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This story is a love letter to my forever home, Lebanon. Even when I am oceans away, I will carry you in my heart and speak proudly of you, so that everyone may feel your value and see your beauty.

Lebanon has always been a country of contrasts. It is a place of breathtaking beauty and deep pain, where resilience lives side by side with hardship. In recent months, ordinary Lebanese citizens have faced wave after wave of challenges: economic collapse that leaves salaries nearly worthless, electricity that cuts out for hours every day, rising tensions at the border, and the grief of lives lost in sudden violence. Families who once dreamed of stability now struggle just to make ends meet.

These struggles are not abstract, they are deeply personal. A parent wonders how to afford school fees. A young graduate searches for work but only finds doors closed. Entire neighborhoods still bear scars from the Beirut 2020 port explosion, while many who rushed to rebuild now face new uncertainty. Even joyful moments, like art or performance, can come under threat, as society debates what identity and tradition should mean.

And yet, there is another side to Lebanon’s story: resilience born of community. This is where the idea of covenantal pluralism speaks powerfully. It is not simply about “coexistence” in a divided society, it is about building bonds of trust and care across differences. In Lebanon, those bonds are tested every day. But they also emerge in the small acts that make all the difference.

During the Lebanese Civil War, when fear and faith became fault lines, my family’s town lived under the shadow of violence. My great grandfather, Priest Zaka El Khoury, lived there alongside my father and the rest of the family. Some Muslim groups targeted Christians in the nearby neighborhood. Despite this brutality, a few Muslim neighbors crossed the invisible borders and came to his house, not as opponents, but as guardians. They were on guard outside his house to protect him, my father, and our family from harm.

What touched me the most was how this bravery went in both directions. My great grandpa  opened the doors of his church to Muslim families escaping danger, providing them refuge beneath the same roof where he led prayers. Small acts of protection were secret rebellions against hate in an era when communities were falling apart.  He always used to say: “الإسلام في ضيعتنا خط أحمر، جميعنا عائلة واحدة وعلينا حمايتهم كما نحمي أولادنا. أي شخص لا يعاملهم معاملة حسنة يكون لا يعاملني أنا شخصياً…”, meaning Muslims in our village are a red line, We are all one family, and we must protect them just as we protect our own children. Anyone who does not treat them well is, in effect, not treating me well personally. Priests were very well respected and were seen as the protectors of the village, so whatever Priest Zaka El Khoury said was done.

This story has been passed down through my family as a treasured remembrance, a reminder that even during the darkest times of war, light can shine in the hearts of regular people. Growing up in Lebanon, I always heard about religious divisions: Muslims and Christians, neighbors and strangers. These distinctions were part of everyday life, impacting how people perceived one another. But this narrative cut through all of that. It taught me that even in times of fear, violence, and uncertainty, individuals can choose love over hatred. During the civil war, Muslims in the next village sacrificed their lives to protect my father, his grandfather, and the rest of our family. In return, my great grandpa opened the doors of his church to protect Muslims in peril. These were not huge political gestures, but acts of human decency and bravery. If they can do it, why can’t we?

As a child, hearing this story completely changed how I saw the world. It made me believe that compassion goes beyond religion and that real strength comes from standing up for others, not just for people who are alike. When I moved to the United States last year, this lesson became even more personal. I came into a new place where I felt like an outsider. I was surrounded by people from various cultures, faiths, and ways of living. At first, it felt overwhelming and unfamiliar, however,  remembering my family’s story helped me stay grounded and reminded me that kindness and respect are universal and always matter.

This lesson has shaped who I am and how I perceive people. I always try to meet others with openness, kindness, and genuine care, instead of letting assumptions guide me. I’ve come to realize that treating someone with humanity is so much more than just being polite; It means truly seeing their worth and dignity, protecting it when needed, and standing by them even when no one else does. This story isn’t just a memory to me, it’s part of my identity and I carry it with me in every new place, with every person I meet. It ties my roots in Lebanon to my life here, reminding me that even across oceans, I can choose to be a source of light for others, as they were during those dark days.

Lebanon’s hardships are real, heavy, and ongoing. Yet the deeper truth is that the Lebanese people have not given up on one another. If anything, they continue to show that even in the darkest seasons, faith, identity, and hope can become bridges instead of barriers. That spirit, fragile, imperfect, but enduring, is what gives my home its greatest strength.