Personal Essay   5 min Fire in My Guts: War, When it Moves Inside Us

Firas Hamiye is a journalist from Beirut, Lebanon. In his personal essay, he provides deep insights into the experience of living through multiple wars and the psychological impact this has on a personal as well as society level. 

Sleep almost escapes me. Many weeks have passed with no change. I try to console myself with hope—but which hope! The war has devoured everything—the greenery and the dry land, the human and the stone. How great humans seem when they measure themselves against the world around them, and how insignificant they feel when the world crumbles, when devastated by war and, by so doing, people are reduced to numbers lacking their names. I have a big ambition, a life that has passed, an abundant present and a promising future that I can’t get enough of, nor stop longing for. War destroys our view of life, uproots serenity from within us, and plants doubt, uncertainty and absurdity.

Sleep almost escapes me. I feel the wall crashing on my body, choking me, bruising me. I feel the glass of my car shattering into shrapnels on my face, my body fusing with metal and fire. I watch the descent of the rocket, like an uninvited visitor coming with no appointment, an unwelcome visitor, a visitor that is obdurate, tyrannical, criminal, and bloodthirsty. I wait it in silence for seconds, meditating with still eyes, holding my breath for a moment. It doesn’t come. It stays absent, and I keep on waiting, and between absence and waiting, the burning lump in my abdomen grows. I’ve become a man carrying his own death.

Sleep almost escapes me. When gunfire or explosions erupt in a film, I jump automatically. The sound of cars on the highway startles me. The popping of water tanks filling with air frightens me. Door's slamming shut leave me unsettled. My body has become hypersensitive, my senses, always on edge. War creates within us new, strange behaviours that we’re not used to. We’re taken by surprise— “Is this really us? What’s happening to us?” We cling to hope. There’s no escape. It’s the will of life. But for how long!?  

The Places

We have no home left. We left our houses in the city, Dahiye (southern suburb of Beirut), and the village. I used to give myself a wishful thinking: we’d be back in a few days. Now weeks have passed, and we’ve entered a long spiral of growing anxiety—about family, siblings, work, and livelihood. I long to return to the neighbourhood, to see my friends and enjoy the little things with the people I love. Walking among people, staying up late in Dahiye and Beirut, eating corn and broad beans, citrus and chickpeas from a small cart under a bridge, watching football matches in a crowded cafe where the audience cheer and shout, seeing children going to school in the morning—little things, little details, that make life liveable.

Now, I watch videos of the destruction that hit the places I love and grew up in. Dozens of friends whom I don’t know the fate of, nor do I know what happened to them. We used to stand in the neighbourhood as a group of young men, reminiscing about our past and childhood stories. But when places change, no doubt they take many memories with them and demolish many images planted in our imagination. May we recall destroyed places? Can memory survive all this destruction? Here is a narrow alley, there a sleepless street, and restaurants that stay open until morning. Even Beirut lost its glamour. It used to be joyful. When I walked in its vibrant streets at night, I used to enjoy life. Today, the streets are sad, and passersby are sullen—it's visible on their faces. The city is suffocating with its residents to the point of explosion, yet that is a sign of its greatness, of its big heart that holds everyone.

Chaos of Routine

I lost my usual daily routine and the beautiful simple details. A new routine replaced it—one encompassing the smell of gunpowder and fear, making you feel like you’ve gotten used to death, that news of massacres has become a normal thing in news bulletins. How hideous it is to get used to the scene—to become accustomed to death, to the sound of bombs and planes.

The sound of reconnaissance drones has become a laughingstock on social media. Their buzzing stuck in people’s minds and became part of their daily lives. Some jokingly asked authorities to issue traffic fines to the planes because they’re a nuisance. However, children come out to see the smoke trailing behind when planes break the sound barrier.

Wronged Children

One thought worried me: how do I keep my son alive? I roamed the country, every direction was my destination, in search for shelter. The feeling of guilt devoured me. What guilt did my child commit to be born in this part of the world? Did I wrong him by bringing him into life? Doesn’t he deserve a normal life? What may I say to him, and how do I answer his questions? A rare moment where I can’t find any answer. He asks me: “Daddy, when will I go back to my house and school?” I have no answer. I can’t piece together this destruction in his life. I’m his father. I’m supposed to protect him—but I am totally unable.

