Mylightspirit

Eternal Garden

It was early summer of 2016. End of May, early June. The first time I ever traveled; the first time I ever left Lebanon to go anywhere. We went to Turkey to celebrate my sister’s birthday. My mom, my sister, and I.

That trip was important to me in a way I couldn’t fully explain. I had this need to inhale everything I saw. To record it all in my head and my memory. The new culture, the new ways, everything that made sudden sense. Even the smallest things captured me. The crowd of the city, the massiveness of it; you feel everything, lost and found again between all those other traditions, the culture, the people. Everything was new and exotic.

On one of the tour buses, the tourist guide was explaining things around us. He looked over and said: and to our right is the eternal garden.

That phrase stuck.

I looked out the window. It looked like a small forest. Huge trees. Deep green. You could smell it from inside the bus. And suddenly the phrase made all the sense in the world.

I took a glimpse, it was a graveyard, and he was talking about the resting place of those who had already left. And that phrase stayed with me every day since. How we are rooted back to where we belong. How we flourish back into the land, back to our roots, back to where we came from. That is our eternal garden.

And you can’t help but notice how graveyards are almost always held together with nature; with trees, with flowers. And even when you go to visit a descended loved one, you always take something; a plant, a flower, something that belongs back to the land and to the root. It is a beautiful phrase, and a true one. That by the end of the journey, you are rooted. You flourish back.

May 2026. Ten years after. The same month.

We have lost a lot of people along the way. Ten years of loss; people we love, people who mean everything to us, whose absence strikes us every single day. The empty chair around the table. Their faces. Their smiles. Everything that still affects us to this moment. A loss so huge we can't get over it, even knowing they are flourishing back into the land, their souls humming through it, back to where they belong.

And then we got the news. The graveyard in our village, Kafarroumman, was bombed. Struck.

The harshness of this world reached even there; not leaving people even at their final rest. Their eternal garden was disturbed. My sister called me: my heart, my heart is aching just from hearing the news.

Then the first videos came.

We couldn’t find anything about my aunt’s grave at first. But we saw the destruction. And then, among the rubble, we found her. My grandma. Behind her grave, we had kept a small box; her picture, her Quran. With the strike, it was destroyed. And there she was; her picture on the floor of the graveyard. Her smile. Her innocent face, looking up from the wreckage.

How harsh is this world, that it cannot even leave the ones who have already gone to sleep in peace. That it follows them even there.

Disturbing the eternal garden is like disturbing the doors of heaven. And who dares do this; and walks away without even a question?

It hurts. It aches from the deepest part of us. Just hearing the news. Just seeing things come from afar. How has this world become this ugly. This harsh.

And no one would move. We just wait and wait for all this madness to end.

But the loss is bigger than waiting. And disturbing the eternal garden is not something that should pass just like this.

It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t.

Eternal Garden It was early summer of 2016. End of May, early June. The first time I ever traveled; the first time I ever left Lebanon to go anywhere. We went to Turkey to celebrate my sister’s birthday. My mom, …

Our Wonderland!

May 25, 2000. I was 8 years old. I remember that day, like it was just yesterday.

We were at school. It was an unusual day; we were told we'd be let out early. The land was liberated. As a kid, I didn't understand what was going on. Everyone was just super happy that day. I barely knew how the world worked back then. But I remember the joy! My grandpa drove us in his white Mercedes W123 Coupe; my grandma beside him with my cousin Yara on her lap, and in the back, my mom, my brother Hikmat, my cousins Farah and Tala, and I. He took us to an amazing, enchanting new part of the world. It was as if we were in Wonderland.

You know, Alice in Wonderland? We were in our Wonderland. Wonderland of Maydani valley; a new part of Kafarrouman village we never knew existed. It was the 1st time we'd seen it, all five of us kids fascinated by this new exploration. This was the part of the village that had been occupied since before we were born. It was the 1st time we saw it with our own eyes. My grandpa told us and my mom how these fields used to be full of citrus trees, all kinds of oranges and lemons, and how this side used to be a valley of flowers. It used to be so beautiful. Everywhere we looked, there were queues, crowds, noise, bursts of joy and happiness; I couldn't imagine how anything could be more beautiful than this. It was enchanting. They took us up to the mountain locations that used to be Israeli military bases, now empty.

We looked at everything left behind. I remember the smell; the military bases, the oil, the gunpowder. I remember the voices, the place. It was something I never knew would shape my memory this much. At 8 years old. I remember my grandma trying to teach my cousin Yara to say my name. She couldn't; it was too hard for her. That was funny.

And yet my grandpa kept saying it used to be even more beautiful than this; much, much more. I couldn't believe him. It was a part of heaven. How could anything be more beautiful than what I was seeing, for the 1st time, right in front of me?

