I miss peace. And I’ll never stop saying that, no matter what anyone says.
I miss laying in the sun on the weekends when we went to Beirut to cool off in the
Mediterranean sea. I miss eating chicken shawarma at the restaurant next to the beach, eating and laughing. I miss my old life. But I don’t think that it will ever be the same. Not in my lifetime.
Immi, my mother, comes in and sits on my bed. Ever since the war broke out in my small
village in Lubnan, or Lebanon, we’ve been scared to death. The fact that we’ve lost Bayi, my
father, and Basma, my older and only sister, doesn’t help. It’s been two years of pain and
hardship for me and Immi. We’ve suffered alone.
“Are you ok, Danya, habibti?” Immi asks, jerking me out of my thoughts. I nod slowly
and swallow the lump rising in my throat.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say softly. It’s been just the two of us for so long; we’ve gotten to
know each other better than ever. My mother looks at me, unconvinced. I knew she would see
through the lie.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Immi shakes her head and kisses mine. I wrap my arms around her. We sit there for a
while, embracing, both of us wishing in our heads that we could live in a place where bombs
don’t fall. A place where no one ever fought. A place where we could be free. But we also don’t want to leave our home. If we die, we will be martyrs. Immi knows that. I know that. My father
and sister knew that. Lubnan is our country and no one can make us leave.
Immi sighs. “I was thinking that we could plant an olive tree to show that we are proud to
be the daughters of Lubnan. That we aren’t afraid.”
I shake my head. Immi knows that all we ever do is cower in fear and dread, although we
both try to contradict ourselves by saying that we’re not afraid. It never works. We always end
up even more scared when we hear another bomb falling on neighboring villages.
“Come on, let’s make something. Maybe it will help us feel better.”
I know Immi won’t give up on trying to help me, so I nod. We both get up and walk
across the hall to our kitchen. It’s a classic Lubnani style, with stone walls and wooden counters.
I see a container of za’atar spice on the counter, and I know what we should make.
“Can we make za’atar bread?”
“Sure,” Immi smiles. She grabs our saj, a dome-shaped pan used for pita and za’atar
bread, and places it dome-side-up on one of the stoves, turning the heat on as well as drizzling
olive oil across it so that the bread won’t stick. I grab flour, salt, sugar, yeast, corn oil and of
course, more olive oil for the dough. I place them all on the counter, then go grab the za’atar. I
also put a pot of water on the free stove and warm it.
Immi has started mixing all of the ingredients together in a big metal bowl, plus the warm
water I brought. She leaves the za’atar on the counter and doesn’t add it yet. She uses her hands
to knead and combine all of the ingredients in the classic Arab fashion. I add two cups of za’atar
into the dough.
“Can I try kneading?”
“Yes.”
Immi takes her sticky hands out of the bowl and goes to wash them. I put mine in and
squish the goop between my fingers. The soft dough makes me squirm for a second, but also
feels kind of nice on my hands. I incorporate the za’atar in, making sure it’s evenly combined.
Slowly, the dough becomes more and more tacky and I know it’s done.
“Immi! I’m finished!”
Immi comes back and I take a ball of dough in my hands. I roll the ball in between my
hands and throw it up in the air, just like I saw Immi and Basma do the million times they have
made za’atar bread. My throw is misplaced and I barely catch the dough before it falls on
the cold granite floor.
“Maybe I should throw it?”
“Good idea.”
Immi laughs and takes the dough out of my hands. She tosses and tosses it and tosses it
some more until it’s a big, flat circle. She drapes it onto the saj. A wonderful aroma fills the room
as Immi flips the bread. The sizzles coming from the saj make my mouth water.
Immi flips it again, this time onto a plate. I go to the fridge, realizing we still have extra
labneh, or yogurt, from last night. We always make anything that needs to be kept cold in small
batches since the power could go out at any time, spoiling the food in the fridge. I’m surprised
we have any labneh left, but we do. I grab the labneh and set it on the dining room table.
Immi has cut the za’atar into triangles and sets it on the table. We each take a piece,
scoop up some labneh with it, and take a bite.
The sour/savory bread instantly transports me to the time Basma and I were making it
together. Bayi and Immi were watching the news, back when we had a TV, and Basma wanted to
do something. I still remember laughing as she kneaded and fried the bread. I would run back and forth for ingredients. The bread was lumpy and ugly when we finished, but turned out to be
the best-tasting batch that we’ve ever made.
The memory makes me smile. I miss Basma and Bayi, but I’ve got to be strong. It turns
out that food can go a long way in helping you forget your worries. Back then, I had Basma to
make it with me most of the time. Now, Mama does. Back then, I had Bayi to plant with my
plants (I enjoy gardening just like he did). Now, I know that Mama and I will plant that olive
tree.
We will defy.
And it’s all because of the memory that came with the bread and the labneh. I smile at my
mom. I feel so much better now. Not completely, but close enough.
Who knew that za’atar could be so…healing?
The Lighthouse 