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Student Voices

POV: I’m from Lebanon, and I’m Caught Between Two Worlds

“A cycle of dread and longing that occupies every corner of my mind”

I am Lebanese. That identity carries history, pride, resilience—and now, overwhelming grief. Israel’s invasion of Lebanon is an ominous echo of a history we all hoped would remain in the past. But here we are again, the sound of war drums beating in our ears, forcing us to confront a future filled with more uncertainty, more loss.

As a relatively new member of the diaspora, living in Boston has been an experience of stark contrast. I arrived here full of hope for a future where I could gather knowledge, make connections, and eventually contribute to a better Lebanon. 

But that hope feels fragile now, weighed down by helplessness. I thought the term “diaspora” would be temporary—a brief chapter in my life before returning home. Yet, it has transformed into something that feels more permanent, something heavier. Being part of the Lebanese diaspora has become a burden, a lens that refracts daily life in foreign lands through the pain of distance and the anxiety of not knowing whether there will still be a home to return to. It’s difficult to describe what that feels like.

I feel it most when I hear from my parents, just as I felt it when I said my goodbyes at the end of the summer, thinking I’d see them again in a few months. We always assume there’s more time. My parents are still there, and all I want is to be with them, to somehow shield them from this nightmare. Every phone call, every text message carries the weight of uncertainty. Will I hear from them again? Are they safe? Will they be safe tomorrow? It’s a cycle of dread and longing that occupies every corner of my mind.

My days are consumed by a constant, anxious rhythm of refreshing the news. I search for any sign that things might be improving, but instead the headlines grow worse. A heavy knot forms in my chest as I sit in lectures, pretending to absorb the material while wandering back to Beirut. Every interaction with people around me feels forced, mechanical. The small talk, the casual smiles—it all feels like a betrayal to everything that’s happening. I don’t need distractions. I don’t need to be taken out for coffee. How can I focus on anything else when my country is burning? I feel guilty—attending classes, walking across a peaceful campus, while my Lebanon crumbles beneath bombs and fire.

What distresses me even further is the sheer indifference of the world around me. When I walk down Commonwealth Avenue, miles away from Beirut, no one seems to know, or care. Sure, people ask, “Are you okay?” but their questions come without the weight of understanding, without the shared outrage that this devastation should invoke. What they are really asking is, “Are you fine enough to continue your day-to-day routine?” They are asking for reassurance, not to understand.

I’m not okay, and I hate that people don’t seem to grasp why I shouldn’t be. 

There’s a specific kind of rage that builds when you realize that people see your suffering as a distant, impersonal tragedy, something that doesn’t touch their lives in any meaningful way. This crisis is not some abstract news headline for me—it’s the destruction of everything I know. It’s infuriating to realize that US tax dollars are being used to fund this destruction. And yet, there’s no widespread anger, no cries for justice. 

Don’t let the devastation of Beirut, Gaza, and all of Lebanon pass by in silence. Share what’s happening, talk about it, and make sure the world doesn’t look away. This isn’t just my fight; it’s a fight for justice, for humanity, for every innocent life caught in the crossfire.

I need you to feel this—not from a comfortable distance, but as if it were happening to your own home, your own family. Speak for Gaza. Speak for Lebanon when the world chooses to turn away. We need your voices, your outrage, and your humanity. 

I see people around me who are future doctors, scientists, and leaders—people who will one day cure diseases, create groundbreaking technologies, and make a mark on the world. You’re the ones developing new surgical techniques in labs and leading policy discussions in the classroom. You are changemakers, and that power comes with a responsibility to act.

Every conversation you have, every action you take, can make a difference. 

I can’t be in Lebanon, but I will fight from here. If I can’t physically stand with my people, I will stand with them in solidarity, marches, and posts that demand my attention. Right now, the most powerful way to help is through donations. Organizations like the Lebanese Red Cross and Beit El Baraka are risking their lives to deliver food, shelter, and medical care to the millions displaced and the thousands wounded by this ongoing catastrophe. If you want to ensure your contribution goes directly to those in need, donate through the Lebanese Club of Boston University. They are raising crucial funds to provide meals, hygiene supplies, and essential aid to those suffering right now.

And, finally, a special recognition to Haya Ghazale, a brave voice and fellow Lebanese who has also written powerfully about our homeland’s current crisis. Her courage inspires me to keep fighting for Lebanon, no matter how far I am from home.

For now, I live in the space between. I exist in Boston, but my mind is in Beirut. I try to go about my day, but my heart is with my family, my friends, my people. We hug our loved ones goodbye, planning to return soon, but we are not ready to say goodbye for good. We aren’t ready to let go of our home. 

We will not let go of our home.

Jad Marrouche (CAS’25, Sargent’25) can be reached at jadm@bu.edu. 

“POV” is an opinion page that provides timely commentaries from students, faculty, and staff on a variety of issues: on-campus, local, state, national, or international. Anyone interested in submitting a piece, which should be about 700 words long, should contact today@bu.edu. BU Today reserves the right to reject or edit submissions. The views expressed are solely those of the author and are not intended to represent the views of Boston University.