Gibran led me back to Lebanon
Published by Elephant Journal
I drift back again to the wonderful summers I spent in Lebanon, and then I am suddenly nudged to leave the empty plane. I remember why I’m here – Gibran Khalil Gibran – and I smile.
The taxi driver complains that the political leaders are robbing the nation. “They’re all in on the game,” he says, adding that they’re cheating the people of their futures and livelihood. I know that many of the four million Lebanese suffer without jobs, without any kind of infrastructure, and that they live in daily fear, while five or six men rule by dividing the nation. I love to listen to taxi drivers because I feel a city’s vibes and secrets through them, as if they are the eyes and ears of that city. I think of what the driver says, and Gibran’s words come to mind:
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
I decided on a whim to travel to Lebanon and visit Gibran’s Museum. I felt spiritually bankrupt, and a visit to Gibran’s museum and my family would be an ideal way to rejuvenate and awaken me.
However, the trip turned out to be not about rekindling my spirituality, as much as unravelling many hidden feelings inside of me. I reconnected with my country and its people in a way I hadn’t before. I empathized with their plight and felt my stomach tighten every time a taxi driver complained and cried about his misery.
I would get riled when I heard about a top bank manager earning as little as a janitor in any average American university, or when I heard that someone born into a specific religion, sect, or village could be ostracized, attacked or miss out on a job opportunity. It was clear that the Machiavellian so-called political barons were getting what they wanted. When they didn’t, they were ruthless in retribution.
But had the Lebanese given up on the fight, as they were too tired or too afraid to lose the few benefits they had received? Had they silently agreed to the terms of their devils, so that they didn’t have to suffer more pain?
Many questions start flashing up in my mind. Why had circumstances always conspired to keep me away from this country for so long? What about Lebanon and its people had led me to adopt other countries? Would I ever return here to live?
Again, Gibran described the duality of my thoughts perfectly:
You have your Lebanon and I have mine. You have your Lebanon with her problems, and I have my Lebanon with her beauty. You have your Lebanon with all her prejudices and struggles, and I have my Lebanon with all her dreams and securities. Your Lebanon is a political knot, a national dilemma, a place of conflict and deception. My Lebanon, is a place of beauty and dreams of enchanting valleys and splendid mountains. Your Lebanon is inhabited by functionaries, officers, politicians, committees, and factions. My Lebanon is for peasants, shepherds, young boys and girls, parents and poets. Your Lebanon is empty and fleeting, whereas My Lebanon will endure forever.
As I entered the museum, I began to understand the real Gibran and imagine how he was as a man. He wasn’t just a writer of beautiful words, or a painter of breathtaking pictures, but a messenger from some higher place who came to serve as a reminder, as an exemplar and a guide to we mere mortals. His message was simple: that we are beautiful souls having a human experience, and we are united in this experience called life. He communicated in a language that addressed our hearts, directly removing the need for our analytical minds.
His works will remain immortal. I reached his tomb and read his epitaph: “I am alive like you, and I now stand beside you. Close your eyes and look around you. You will see me in front of you.” I was overwhelmed, and tears rolled down my cheeks just like a summer thunderstorm that erupts without warning.
I was intoxicated with that “wine of life” Gibran kept referring to, and I felt something stir deep within me. I felt I had someone looking out for me. I felt my heart had expanded, as if I was all-knowing, and I felt absolute peace. Most of all, I felt totally love
I walked down to a spot where I saw some cedar trees and just sat in awe of them for a few minutes. I could swear they were talking to me, inviting me to come closer and to observe how simply they live.
I wondered if they were trying to tell me that we cedar trees know where we belong, in this mountain range, in this Lebanon. We go through tough times in winter, when it is cold and we face strong and abrasive winds. We shed our leaves and our seeds and stand naked, and yet we stand tall. We also go through the spring, where we grow our seeds and leaves, and we stand beautiful and tall. However, throughout the year, we stand together, grateful, joyful and accepting what comes our way.
“We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them.”
The drive back was long, lonely and sad. The good energy had left me, replaced by a creeping self-doubt and despair. Soon these thoughts were like an invisible force with a will of its own, whispering and spreading rumours inside my mind, wiping away all the peace I had found earlier that day.
I had reached a crossroads in my life. I had to make some tough decisions
Where will I live in five years? Who will I become in the next stage of my life?
I feel like I’m living a double life, caught between the spiritual and material worlds. I find it difficult to fuse both realms into one life and it makes me feel lost, confused and frustrated. This taps directly into my greatest fear – that I will live a mediocre life, far away from my country, my tribe and my true essence, and only realizing on my deathbed that I chose the easy way instead of the more authentic one for me.
Gibran was born with a talent, yet he endured much pain; he had to leave his native country early on his life. His mother, sister and brother all died within a year of each other. However, he found the strength to live alone in New York and sacrificed himself for the love of his work. He would often write or paint for hours, without eating or taking a break. He couldn’t even visit his beloved Lebanon, so that he could produce the masterpieces he did. However, he found his unique way and carved his own niche in the psyche of Lebanon.
The night before I travelled home, I read Gibran and stumbled upon these words:
Say not, ‘I have found the truth,’ but rather, ‘I have found a truth.’ Say not, ‘ I have found the path of the soul.’ Say rather, ‘I have met the soul walking upon my path.’ For the soul walks upon all paths. The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.
His words and my thoughts met for a timeless second and painted one single thought: Life is all about asking questions, and ultimately it’s about asking the right question that is particular to me. Only then can I start living the answers to my life.