A Journey from Beirut’s Ashes

As a lifelong collector, I've always found comfort and identity in the tangible tokens of my existence. My collection ranged from snow globes from every country I have visited, to historical calculators, with one dating back to World War II, and even signed T-shirts from each last day of school. These artifacts were more than mere objects; they were the tangible imprints of my life's journey, representing my hobbies, aspirations, and the emotional spectrum of growing up, falling in love, facing heartbreak, and navigating success and failure. They stood as testaments to my evolving identity.

These collections held a deeper significance, rooted in both sentimentality and fear. The fear of forgetting, the reluctance to let go, the anxiety of facing the unknown, and the dread of loss. They were my shield against the impermanence of life, providing a sense of comfort and familiarity. Each item was a fragment of my personality, a constant reminder of my origins and the experiences that shaped me.

However, on August 4th, 2020, my world, as I knew it, was forever altered. That day, the familiar harmony of Beirut's streets – my mother's voice, the traffic, the street vendors – was swallowed by an eerie silence, followed by an explosion that shattered everything in its wake.

In those terrifying moments, as I shielded myself beneath my mother's embrace, the reality of our vulnerability was starkly revealed. The city that had been the backdrop of my life was now a landscape of devastation: dust, chemicals, shattered glass, and the haunting cries for help. The once-familiar streets were unrecognizable, littered with debris and the remnants of lives interrupted.

In the hours that followed, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, my family's safety became my sole focus. Our home, a vault of 18 years of cherished memories, was shattered to ruins. My father, injured and hospitalized, was a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

The following days were a whirlwind of survival and adaptation. Just 20 days after the explosion, we found ourselves in the United States, in the middle of a global pandemic, with our lives all packed up in a suitcase. This move marked the beginning of a journey filled with challenges, from financial constraints to completely losing sense of who I was and where I belonged.

The hardships we faced in our new environment forced me to confront the temporary nature of material possessions and the true essence of identity. It was a gradual realization that the foundation of my existence was not in the objects I had collected but, in the relationships, and bonds that sustained me.

This experience fundamentally altered my perspective on life's essentials. I learned to appreciate the basics – shelter, food, water, safety, and health – which I had previously taken for granted. It taught me resilience and the power of human connection, underscoring the fact that as long as I am surrounded by loved ones, whether physically or virtually, I can find strength and hope.

Three years on, this journey has reshaped my understanding of identity and experience. I now believe that it is not the experiences themselves that shape us, but rather the people who touch our lives along the way. They are the true architects of our character and resilience. My story, born from the rubble of Beirut and nurtured in the struggles of resettlement, is a testament to this belief. It's a narrative of loss, adaptation, and the enduring human spirit, reminding us that in the face of adversity, we find our true strength.