{"id":36806,"date":"2025-05-02T11:16:26","date_gmt":"2025-05-02T09:16:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=36806"},"modified":"2025-05-02T11:16:26","modified_gmt":"2025-05-02T09:16:26","slug":"a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/","title":{"rendered":"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli"},"content":{"rendered":"
A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli<\/span><\/em>\u00a0by Lara Kassem employs <\/span>Traboulsi <\/span><\/i>words, i.e. Arabic from Tripoli, Lebanon, such as <\/span>m\u2019ragbieh<\/span><\/i> for lemons; <\/span>artal<\/span><\/i>, a basket with a string, and a sobriquet for the city, <\/span>Um al Fakir, Trablous<\/span><\/i>. More familiar Arabic words that appear in the prose\/poem are: <\/span>ghurbe<\/span><\/i>, foreignness or estrangement; <\/span>haraa<\/span><\/i>, your street in a neighborhood; and <\/span>zankha<\/span><\/i>, a bad, almost fishy smell. \u201cThe bullets that rained down on us from Jabal Mohsen\u201d refers to a conflict between two neighborhoods, Bab-al-Tabbaneh and <\/span>Jabal Mohsen<\/span><\/a>, which began in 1976 during the Lebanese Civil War, and lasted 25 years after the war ended, in 2015.<\/span><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Lara Kassem<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

I left one <\/span>ghurbe<\/span><\/i> for another.<\/span><\/p>\n

I missed you, my Tripoli, so I sought another.<\/span><\/p>\n

Here they always ask, Syrian?<\/span>
\n<\/span>No, I say, Lebanese.<\/span><\/p>\n

And their faces light up like it\u2019s the better answer.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I know what they\u2019re thinking.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Beirut, glamour, Switzerland of the East, loud laughter over mezze,<\/span>
\n<\/span>girls with confidence and French-tipped nails.<\/span><\/p>\n

A Lebanese girl, fun, open-minded,<\/span>
\n<\/span>who drinks arak by the sea,<\/span>
\n<\/span>who wears her hair in a chic manner,<\/span>
\n<\/span>who speaks in that flirty accent they\u2019ve heard in songs and movies.<\/span><\/p>\n

But I am not from the Lebanon they know.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I am not from Beirut.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am from Tripoli, and somehow, that changes everything.<\/span><\/p>\n

The moment I say it, the energy shifts.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Tripoli? they repeat, like they heard wrong,<\/span>
\n<\/span>like they are waiting for me to correct myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

To outsiders, Tripoli is Libya because why would they know Lebanon has a second city?<\/span><\/p>\n

And to many in Lebanon, Tripoli is another world entirely.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Um al-Fakir<\/span><\/i>, 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.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I want to be the fun Lebanese girl they expect.<\/span>
\n<\/span>But how can I when all I think about is you, Tripoli, the past, the present, and the future?<\/span>
\n<\/span>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.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I think of my family, who know so little about me, and I think of uncertainty.<\/span><\/p>\n

You know, Tripoli, I try and tell them about you.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I tell them of your <\/span>m\u2019ragbieh<\/span><\/i>, 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.<\/span>
\n<\/span>But somehow, in their ears, I am speaking of pain.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe because when wounds have not healed, the mouth cannot stay silent.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t mean to.<\/span><\/p>\n

It started with me asking a man if Marrakesh was safe.<\/span>
\n<\/span>But somehow, I ended up telling on you.<\/span><\/p>\n

He was surprised.<\/span>
\n<\/span>And honestly, so was I.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Oh, Tripoli, I did not know how people react to you.<\/span><\/p>\n

I came to Morocco because I missed your warmth, your people.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I wanted to meet the men and women Abdellah Ta\u00efa writes about,<\/span>
\n<\/span>the ones who remind me of you.<\/span><\/p>\n

I should not have expected him to know you.<\/span>
\n<\/span>If even the people in Beirut barely acknowledge you, why would a Moroccan?<\/span><\/p>\n

And the more I spoke with Moroccans, the less Lebanese I felt.<\/span>
\n<\/span>I could not see myself, my city, in their version of Lebanon.<\/span><\/p>\n

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

There is no arak by the sea, only children fishing,<\/span>
\n<\/span>because hunger has made the ocean their only feast.<\/span><\/p>\n

My Tripoli breathes gunpowder,<\/span>
\n<\/span>echoes with shattered prayers,<\/span>
\n<\/span>the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied.<\/span><\/p>\n

How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?<\/span><\/p>\n

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

And yet, isn\u2019t that what I carry too?<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe it’s a half-lie, I’m from Syria, the street, not the country.<\/span><\/p>\n

