Thirty Three Days
Farah Abdul Sater shares her own experience with internal displacement in Lebanon
I remember well, during that summer of 2006, sitting in front of the white page of my little notebook; a white page I could not fill, not until today. Here is my story.
In July 2006, I was 19, and like most Lebanese youth, summer break only meant long days by the beach and evenings out.
Somewhere around mid-July, a date many Lebanese people have engraved in their memories but my brain is determined to erase, we woke up to a call from a neighbour informing us of some flyers that had fallen over Beirut. The flyers, which I’ve only seen scanned in some journals, were thrown all over the city. It was a technique used during world wars to inform civilians of the need to evacuate. Later that evening, parts of Beirut and all its southern suburbs would be severely bombed.
Being a veteran of fleeing wars (my experience had started as young as the age three), I took my carry-on bag, and put only a few clothing items; I mean, this should’ve been the usual three day long bombing of Lebanon — fleeing light is important.
In a couple of hours, my 15-year-old sister, my mother and I had packed our little suitcases, leaving behind our books, photo albums and some deliciously cooked meal, all awaiting our return. Ever the optimist, my father, who was a dentist, had sealed his clinic with a sign indicating “will be back in a week”.
Those three days turned into thirty-three.
First, the four of us, moved north, to a hotel in the countryside, which we discovered to be quite conservative. It was a very hot summer, and my father knew in those first three days his two daughters would not be safe; dressing freely, walking alone or being the sociable teenagers, they were.
So, we quickly moved to another northern city, just by the beach, with a more open community. We rented an apartment with my uncle’s family. My father was convinced that having the family together would bring us joy. There I met Florice. She was just like us, internally displaced, but she was also a migrant worker from the Philippines, who lived and worked in my uncle’s home.
A bomb fell on the biggest bridge linking the northern city we were in to Beirut. The blast occurred two hundred metres away from our safe haven, and we knew then, nowhere was safe.
Interestingly, when women and girls are facing a dangerous journey, they build an amount of solidarity and resilience together. Florice could see that I, the vain teenager, was getting bored; while displaced during wars, even if you’re lucky to live in an apartment, there are electricity cuts, television cuts and water cuts. I could also see that poor Florice, was overwhelmed with work, despite being like us, displaced, she carried on her domestic worker chores.
Quickly, she and I filled the-no-TV time with washing pillows, and the no-water-time with talks about faith and life back home. A home, which was very far to both of us.
Florice shared a bedroom with my sister and me. We used to sleep fully clothed, afraid another strike would hit and we’d have to run again. And on many evenings, I would sneak food to Florice, knowing how little, under the authority of her employer, she’d eat. She’d watch the bathroom door when I shower because of a harassing cousin, something I could never tell my own parents.
Interestingly, what few people may tell you about displacement and sharing shelters, is the fact that when put under one roof, feuds arise. Just like newlyweds might discover the worst in their spouses, cramming a family into a small space can lead to tension.
In our case, it was not only the cultural differences between the two families, mine and that of my uncles, but also the overwhelming weight of the unknown on my father’s shoulders. He was anxious about the clinic he had spent years building; for the home he raised his daughters in and for the security and future of his daughters. He felt the worst thing a human can feel, hopelessness. Those were some of the details my mother, a very calm introvert traumatized by many wars, confided in me years later.
Looking back to this little cocoon that we were hiding in, I know it does not compare to the millions of people fleeing natural hazards and wars, who live in tents and makeshift homes. However, similarities can be more important than differences. Similarities in fear of the unknown, the feeling of becoming a lost generation, desperation from the international community, and gender-based violence; but also, solidarity, women resilience and the dreams of return.
Every day, as an aspiring writer and wanting to document this experience, I looked at my blank notebook page. But the page remained blank. Blank for too long.
Years later in 2014 when I began working with humanitarian organizations, I visited a displacement camp for the first time. Hearing their stories and seeing their courage, showed me how best to fill my blank page.
The twentieth anniversary of the Guiding Principles on Internal Displacement is an opportunity to help resolve displacement, whether that means returning home or finding a new home elsewhere, and to better assist and protect internally displaced persons.
It is our chance to help fill the blank pages of million internally displaced persons unable to tell their stories.
Farah Abdul Sater the Media and Public Information Officer in IOM’s Regional Office for the Middle East and North Africa. This article is part of a series highlighting how IOM staff have been personally affected by internal displacement on the 20th Anniversary of the Guiding Principle on Internal Displacement (GP20).
