Heartbreaking & Breathtaking

Carol Baliki

10/14/2026

There is a scent that is Lebanon. It is not the cedar, though that is the national emblem, a symbol of eternity carved into a flag. The scent of Lebanon is a complex perfume: the salt of the Mediterranean spray, the sweet, sticky juice of a sun-warmed fig, the earthy aroma of olive groves that have stood for millennia, and the faint, lingering ghost of woodsmoke and gunpowder. It is the scent of a home that is perpetually broken and perpetually rebuilding, all in the same breath.

To love Lebanon is to love someone who is both magnificent and fragile, a person whose brilliance is only matched by their capacity for self-destruction. It is a love that is not easy. It is a love that keeps you up at night, that knots your stomach and aches in your chest. It is a love that is tested by headlines you can no longer bear to read, by phone calls that crackle with the sound of a distant explosion, by a diaspora that stretches across the globe, each member carrying a small, heavy piece of the country in their heart.

But to love Lebanon is also to know a joy so profound it feels like a defiance. It is the joy of a family gathered around a table that groans under the weight of a hundred dishes—hummus drizzled with golden olive oil, tabbouleh that is more parsley than bulgur, kibbeh that melts in your mouth. It is the music of Fairuz, whose voice is not just a sound but a national memory, a lullaby for a country that has forgotten how to sleep. It is the way an argument can erupt over a card game and dissolve into tearful laughter within minutes. It is the unshakeable, almost infuriating, belief that tomorrow will be better, that the cedar will, somehow, find a way to grow from the ashes.

This is the paradox of Lebanon. Its cities, like Beirut, are a patchwork of scars and beauty. A bullet-riddled wall can stand next to a chic boutique. A building whose facade was torn away by a blast can still have laundry hanging on the line, a silent testament to the stubborn refusal to surrender to despair. The people possess a resilience that is not stoic, but vibrant. They do not simply endure; they live. They dance at weddings with a fervor that feels like a victory. They drink coffee on balconies as the sun sets over the sea, a daily ritual of claiming peace in a land that has known so little of it.

I remember a story a friend told me. During the worst of the 2020 explosion, her grandmother’s first instinct, after the glass had settled, was to check on her basil plants. She swept up the debris, found a single, surviving sprig, and carefully replanted it in a new pot. That is Lebanon. It is a grandmother, in the midst of ruin, tending to a plant. It is an act of faith in a future she may not see, but one she is determined to nurture. It is the knowledge that while buildings can be rebuilt, the soul of a country lives in its small, tender, everyday acts of love.

The cedar tree on the flag is often called the "Cedars of God." It is a fitting name. For what is Lebanon if not a testament to a divine, inexplicable endurance? It is a land that has been conquered by empires, torn apart by civil war, and brought to its knees by economic collapse. And yet, it rises. Bleeding, weeping, but rising.

Its heart is not in its government or its borders. Its heart is in its people. It is in the weary but determined eyes of a mother. It is in the calloused hands of a craftsman. It is in the laughter of children playing in a street that was, only yesterday, a river of rubble. It is in the voice of the diaspora, who carry their Lebanon with them like a sacred relic, a homeland of the mind and the heart that is always waiting, always loved, always missed.

To write about Lebanon is to write a love letter to a heart that is broken but refuses to stop beating. It is a country that holds you, shakes you, breaks you, and then gently, with the scent of jasmine and the taste of honey, puts you back together again. And for that, for its impossible, heartbreaking, and breathtaking beauty, it is worth every tear, every worry, and every prayer.

Photo by: Emma Jowdy