Dear World, I Can't Sleep

Dear World, I Can't Sleep was written shortly after the 2020 Beirut Port Explosion that rocked Lebanon's core. A literary expression of the aftermath. The explosion was a result of years of instability manifested in one literal and physical blow in which Lebanon still feels the effects of. This piece was also written to address immigrants' never-ending conflicting relationship with their home countries.

I left, I did.

Have you ever felt guilt so deep it embeds itself in your bones?

I have a home I love and hate

Family is complicated, they say

But it was my home, and it had a ceiling that leaked

We put a pot under the hole in the ceiling so when it rained the floors wouldn’t get soaked

We never did fix the hole in the ceiling

Every time it rained, we just emptied the pot

We joked and laughed at the constant pingpingping, we turned it into music

Every storm that came widened the hole, so we widened the pot, widened the smile, until

The hole became too wide and no pot could hold the water, no smile could reach our eyes, no music could leave our throats

We left the home with its music and food and love, those of us who could

My country was my home with a ceiling that had holes

We spoke of our return, we spoke of the repairs

We filled our minds with promises, we meant it,

And yet,

I sit and write in a tongue that isn’t my mother’s

As they invade our daydreams, stomping their boots where our footsteps left their mark, where

our trees clasp their roots to the Earth

Our pain is mirrored in the waters of our home, rooted in her golden soil, carved in her rocks

Our lives are traced in the cedars of our home, painted in her skies, tasted in her fruits

We are children of the universe, Gibran said

But I felt the universe in the heart of Beirut, and I didn’t want to leave

I wanted my children to know her like I did

I wanted them to argue, “it’s just Hamra, we’ll be back by 9!” And I wanted to pretend to think

hard before letting them go

I wanted them to complain, “are we there yet, mama?” on our way to the south

I wanted them to visit my mother’s village down towards the river and tell them,

“this is where your grandma used to play”

I wanted them to sit under the eagle statue in our home in my father’s village and scream,

“I’m on top of the world”

Because that’s what it felt like

I don’t have children yet

Will the phoenix rise again?

I’d take it holes and all

As long as I can still, one day,

Take my children home

About the Writer: Fatima is a Lebanese-Brazilian writer exploring the human experience, memory, displacement, and the resilience of love and existence. Her work bridges personal history, political undercurrents, often set against the changing landscapes of Beirut, and beyond.