May 25, 2026. At the national theater in Hamra, I'm attending a play. A play of truth and reality; memories recalled by children from Gaza and South Lebanon. Children from Gaza who have suffered through the war these past years; they are injured and they are in Lebanon to be treated. And children from South Lebanon, displaced to Hamra, Beirut, since the war of 2026, the recent war of March 2026. All of them stood on stage recalling their stories; the miseries of displacement, of death, of grieving, of the land and of the roots.

I was interrupted by a couple who needed some translation, as it was in Arabic and they didn't understand what was happening. So, I translated for them, just to help them follow along. I was listening and translating the harshest miseries and memories of those children, and how they ended it with a ray of hope.
By the end of the show, we had a small chit chat. They asked me if I was Palestinian, and I said no, actually, I'm Lebanese. That was followed by the question of whether I was from Beirut, and I corrected them ; I'm from the South. But actually, my husband is Palestinian; which lit up their faces: "how authentic, how amazing, beautiful, and unique, this bond of a Palestinian and a Southerner." After the show, my friends and I laughed about how they'd reacted ; oh wow, you two, wow, a Palestinian and a Southerner.

Since that day, with every image of my hometown being destroyed, with every piece of news, every loss, every martyr, with every piece of our small hearts aching, it sends me back to that moment of astonishment on their faces, romanticizing this bond. I think to myself, over and over: would people have reacted the same if we were just two different people from two different countries? Or is it the bond of sharing the same destiny, of where we come from? Is it the bond of sacrifice, of resistance, of fighting over and over and over again for our land and our rights? I was born into half an occupied village, with early childhood memories of trauma and terror, and over the years, over and over and over, we're still resisting, we're still fighting for our rights, for the land, for that piece of heaven on earth that's ours; our Wonderland! It's our part of the world. My husband, born and raised in exile, where someone one day simply decided to take over his people's land and gift it to a colonizer.

We're bonded by this romanticized bond, and we're still fighting colonization. We're still fighting all kinds of these ugly things. So; if it wasn't this kind of bond, would the reaction be different?
If we were just different people from different places, it just wouldn't be that enchanting. The world took us down so many different roads and journeys, and then we met. We were meant to complete each other's story; for one another, it is just a story of love.

Like all people out there, we fell in love and we're trying to build a life, a family. Just like any other person in this part of the world, but this place made it so enchanting and authentic.
Oh wow. I don't want people to look at us and say, oh wow. This is our right.

This is our land. This is our place. And we didn't choose each other because we're from here.

We were destined to belong to this place, and this is our journey. Till when will we keep romanticizing this kind of life, till when will we be astonished by it, till when will we have to pay and fight for our land?! So, rather than romanticizing us and our love story, maybe it is time to look beyond this and really dig into when this will end ; when the land will return, beyond this huge colony that is trapping us all in!

Our Wonderland! My grandfather drove us into Wonderland the day the land was liberated. I was 8 years old and I didn’t understand what was going on; only that everyone was happy, and that the fields my grand…

Strange Faces… Yet Familiar by Nour Al Amine

The neighbor who stares from the window, the workers nearby, the person walking their dog, the frequent visitor to the neighborhood; strange faces that become familiar in our daily lives. Faces we smile at, nod to with a morning greeting. Faces of all kinds and expressions that gradually become part of our everyday life.

In the past couple of years, new strangers have joined our daily routine; faces appearing in our lives on a small screen or on the TV, looking into our eyes, talking to us, or just passing by. Faces that haunt us every day. On the days we don’t see them, we get worried; we search for any tiny piece of news about them, just to know what’s going on;just like when we don’t see a neighbor for a couple of days.

Then come the faces that passed by with a story that appeared for a couple of days and then was gone, just like that. We never knew how it ended: two children, their faces dusted with tears, looking for their parents; a father unaware of his family’s fate; a mother lost among strangers, searching for a familiar face.

A broken-hearted family mourning a loved one in front of all of us;people we feel for, for a moment, a day, or more; but they are left to mourn for a lifetime.

Each story eventually reached an end, whether happy or not, but it was an ending we never saw, because those faces left us in the middle of the story, with an open ending for our imagination to take over. Faces that haunt us as we try to move on, burdens we carry for people we don’t know.

It hits us hard: what if we are the ones left with an open ending; or with no ending at all?

We will never know how these stories end; or perhaps we are simply afraid to search for their endings; our hearts cannot handle that much pain. So, we leave them as they are, like a movie or a book that leaves us hanging with no clear conclusion.

The question remains: will we be the strange faces in someone else’s story? Will our suffering, grief, and pain haunt them? Or are we already just minor characters in this world, with no real meaning to our presence in the larger story?

https://mylightspirit.com/2025/11/29/strange-faces-yet-familiar/

Strange Faces… Yet Familiar “The question remains: will we be the strange faces in someone else’s story, or are we already just minor characters in a world where our presence hardly leaves a trace?”