I lie beside him, gaze into his eyes, touch his round white face, plant a soft kiss on his cheek, smooth his eyebrows with my fingers, caress his soft golden hair locks with my hand, inhale the scent of his fresh little body redolent in his colourful clothes, and draw hope from the tiny gap between his teeth. I tell him a bedtime story, immersed in the glow of his eyes. I try, and keep trying without giving up, without tiring or getting bored—I try until even the trial is tired of me. I try to protect him, to reassure him, though deep inside I know that what’s happening is beyond my control.

Tight-Lipped Mouths

When words clash with the spears of battle, their room narrows. Freedom of expression becomes a needle’s eye. Windows shut in its face. Words would be accounted for, their consequences severe. Criticism becomes forbidden. Our voices get obliterated behind curtains of fear and intimidation. They once said, “The battle is louder than all voices,” and this phrase has returned to cast its shadow over the war of Gaza and Lebanon with Israel. Accusations of disloyalty are ready, demonization and treason —tactics that never stopped being associated with wars—used by warring factions to silence those who condemn war, call for a ceasefire, or seek any path to peace. Here in Lebanon, we’re caught between the hammer and the anvil. Only silence is allowed. Raising your voice, rejecting, proposing alternative ideas or other truths—none of that goes without heavy accountability, sooner or later. Thus, we’re forced to die with our mouths tight shut. We have no choice over our life or death. Just to remember, we are numbers with no names, no addresses, and no dreams.

The social pressure practised on individuals is colossal. Whoever dares leave the flock must bear the consequences—insults, slander, humiliation, and social ostracism. When the group thinks as one, individual thoughts and opinions become unwelcome, often condemned. Individuals dissolve into the collective. The group's voice becomes their voice. The group’s stares bounce upon it— “Look at him; he’s the different one, the one with views against ours.”

What is the solution? Is there a way to break away from the group? How does one detach oneself from their environment, friends, family, neighbours, community... etc. Can a person shed their skin with every war? Opponents of the dominant narrative are treated as lost individuals who’ll eventually return to the collective den—by persuasion, coercion, or at least by forcing them into silence. Even silence doesn't save anyone—it is neutrality, and neutrality is suspicion, and suspicion is betrayal.

Where is the voice of reason? Are there no ears willing to listen and bear a different opinion? Every day, I lose friends, relatives, acquaintances and colleagues—not because they passed away, but because they can’t bear to hear a dissenting voice, that is at variance with their narrative. I’m a member of a community—I’m expected to abide by its norms, to meet its expectations, to not deviate from the path it laid out for us, even if that path leads to certain doom. I’m the son of the community, whether I like it or not, and I’m supposed to sacrifice for it—my blood, my wealth, my possessions, otherwise......

Does Regret Help?

I lived my first war in 1996—when I was ten years old. The second war came in 2006—I was twenty. Now, a third war, more devastating than the previous two, and I’m approaching my forties. In between those major wars, I’ve experienced smaller internal ones—numerous assassinations starting with the Ex-Prime Minister Rafic Hariri, the internal war in 2008, internal crises, serious security conditions on the lines between Shiyyah and Ain El Remmaneh, several protest movements from 2011 to 2015, leading to the 17 October 2019, and not ending in Beirut port explosion. Forty years of pain—and yet I never lost hope in the country’s renaissance; for one day, but for how long? Shouldn’t I have left this country? Travelled to a place where there is normal life? But, what is a normal life? I barely know what that means. To wake up one morning without a disaster striking the country. To live without constantly thinking of a civil war being bandied about day and night. I look back on the whole tape of my life—was staying in the country that I love and belong to the right choice? Wouldn’t it have been better to leave, like the migrating birds—to leave the tragedies behind and begin anew in a new place?

I am heavy with regret. It took me forty years to almost ascertain that this land is one of death and destruction. So, it’s high time I left —to take the hard decision, to leave the places and migrate to where there’s safety and security. To spend the rest of my life in a peace of mind. To search for a normal life. To know that love for one’s country is much like a chronic disease—incurable one, one that follows us to the ends of the earth. A war outside and a war inside me. However, I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving.

December 2024