My Lebanon is just like yours.

It lives in my mind, my heart and my spirit. It lives in my humor and sadness. It thrives in my family, my friends, my countrymen, my memory. Lebanon is in the air that I breathe every day. It is the moon climbing slowly from behind the hills to crawl into the sky, shimmering softly on the calm Mediterranean. It is the sun burning red and orange as sinks gracefully on the horizon. It is a row of pine trees along a mountain road and a little stone house set back in a quiet little village.

My Lebanon is just like yours in the long hot summer days beating us down to sleep in the shade of the afternoon. It is in the feasts, lunches and dinners stretched out along long tables with friends and drink. It is the heart thumping rhythm of the derbakkeh and the whirling dance of the dabke. It is the smoke that curls from the nargileh as you sip your coffee brewed fresh from a large boiling pot.

Lebanon is the sheikh in his mansion and the priest in his church. It is the Muezzin calling Muslims to prayer at dawn the voice ringing through the crisp air. It is the church bell tolling loud and clear from the hilltop. Lebanon is the farmer leading his oxen to plow. It is the goatherd whistling and calling to his flock and the stone flung with the aim of a hunter walking beyond him in the valley. Lebanon is the shahrour and the bulbul singing, the fig tree lending its fruit and the grapes sweetening your mouth like cold wet honey.

My Lebanon is just like yours and the neighbors who welcome you into their hearts and their homes. It is in the old woman sitting cross-legged before her sajj baking the mouthwatering manoush and markouk. It is the men sitting before the saraya under a eucalyptus tree playing tric trac each wiser than the next and both content in their rivalry. It is in Beirut on a busy day with the people walking and the cars honking. It is in the crowded restaurants and cafes and the beaches. It is the fun of being alive.

My Lebanon is just like yours when the snow falls on Sannine, Faraya and Bcharre. It is the white laden branches of the cedars in winter that have stood before time itself knew of them. It is the olive tree that was planted by the grandfather of my grandfather and the sindianeh under which he sat and told me. Lebanon is Fairuz and the songs of the loves and dreams of all of us. It is the stars on a clear autumn night flickering like the lights of the fishing boats in the bay.

My Lebanon is all of that and more .It is beyond any enemy and their devices. It is above any politician and his manipulations. It is bigger than any scheme or any plot. My Lebanon is invincible, it is unconquerable and unwavering. My Lebanon is beyond the traitors and the thieves; it is beyond the cowards and the knaves. My Lebanon cannot be bombed nor beat, nor bowed .My Lebanon is made of things that cannot be broken, of dreams that cannot be erased, of passion that cannot be withheld. My Lebanon is as free as the hawk that flies on a hot summer day and as tough as the pillars of Baalbek. My Lebanon is powerful and proud, tolerant and forgiving, beautiful and stern. My Lebanon is made of the immortal.

My Lebanon is just like yours.