“Lebanon Debate” – Ronnie Alpha
I feel sad to death. I say it as the last prayer is said over the bed of a patient who the doctors know is still breathing, but they do not have an answer about his soul.
I’m afraid. I fear a time whose features I see approaching like a heavy fog from the direction of the sea.
I fear the day when the Star of David becomes a regular part of the Lebanese scene, as if it had always been here.
I fear the day when the Israeli flag flies in the public imagination as a natural flag, not a bloody flag associated in the memory of generations with wars, occupation, tears, and graves.
I am afraid of the Lebanese habit. Habit is more dangerous than defeat. Defeat hurts, but habit kills the feeling of the wound.
I imagine tourist buses with incentive prices being prepared. Tourists’ laughter. Cameras. Light bags. Weekend trips. Young people looking for fun where entire generations were looking for dignity.
I imagine those who will return from Tel Aviv to tell us about the bars, the beaches, the lights, and the noisy nights, while the graves of the martyrs stand on the hills like old mothers who do not understand the new language.
What will we do with the graves of martyrs?
This question haunts me. Will we put a sign at its doors saying: Sorry, this anniversary has expired?
Will we ask the pictures hanging on the walls to leave because they remind us of things we don’t want to remember? How will we explain to those who left that the country has changed its narrative?
In southern Lebanon, there are stones that know more than the news bulletins. Trees know more than conferences. Valleys that still preserve the names of those who passed through them and did not return.
What will we say to all of these?
Did the market triumph over memory?
Did comfort triumph over contentment?
The fatigue was stronger than the dream?
I fear a time when the courts will be open to resistance fighters, while Israeli wine shops will be open to normalizers.
A time when the one with the gun enters the accusation hall, while the one with the handshake enters the celebration hall. A time when those who fought will be asked: Why did you fight? Those who waited on the sidewalks are not asked: What did you do when the country was bleeding?
I’m afraid of a flip in the mirrors
Not only do people change, but their positions within memory also change. The martyr becomes a political problem, the resistor becomes a legal burden, and the collaborator becomes merely an opinion holder.
Objection becomes an accusation, while applause becomes a national virtue.
I fear a day when the names will turn against their owners. In the eyes of many, Hezbollah becomes the enemy that should be condemned day and night, while the occupation army turns into a dove of peace that has come to teach us the etiquette of stability.
I fear a time when men will be measured by their proximity to power, not by their loyalty to memory. A time when an Israeli officer enters a café in Beirut or the south, and the silence that accompanies heavy memories does not prevail. Rather, toasts are raised, pictures are taken, and applause rises, as if history had never passed here.
I fear a time when the image of the resistor will become a cause for embarrassment, while the image of the former occupier will become part of ordinary decor.
I fear a day when the stories of female detainees, martyrs, and expecting mothers are told as if they were emotional exaggerations from time immemorial. From the day when a father was advised not to talk to his children too much about liberation so that he would not appear behind the times. From a day when mentioning martyrs becomes an old discourse, while celebrating new handshakes becomes a symbol of wisdom and moderation. And from the day when those who bore the wounds of war will be asked to apologize for their memory. A day will come when consistency will become an accusation, change will become a virtue, and loyalty will become a form of naivety.
There, not only the political landscape changes. There the balance of morality itself changes. There, the country becomes unable to distinguish between those who defended it and those who attacked it, between those who paid the price and those who were content to watch the price from afar.
I fear a day when the language will be cleansed of complete words. As if the word “occupation” was deleted because it disturbed the new mood, as if the word “liberation” was deleted because it reminded of a stage that wanted to be buried, and as if heroism was being redefined so that there was no room left in it for those who carried their lives on their shoulders and moved on.
History does not die at once. It is withdrawn from circulation just as an old currency is withdrawn. At first it is said that it is still valid. Then it becomes rare. Then it disappears. Then comes a new generation that does not know that it even existed.
This is what I fear. I am not only afraid of shifting alliances or agreements. I am afraid that the standards themselves will change.
From the day defending the land becomes an act that requires justification, while giving up the narrative does not need any justification. From the day when people looked around before mentioning the names of the martyrs. They lower their voices when they talk about dignity. They smile apologetically whenever the resistance is mentioned.
There I know that the crisis is no longer a political crisis. It has become a memory crisis. The crisis of nations’ memory is more deadly than all wars.
I fear for the language too. I fear Arabic more than Hebrew, not because it carries civilization, but because it is the language of the killer.
I fear for the books that created our conscience. On poems. On the songs. On the stories that were told on winter nights.
Nations are not always uprooted by tanks. Sometimes it is uprooted when it convinces its children that their roots are a burden. I fear the day when Benjamin Netanyahu is welcomed in this country as a messenger of peace. The red carpet is rolled out for him. Cups are raised to him. He is offered the same smiles that were once withheld from those who sacrifice.
Then I will feel like something is broken. In memory. Politics changes every day. As for the memory, if it is broken, nothing can replace it.
Antoine Lahad was a phenomenon back in the day. What I fear today is the time of Antoine Lahad’s thousands. A time when no one needs a military uniform. It is enough for a person to be defeated inside. It is enough for him to be convinced that everything he believed in was an illusion. It is enough to make him feel ashamed of his history.
There the real defeat begins. Not at the border. But in the depths.
That’s why I’m sad. No, because I’m only afraid for land. Rather, I fear for the story of an entire people.
I fear that a day will come when our children will visit the graves of martyrs as we visit Roman ruins: with cold interest, respect without belonging, and curiosity devoid of any personal feeling. Then the Lebanon we knew would not have fallen. It will have evaporated. His name will remain written on maps, while his soul is lost elsewhere. This is perhaps the harshest type of loss.
