I live in a small house in Beirut, tucked beneath the stubborn shade of Ailanthus trees — those invasive, uninvited guests that grow wherever they want, just like everything else in this city. My building is only three stories high, yet it carries a strange kind of pride, as if it’s determined to rise above the noise, the fumes, and the daily improvisations that define our lives.
Electricity visits us for three hours a day, like a moody relative who shows up when they feel like it. Water is something we chase — sometimes literally — piecing together our days around pumps, tanks, and hopeful timing. And somehow, in the middle of this beautiful dysfunction, we still manage to thrive.
Maybe the shine comes from the work I do, or maybe from the sheer resilience of learning to grow in the narrowest spaces. Beirut doesn’t offer comfort; it offers character. And beneath those Ailanthus trees, between cracked walls and fleeting currents of light, I’ve learned to call this imperfect place home.