2 years. It took me two years in Cyprus to finally decide that, indeed, I will not return to living permanently in my country. Lebanon. Not anytime soon at least. Cyprus is all so familiar...the weather and geography, the history, that exquisite food, and above all, the history and politics.

Plus, it's still divided, unfortunately, just like my country was, physically, and still is socially, and politically, despite the physical barriers falling slowly but gradually. It’s almost a brushed up version of Lebanon. Beirut, the heart of Lebanon, was severed with a demarcation line (1975 –1990) that has mourned many dead, beheld last the fates of many - still - missing, shredded hundreds of neighbourhoods, separated families and communities, segregating them into pro-sovereignty Christians in east Beirut and Arab nationalist, pro-Palestinian Muslims in the west counterpart. There could be no choice, especially since “no voice is louder than the rumble of battle”, as the saying goes. And battles, numerous are those that tiny Mediterranean country has witnessed. Lebanon, was –and remains- the most appropriate territory for regional friction. A small strip of mostly coastal land. a political entity drawn overnight by the dwindling French colonialist regime. No rigid political system, unlike the rest of the Arab countries. 18 confessions, which don't really accept each other socially, religiously, nor politically. No unifying concept of nation-state. Leaking borders with the bigger sister, Syria, and a temporary sponge-like border with a dodgy southern neighbour, Israel...bottom line, a fertile land of dissent, easily accessible to any entity providing protection to estranged communities. War in Lebanon started, not only because of a regional context of conflict, but found root in historic inequality between communities. That lead to the creation of the infamous demarcation line, “khatt el tameis”, starting from the heart of downtown old Beirut, extending towards the road to the Bekaa valley, between the eastern and western mountain chains. This line was nowhere near idle. Several clashes took place from one of its sides to the other, kidnappings, deaths, sniper attacks, prostitute trips, shady deals, exchanges of prisoners, and in the occurrence, of human remains. The physical barrier composed of soil, rubble, bricks, and many other solid obstacles was lifted as Lebanese belligerents signed the Ta’ef (KSA) agreement. They agreed to divide that cake they all lusted for: power. Thus, a 15 year war ended in a couple of weeks. And the barriers removed. Never “seriously” spoken of. But that remained within every community’s collective memory, in the horror encrusted in every family’s plight of daily crossings by foot from East to West or the other way round, in the ever-dilated pupils of every individual who saw, heard, smelled, and touched the traumatizing realities of war. Death was the easiest of fates. Today’s Beirut is still “sharqiyyeh” (East) and “gharbiyyeh” (West). One of Beirut’s unwritten “histories” can be felt in bars all around it. Even there the versions differ. For the vibes of the Hamra (west) area with its landmark street are nowhere near those in Monot or Gemmayze. People are different. Few are venturing into both areas, but not the vast majority. For those ones, behind that thin glass screen, are still, to a certain extent, the others. The music displayed in nightly venues differs. The mood, the conversations and type of interactions. The paradox lies in that the western half of my city has eastern, Arabic cultural influences, while the eastern yearns for the west. A schizophrenic city, whose first half is always convinced the other will wipe it out at the first opportunity, so it keeps shredding itself into pieces. Nevertheless the ever-flourishing nightlife and cultural scene is one where most interaction happens continuously, but merely consists of a certain minority of the population. Another of Beirut’s unwritten histories is heard from the mouth of “service” cab drivers. Those are collective taxis, taking their full of passengers and driving upon determined “lines” of traffic. These lines often don’t cross that stubborn invisible barrier. - “Me, go to Sharqiyyeh!!! Never!! It’s a hassle I don’t need – besides, I can’t find many customers – it’s bad business”. That’s the most common reaction drivers have when asked to drop you on the other side of “the wall”. War residues still persist, due to the viciousness of the conflict(s) opposing the different confessions for long, heavy, sorrowful years. So I can say, Cyprus is lucky. Not that its dividing line persists, and still is a black scar on its map, no matter what colour they name it after. But because the friction between the 2 main communities on either sides of that “Green” have had less vicious exchanges of warring ‘opinions’. Less blood on either hands. Less loose ends. I have still hope that this small lovely island will be able to, as we say in Arabic, use “both its hands to clap”. So maybe, just maybe, there will still be a glimpse of hope for my country too.