Racha M's blog

I was born in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, and lived there until I graduated high school, when, with the exception of my father, my family moved back to our native Beirut.  I have returned only twice since then. The first time we were escaping the July 2006 war in Lebanon. Although it wasn't a pleasant experience, being back in my childhood home was an oddly comforting one. Earlier this year, my second trip after thirteen years' absence was to help organise a training workshop involving sixty or so male participants from the Gulf Cooperation Council countries.

A few weeks ago, my online chat with a friend in Beirut was cut short when he disappeared without warning for the better part of half an hour. He explained nonchalantly when he signed in again that he had been distracted by the sound of gunfire outside. Apparently, a prominent political party leader had been holding a press conference, and as sometimes happens in Lebanon, overzealous supporters would take to the streets and fire celebratory gunshots after the fact. My friend then signed off, saying that since the shots seemed to have died down, he was joining some of his friends downtown for a bite to eat. People who don't live in Lebanon might find such a flippant comment strange, but I wasn't surprised. Just before I moved to London a couple of months ago, my friends and I would even time our outings around these press conferences, making sure to get home before any potential clashes could break out between opposing political parties.