How is it that I, a Lebanese, am seen as different from Nada from Hama?<\/span>
\n<\/span>What is the difference between us?<\/span><\/p>\n

Our stories mirror each other.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Both in exile, both in <\/span>ghurbe<\/span><\/i>, forced to carry on,<\/span>
\n<\/span>our minds occupied by our cities, their neighbors, the entire Bilad al-Sham, and the world.<\/span><\/p>\n

Friendships fill many voids in <\/span>ghurbe<\/span><\/i>, but sometimes, Nada is not enough.<\/span><\/p>\n

And then there was Zakariae.<\/span><\/p>\n

A Moroccan. Tall. From Meknes.<\/span>
\n<\/span>A rough voice and polished shoes, which I promptly stepped on.<\/span><\/p>\n

Zakariae, who spoke French to his parents growing up,<\/span>
\n<\/span>while I do not speak a word.<\/span><\/p>\n

He sure can be loved, a nice man indeed.<\/span>
\n<\/span>But it\u2019s almost like oil and water.<\/span><\/p>\n

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

I wonder, was it the idea of a Lebanese girl that made him speak to me?<\/span>
\n<\/span>And here I am, just craving anything Arab.<\/span><\/p>\n

But even if he wanted to, how could he love what he does not understand?<\/span><\/p>\n

How do I introduce you, my Tripoli, when even the tip of your iceberg scares them?<\/span><\/p>\n

Can I take him to Souk Bab al-Rammel,<\/span>
\n<\/span>where even the smells fight, at times, spices vs. <\/span>zankha<\/span><\/i>,<\/span>
\n<\/span>others, garbage vs. fresh produce?<\/span><\/p>\n

Bab al-Rammel, your walls breathe stories of trade and time.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Remember your golden days, Tripoli?<\/span><\/p>\n

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

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

If even the Lebanese do not want to claim you, my city, how could he?<\/span><\/p>\n

The questions in my head circle back to the same conclusion.<\/span>
\n<\/span>My heart is already spoken for.<\/span><\/p>\n

Every time I think of love, I must self-sabotage,<\/span>
\n<\/span>as if I once had a childhood lover to whom I made a sacred promise.<\/span><\/p>\n

The lover is you, Tripoli.<\/span><\/p>\n

But Tripoli, you cannot deprive me of love.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe I am meant to fall in love in Lebanon,<\/span>
\n<\/span>find my soulmate, my <\/span>nasib<\/span><\/i> within your borders.<\/span><\/p>\n

Is that too much to ask?<\/span><\/p>\n

It feels like the last fragile string of hope tying me to you, Tripoli.<\/span><\/p>\n

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

You tossed me out too, Tripoli.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Perhaps to retrieve me later.<\/span><\/p>\n

But I have seen <\/span>artals<\/span><\/i> that carried too much,<\/span>
\n<\/span>the string snapped, forever severed from the balcony.<\/span><\/p>\n

Maybe the man I\u2019ll love lives in Tripoli, waiting unknowingly for me.<\/span>
\n<\/span>Maybe he\u2019ll be the answer to the brilliant idea of staying, of making you home again.<\/span><\/p>\n

But reality has other plans.<\/span><\/p>\n

Reality sees me not as a heart but as a passport.<\/span>
\n<\/span>A waving flag of dark red and gold.<\/span>
\n<\/span>The girl who opens doors to anywhere but you.<\/span><\/p>\n

To some, I am not a person but a glowing dollar sign,<\/span>
\n<\/span>a promise of escape, of security, of a life far from your crumbling streets, lemons, <\/span>m\u2019ragbieh<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

And if I were to fall in love in <\/span>ghurbe<\/span><\/i>, in exile, what then?<\/span><\/p>\n

Love feels like both a key and a chain,<\/span>
\n<\/span>pulling me closer to or further from you.<\/span><\/p>\n

How can I belong to you, Tripoli,<\/span>
\n<\/span>when even love feels like it must betray you?<\/span><\/p>\n

How can I be yours,<\/span>
\n<\/span>when the world keeps calling me away?<\/span><\/p>\n