The magic hour and the beauty of sunrise and sunset, the moonlight casting its charm on the window, the sparkling stars piercing the dark night, chasing the clouds, and gazing at a full moon; these fleeting reflections of nature framed by windows bringing peace to the house. The laughter and warmth of gatherings, the safety within those walls… these are the moments I cherish most when reflecting on a year that has passed, as a new one begins....

Chasing the Clouds The magic hour and the beauty of sunrise and sunset, the moonlight casting its charm on the window, the sparkling stars piercing the dark night, chasing the clouds, and gazing at a full moon; these…

Glimpses of Heaven
The notion of existence, of living as a being in this world; a combination of matter, body, and soul. It leaves us considering the ultimate destination. What happens when our physical form concludes its journey, and the soul carries on alone? As believers in faith, in life and death, and in the afterlife, we wonder: where will we end up? We’re haunted by endless questions; are these beliefs even real? If they are, if a heaven truly exists in the afterlife, perhaps we catch glimpses of it here in fleeting moments.
If you were given the chance to choose your heaven, what would it be? I know mine. In these difficult harsh days, I am more aware of where my soul feels happiest. I know where my true heaven lies.
My heaven is the first sight of Al Maydani Valley in the early 2000s after liberation. That day is imprinted in detail. My grandpa drove us through the newly accessible landscapes of the South. We could finally see the entirety of our beloved hometown, Kaffarrouman.
My heaven is sitting by the fire late at night with my mom, as she recalls about her childhood memories in the South. It’s the joy of playing in the neighborhood, carefree and safe. It’s the summer cruising with my sister through South’s village roads.
My heaven is the bustling family gatherings at my grandparents’ house, where you squeeze in at the lunch table among the old and young, surrounded by laughter and noise that fills the air.
My heaven lies in that the simple pleasure of walking through back roads to the farmer to pick fresh vegetables straight from the land. It’s the warmth of fresh bread from the neighbor’s home.
My heaven is the magic of late winter nights. On these nights, my grandparents would knock on our door, ready to spend the night with us. It’s in the laughter of my siblings, the glow of my mom’s smile, the innocent giggles of my nieces.
My heaven is found in the details and in the innocence of childhood. It is in the deep-rooted memories of the South, where the land, home, and our very essence are knotted. We are molded to love and belong to that land, no matter what.
My heaven is enjoying coffee time walk with my love by the seaside. It’s in the sunrises and sunsets over Beirut, a city impossible not to love. My heaven is simple, hidden in the curves of everyday moments and innocent memories.
And if you ask me about hell, I can answer that we are having a taste of it now. It’s witnessing the destruction and flames overwhelming our beloved South. It’s seeing our cherished places erased, lives lost one after another. It’s the daily terror we endure in Lebanon. But we will always have our heaven, deep in our hearts and memories, that fuel us to keep going!

Glimpses of Heaven The notion of existence, of living as a being in this world; a combination of matter, body, and soul. It leaves us considering the ultimate destination. What happens when our physical form conclude…

Odors have a way of haunting our memories, weaving themselves into the fabric of our past, marking moments of safety and joy just as vividly as those of fear and terror. Today, as I watch the harrowing, terrifying images of children, the elderly, women, and men—lives shattered by destruction and death; I can’t help but wonder: how would that odor be ever wiped from their memories? How would they ever be able to have their own kind of jasmine? How long would those memories haunt them?

Haunting Odors On summer nights, a gentle breeze would slip through the yellow-framed window of my room, bringing with it the powerful scents of jasmine and gardenia. The jasmine tree in our backyard stood tall, …

Beyond Pages...A Cruel Reality!
From inscribed words and imagined incidents, to real images projected on our small screens, introducing us to torture, pain, misery, blood, and countless killing fields. We are bound to people we have never met, who deliver the reality from the adjacent side, waking up not knowing if that would be their last day. They sleep, thinking they may never wake up, while we watch and wait, wondering if we are next.
Full post on my blog :

Beyond Pages…A Cruel Reality! A small gift that opened my eyes to the cruelty of the world. A couple of years ago, specifically in 2016, my sister travelled to Vietnam and Cambodia as a tourist. As usual, she came back bearing …

During burning Beirut summer days, I have acquired the habit of staring out the window from the 9th floor, the adjacent rooftops and nearby windows open up as a grid of life, on the nearby building an umbrella and chairs were set between the water tanks making the perfect spot for a summer tan, over there the neighbor is checking on the water amount while cursing the heat and the water shortage, on the further view two youth are practicing boxing near the water tanks, ironically those water tanks in the neighborhood are witnessing everything!...

Outside My Window During burning Beirut summer days, I have acquired the habit of staring out the window from the 9th floor, the adjacent rooftops and nearby windows open up as a grid of life, on the nearby buildin…