Beirut…

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Beirut, a home to my heart. It holds my memories, walking on the Cornishe, watching movies with my best friend, strolling beside the Najmeh (Etoile) square, and many more. Not only does it treasure the happy ones, but also those gloomy ones. I used to love Beirut to bits, I used to say that I would happily live a poor man’s life in Beirut. I thought Beirut was the place where I could feel safe, but I was wrong, I was dead wrong…
If you’re Lebanese you acknowledge that you’re living in a homophobic society. You’re living in a society where it’s more acceptable for two men to hold guns than two men holding hands. Once you know the hate it hosts towards the person you are, your affections toward it change. The feelings of love and happiness change to those of hate and depression, you begin to start hating the city, and then the country. But yet it still holds your memories, as much as you hate it you can’t deny you had the time of your life there. Even at the doorsteps of the airport, you remember those memories and you, for a single second, wish you could stay there a little longer, at least a small walk on the Cornishe.
Beirut in general is deceptive, you think you can hate your memory-holder yet your feelings of love grow stronger the farther you move from it. I can’t say I hate Beirut, but I can’t say I still love it the same way I did before. And now, whenever I gaze into the city from the mountains, I say:

Wow, I sure wanna be there now, just to stroll beside the Cornishe.

Beirut, I love you.

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