Trablous, Um al-Fakir<\/span><\/i>, I am glad to be spoken for.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \/\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \/\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":930,"featured_media":36921,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[12,34,4352],"tags":[525,1032,1716],"article-category":[],"article-type":[],"coauthors":[4388],"class_list":["post-36806","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-essay","category-poetry","category-tmr-50-returning-home","tag-displacement","tag-lebanon","tag-tripoli"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nA Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli - The Markaz Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \/\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \/\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \/\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \/\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Markaz Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2025-05-02T09:16:26+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1400\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"1354\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Lara Kassem\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Lara Kassem\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"7 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Lara Kassem\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/da732687f14e8e6fc9a3735c42c2b8e0\"},\"headline\":\"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli\",\"datePublished\":\"2025-05-02T09:16:26+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/\"},\"wordCount\":1397,\"commentCount\":0,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/05\\\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"displacement\",\"Lebanon\",\"Tripoli\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Essays\",\"Poetry\",\"TMR 50 \u2022 Returning Home\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/\",\"name\":\"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli - The Markaz Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/05\\\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2025-05-02T09:16:26+00:00\",\"description\":\"My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \\\/\\\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \\\/\\\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/05\\\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2025\\\/05\\\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg\",\"width\":1400,\"height\":1354,\"caption\":\"Shefa Salem (b. Libya 1996), \\\"The Idea in Daylight,\\\" 2048x1981cm, 2018 (courtesy of the artist).\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\\\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\",\"name\":\"The Markaz Review\",\"description\":\"Literature and Arts from the Center of the World\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Markaz Review\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2023\\\/08\\\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2023\\\/08\\\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg\",\"width\":473,\"height\":191,\"caption\":\"The Markaz Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"}},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/person\\\/da732687f14e8e6fc9a3735c42c2b8e0\",\"name\":\"Lara Kassem\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/04824e6f6583ec24c2c8d2cdc232f46e4941b1281eb1cf040fd7f55073640d94?s=96&d=mm&r=gd054c4534f1eed027d84080afbd961c6\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/04824e6f6583ec24c2c8d2cdc232f46e4941b1281eb1cf040fd7f55073640d94?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/secure.gravatar.com\\\/avatar\\\/04824e6f6583ec24c2c8d2cdc232f46e4941b1281eb1cf040fd7f55073640d94?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Lara Kassem\"},\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/themarkaz.org\\\/oldmarkaz\\\/author\\\/larakassem\\\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli - The Markaz Review","description":"My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \/\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \/\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli","og_description":"My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \/\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \/\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?","og_url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/","og_site_name":"The Markaz Review","article_published_time":"2025-05-02T09:16:26+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1400,"height":1354,"url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Lara Kassem","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Lara Kassem","Est. reading time":"7 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/"},"author":{"name":"Lara Kassem","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/person\/da732687f14e8e6fc9a3735c42c2b8e0"},"headline":"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli","datePublished":"2025-05-02T09:16:26+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/"},"wordCount":1397,"commentCount":0,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg","keywords":["displacement","Lebanon","Tripoli"],"articleSection":["Essays","Poetry","TMR 50 \u2022 Returning Home"],"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"CommentAction","name":"Comment","target":["https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#respond"]}]},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/","name":"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli - The Markaz Review","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg","datePublished":"2025-05-02T09:16:26+00:00","description":"My Tripoli breathes gunpowder, \/\/ \u2026 the city where mosques are bombed and streets get emptied. \/\/ \u2026 How can my Lebanon be their Lebanon?","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/05\/Shefa-Salem-b-Libya-1996-The-Idea-in-Daylight-2048x1981cm.jpg","width":1400,"height":1354,"caption":"Shefa Salem (b. Libya 1996), \"The Idea in Daylight,\" 2048x1981cm, 2018 (courtesy of the artist)."},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/a-letter-to-my-cruel-lover-tripoli\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"A Letter To My Cruel Lover: Tripoli"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#website","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/","name":"The Markaz Review","description":"Literature and Arts from the Center of the World","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#organization","name":"The Markaz Review","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/08\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/08\/cropped-New-2023-TMR-Logo-500-pix.jpg","width":473,"height":191,"caption":"The Markaz Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"}},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/#\/schema\/person\/da732687f14e8e6fc9a3735c42c2b8e0","name":"Lara Kassem","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/04824e6f6583ec24c2c8d2cdc232f46e4941b1281eb1cf040fd7f55073640d94?s=96&d=mm&r=gd054c4534f1eed027d84080afbd961c6","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/04824e6f6583ec24c2c8d2cdc232f46e4941b1281eb1cf040fd7f55073640d94?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/04824e6f6583ec24c2c8d2cdc232f46e4941b1281eb1cf040fd7f55073640d94?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Lara Kassem"},"url":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/author\/larakassem\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36806","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/930"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=36806"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36806\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":36892,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/36806\/revisions\/36892"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/36921"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=36806"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=36806"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=36806"},{"taxonomy":"article-category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article-category?post=36806"},{"taxonomy":"article-type","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/article-type?post=36806"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=36806"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}