Growing up in New York as a second-generation Lebanese American, I visited my grandparents in Lebanon every summer.
Lebanon became my second home when I lived in Beirut for a year in ninth grade.
But that groundedness was slowly eroded as time went by and visits to Lebanon became a week or two squeezed in during college and my first years of work.
August 4, 2020, was a wake-up call: I watched helplessly as one of the biggest explosions in history rocked Beirut, wishing I could do more than check on loved ones.
It was time to reacquaint myself with Lebanon, and to show others the many layers of a country that here in the U.S. only makes headlines through conflict, corruption and dysfunction. I promised myself to "thru-hike" the Lebanon Mountain Trail and document the trip through social media.
The trail connects villages along the Mount Lebanon range, depositing hikers at guest houses like convents, monasteries and locals’ homes.
In early 2023, two friends and I drove south from Beirut to Marjaayoun to begin our 300-mile trek north.
I spent the next three weeks becoming obsessed with my country.
Beyond the incredible diversity of landscapes — from rolling hills one hour to ridgeline views of the Mediterranean Sea the next — the trail was peppered with reminders of Lebanon’s long and layered history.
Rows of olive trees that form the cornerstone of local economies. The Syrian refugee camp, originally intended to be temporary. Stoic and steadfast cedar trees that have watched over the mountains for millennia. The remnants of a ridgeline road built by the Israeli army during occupation. Hermitages tucked into the corners of a sacred Christian valley. The ruins of a Roman temple. The Beirut-Damascus Highway, a bustling thoroughfare that traces the path people, goods and knowledge have followed through the mountains for generations.
And every day, people greeting us with a smile and tafaddalo – a genuine invitation into their homes for a cup of coffee.
My friends and I shared all of this on social media, hoping to reshape folks’ prejudiced and fragmented perceptions of the Arab world by inspiring awe and joy — rather than fear.
Today, with Lebanon on the brink of regional war, I think back to hillsides that are now too dangerous to explore. I ground myself in my country’s truth, as the long-festering wounds of foreign intervention again erupt into what the West expects of the region.
The Lebanon that I know is verdant mountains and generous villagers, not dusty wastelands and turban-wearing terrorists.
I want others to know my Lebanon, too.
Mireille Bejjani is a community organizer focused on environmental issues. She lives in Florence, Massachusetts, and has appeared as a storyteller in NEPM's Valley Voices Story Slams.
