Fawzye Taha, or better known as Um Ali (Mother of Ali)
in her bedroom, in the heart of Beirut

After a few years of not visiting home, I finally had the chance to be back in the birthplace of my ancestors. While deeply enjoying the privileged and bright side of Lebanon during my visit, it was impossible not to get my heart broken, even just a bit. A lot has changed since the last time I’ve seen my Teta, but strangely and happily, it was just as I had left it in July 2019.

My grandmother and I might be perceived as the total opposite of each other, which probably is true on one hand. Our upbringing, lifestyle, clothes we choose, marital status, children, illiteracy and literacy, and so much more is in total reverse. But only because my parents made the sacrifice in 1989 to leave everything they have ever known behind in Beirut. These were sacrifices my grandmother was never able to make. But honestly speaking, I do believe that sacrifice is a term that makes us believe in something that is not possible for every individual. Something like an illusion?

Up until this day, my grandmother can’t choose where she wants to go. Not only because of financial reasons, but due to travel regulations and disapproved visa requests to visit us in my birthplace, Germany.

While bidding my farewell to all my family members who reside in Beirut before my departure, I couldn’t help but feel numb and powerless to a situation that probably everyone whose parents fled war is familiar with. Even if I were able to live in Beirut, close to my Teta and Uncles, Aunts, that I so dearly love, I would have to live with the separation fromother family members. And those do not only live between two countries. They are spread through the whole world, with some you lose touch with, while others know everything about your whereabouts. But we had to separate, because we didn’t have the chances others have in their birthplaces. New languages, culture clashes, inability to feel at home, rejected visa applications. I will always feel the ache in my heart of missing someone I want to be able to see every day.

My grandmother couldn’t leave, as Honcho says, the broken but beautiful city of Beirut, but she chooses to sacrifice her own desires for the comfort of her children and her grandchildren. I don’t want to say that it is good to ignore your own dreams, I just want to make clear that the imagination of choice in sacrifice is a privilege and some people cannot even choose what they want to sacrifice for love and safety. So I guess when there is nothing left, naturally you will leave out your own نَفْس (nafs) = soul / self

I never heard the sound of a bomb, neither did I have to flee because of war. Lebanon is repeatedly and currently experiencing war. Strangely, I wasn’t too afraid (which also comes from my lack of knowledge and experience of life in active war), but even through the geographical distance, the echo of each bomb reaches my family and me in Germany. Loving someone who lives in a place like Lebanon makes you unable to understand the terms and conditions of impartiality.

Before I was born, my parents took their route to Germany via Damascus, Rome, Paris, Freiburg, and finally settled in Bremen. They left behind dreams of football and literature. Today I wake up with the ambition that is followed by guilt because of my dream of living somewhere else than Germany. Maybe the displacement has become an unconscious part of my identity. As well as the illiteracy of my grandmother, because when I think about it, it’s ironic that I like to use written words for my art. My mother was the first woman in her family line that was able to read and write, but the war back then stopped her from attending university. Some days I feel guilty about the huge number of choices that I can make daily that my grandmother will never be able to even think about. We are the same person with such different lives.