Before the troubles, I suppose we were all pretty naive.
There was a dinner-party not long after we arrived, when some foolish intellectual woman upset our hosts by arguing that she was Lebanese, like them.
– What do you mean, Lebanese? You’re American.
– Sure, I was born in America, OK. But where you happen to be born is just a matter of happenstance. Nationality’s quite different: it’s where you decide to put your heart. And this is where my heart is. Lebanon’s my home and Lebanon’s where I want to live.
– You are most welcome. But still you are not Lebanese as we are Lebanese. You talk like an American and you look like an American and you think like an American and you feel like an American.
– But that’s just it, I don’t feel like an American. I haven’t lived there for years. I don’t belong back there. I work here, my friends are here, everything I need is right here. In Beirut.
– Still that is not Lebanese. Look, are you ready to fight – maybe even to die – for Lebanon?
Ah, so it was that old chestnut, was it? Patriotism. Dutifully, we all rushed into the fray, scattering prejudices like musket-shot across the table.
– Surely you don’t believe …
– Fighting’s not the answer …
– You have to defend …
– I’m not talking about …
– Dulce et decorum est …
– Oh God, listen to you!
– I don’t think it’s a terribly relevant question.
As it turned out, the question was both relevant and terrible. And just a few weeks later, our answers would not be hypothetical.
