Since theAeneid of Virgil, Western culture adopted the olive branch as a symbol of peace. In 1945, an olive branch was even placed on the emblem of the United Nations (UN) as a symbol of protection of the world. But not all olive trees evoke this state of calm and harmony.
Rita is waiting for me on the other side of her screen. We arranged a virtual meeting to talk about his native country, Lebanon. I met this fabulous young woman in December 2023. I quickly realized that I had just made a new friend. I told him that during my adolescence in Paris, to have fun with my first name, Salomé, my Arab friends called me Salam, while my Jewish friends nicknamed me Shalom. I added that I loved these nicknames since they mean “peace” in their respective languages. It was enough for her to adopt it too.
So it’s with a “Hello, Salam!” » sunny as she greets me from the other side of the screen. She wears a radiant smile, while her deep brown eyes shine, as usual. From the outset, I admit to him that I have not prepared any questions. I just want to chat with her. I want her to tell me about Lebanon and her feelings about the latest events.
She tells me about her days spent at the beach with her family as well as the magnificence of the sunsets on the Mediterranean coast. She also tells me about the nightlife in Beirut, which has nothing to envy of Western metropolises when it comes to getting young people dancing. She keeps telling me how beautiful this country is and how warm its people are. The beauty of Lebanon will return as a leitmotif throughout our conversation.
I ask him to tell me a little about his parents. His father is Christian, and his mother is Muslim by faith, but became more of an atheist over time, considering that religion more often leads to war than to peace. For his part, the father saw his faith strengthened, thanking God every day for having spared his family. They arrived here in 2003 when Rita was only 4 years old, worn out by the civil war and armed conflicts. They left everything, like so many other immigrants, in search of a happier future for their children. Through her story and her words, I feel all the tenderness that Rita has for them.
Rita, her brother and their parents are the only ones in the family to have left Lebanon. Thus, they are the only ones to live far from the clan, while the latter has been accusing airstrikes for several weeks. Suddenly, I remember that this winter, around a hookah, we tasted olive oil from an olive grove on his great-grandfather’s land. This is the best olive oil I have tasted in my life. And I’m of Italian origin, which means we don’t mess around with this nectar around here.
In short, I’m getting news from the olive trees. His face changes, his smile becomes ironic, as if to avoid bursting into tears. She shows me a photo on her phone. We see a gaping hole and a half-destroyed house. “There are no more olive trees, Salam. And there will be no more olive oil, it’s over. » Fortunately, the small house was empty at the time of the bombing.
It is then that I realize what Rita has been experiencing since the start of this conflict. The places of his fondest childhood memories, the neighborhoods where his family and friends live are destroyed by a conflict that grows bigger every day. She is afraid, afraid that someone she loves will die under the bombs. She spends hours listening to the news. She exchanges messages with her relatives who were recently evacuated after receiving a warning from Israel about an imminent attack.
She speaks to them live, via FaceTime, and she sees them among thousands of other people in southern Lebanon, sitting on a sidewalk waiting for the bombs to stop raining. His whole mind is occupied by this. Whenever she has a free moment, she scans her phone to find out what’s going on. Every “pee break,” every subway ride, every evening when she gets home from work, her eyes are glued to the news.
I ask him how his mental health is. She tells me that she is holding on because she wants to remain the dynamic and successful girl that her colleagues know. However, she is consumed by a terrible feeling of helplessness and a dull anger. She is tired, too, and she worries about her parents, who are even more upset and exhausted from dreading seeing one of their own die.
That doesn’t stop Rita from expressing her gratitude for the people around her here. Life, she says, must go on despite everything. Behind her, on the wall, I see a blackboard on which someone has written “October” and drawn a pumpkin in chalk. Just below, we see the list of household tasks: bathroom, vacuum cleaner, etc. I tell myself that it must seem very futile to him, this dust under the couch compared to that of the rubble which covers the beauties of his native country.
I close my computer thinking of the people around the world who, like Rita, will never again taste the wine, fruit or olive oil of their ancestral heritage because it has been ravaged by armed conflict .