think of the bullets that rained down on us from Jabal Mohsen and the girl who is forever swinging in my head, frozen in time.
I think of my family, who know so little about me, and I think of uncertainty.

You know, Tripoli, I try and tell them about you.
I tell them of your m’ragbieh, your lemons, your long beaches, and I even introduce them to Abou Ali, your son, the river that splits through the city like a forgotten artery.
But somehow, in their ears, I am speaking of pain.

Maybe because when wounds have not healed, the mouth cannot stay silent.

I didn’t mean to.

It started with me asking a man if Marrakesh was safe.
But somehow, I ended up telling on you.

He was surprised.
And honestly, so was I.
Oh, Tripoli, I did not know how people react to you.

I came to Morocco because I missed your warmth, your people.
I wanted to meet the men and women Abdellah Taïa writes about,
the ones who remind me of you.

I should not have expected him to know you.
If even the people in Beirut barely acknowledge you, why would a Moroccan?

And the more I spoke with Moroccans, the less Lebanese I felt.
I could not see myself, my city, in their version of Lebanon.

In my Lebanon, mezze belongs to the past, and laughter fades before it lands.
We are the poorest city of the Mediterranean, they say.
Um al-Fakir, do not forget!

There is no arak by the sea, only children fishing,
because hunger has made the ocean their only feast.

My Tripoli breathes gunpowder,
echoes with shattered prayers,
the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied.

How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?

Maybe I should have just said yes and let them believe I’m from Syria.
With a simple yes, they would already think of exile, struggle, and injustice.

And yet, isn’t that what I carry too?

Maybe it’s a half-lie, I’m from Syria, the street, not the country.

How is it that I, a Lebanese, am seen as different from Nada from Hama?
What is the difference between us?

Our stories mirror each other.
Both in exile, both in ghurbe, forced to carry on,
our minds occupied by our cities, their neighbors, the entire Bilad al-Sham, and the world.

Friendships fill many voids in ghurbe, but sometimes, Nada is not enough.

And then there was Zakariae.

A Moroccan. Tall. From Meknes.
A rough voice and polished shoes, which I promptly stepped on.

Zakariae, who spoke French to his parents growing up,
while I do not speak a word.

He sure can be loved, a nice man indeed.
But it’s almost like oil and water.

He belongs to the money-hungry generation of the Middle East,
where poverty belongs to others,
where houses, skyscrapers, and status are the only currency that matters,
where the idea of a poor city is a repellent, a plague to be avoided.

I wonder, was it the idea of a Lebanese girl that made him speak to me?
And here I am, just craving anything Arab.

But even if he wanted to, how could he love what he does not understand?

How do I introduce you, my Tripoli, when even the tip of your iceberg scares them?

Can I take him to Souk Bab al-Rammel,
where even the smells fight, at times, spices vs. zankha,
others, garbage vs. fresh produce?

Bab al-Rammel, your walls breathe stories of trade and time.
Remember your golden days, Tripoli?

Can I take him to the haraa where everyone is ever so curious?
To my neighborhood, where the coffee shops will act as interrogation rooms?
Is he man enough for the daughter of the haraa?

Can he sit where rooftops sag under the weight of old wars?
Where children play in alleyways lined with bullet-pierced walls?
Where the scent of Hergel frying falafel fights the stench of sewage?
Where hunger lingers like an unwanted guest?

If even the Lebanese do not want to claim you, my city, how could he?

The questions in my head circle back to the same conclusion.
My heart is already spoken for.

Every time I think of love, I must self-sabotage,
as if I once had a childhood lover to whom I made a sacred promise.

The lover is you, Tripoli.

But Tripoli, you cannot deprive me of love.

Maybe I am meant to fall in love in Lebanon,
find my soulmate, my nasib within your borders.

Is that too much to ask?

It feels like the last fragile string of hope tying me to you, Tripoli.

I am your artal, the basket tied to your balcony, just like in the haraa.
Thrown out when someone is too lazy to collect something from below.
Getting tossed out is the shortcut, an act of convenience.
Allowed to be lowered, but never fully let go.

You tossed me out too, Tripoli.
Perhaps to retrieve me later.

But I have seen artals that carried too much,
the string snapped, forever severed from the balcony.

Maybe the man I’ll love lives in Tripoli, waiting unknowingly for me.
Maybe he’ll be the answer to the brilliant idea of staying, of making you home again.

But reality has other plans.

Reality sees me not as a heart but as a passport.
A waving flag of dark red and gold.
The girl who opens doors to anywhere but you.

To some, I am not a person but a glowing dollar sign,
a promise of escape, of security, of a life far from your crumbling streets, lemons, m’ragbieh.

And if I were to fall in love in ghurbe, in exile, what then?

Love feels like both a key and a chain,
pulling me closer to or further from you.

How can I belong to you, Tripoli,
when even love feels like it must betray you?

How can I be yours,
when the world keeps calling me away?

Trablous, Um al-Fakir, I am glad to be spoken for.