Robert

Every corner of Kfour holds a memory: My grandparents built the house I grew up in, just in front of the church. I love the chinaberry tree in front of the church. Sometimes I walk past a shop, and I remember my uncle sitting on a bench there. I remember my father on our farmland; where we used to sit, where we had breakfast together. 

I have such love for the land here, and for the people. The village is strongly connected, and people care for one another. 

My mother and I stayed there for 13 days. Those of us who remained in Kfour stuck together. We spent those days and nights together. We were all scared, constantly analysing the situation, but also trying to keep each other calm so we could keep going. 

I have five cows, and feeding them became dangerous because the fodder-seller was not close to home. Between 6am and 9am, there were no drones in the sky, and the shelling and rocket fire would usually calm down. So those of us who stayed arranged for the seller to open for just an hour or so in the morning. That way, we could go, buy what we needed, and get back home quickly.

On the road to the seller was destruction. Buildings destroyed. It was terrifying. Every time I drove by an area that had just been bombed, or even just a building, I was scared. I thought, “What if they target a building and I’m hit too?” I never thought I was safe, even though I am a Christian. Nobody was spared.

Things went on like that until a missile struck the village, bringing down an entire three-storey building. It was my wife’s cousin’s home. The church was damaged too. After that, I decided to go. I couldn’t even get fodder for the cows anymore, and my mother was starting to weaken, both physically and mentally. 

No one can live under the stress and anxiety of war for that long. There were constant vibrations, windows rattling, metal shaking… missiles coming and going, planes flying overhead non-stop.

Once we decided to leave again, I had to find someone who could take care of our cows. It was difficult, but eventually I found a farm where I could rent a place for them.

I asked my wife and kids what they wanted me to bring them. At first, they couldn’t answer, with all the stress and emotions. But later they asked for specific things, like a t-shirt or a special item they cared about. 

I brought a watch from my father that I wore on my wrist, and another that he gave me when he was in the hospital. It means a lot to me. In my father’s final moments, he took it off and placed it on my wrist.

I loaded my pickup truck with everything the children had asked for, and basic necessities. Given that I had a big family, that added up to a lot. The cows filled the rest of the truck; I had them squeezed side by side, with their calves tucked underneath them. And on top of all that, there were my mother’s things: olive oil, olives she had preserved, honey, homemade preserved cheese. 

I would have taken everything with me… I wanted to take the village, to take the south. But I had to leave so much behind, including our cat Bunny and dog Rocky. When Rocky saw me packing our things, it was really difficult. I left Rocky, our dog, loose from the house because I was afraid he’d be trapped under the house if there was a bombing. He followed me until the last exit. I tried to tell him to go home. I promised I would come back for him. It was heartbreaking.

When I left the cows, they were confused and lost, not knowing where their usual spot to eat or drink was. Animals have feelings too, and they were impacted by the war.

We stayed at my brother-in-law’s place in Ain Saadeh for only two nights, but with such a big family I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone.

We found an empty apartment above a shop my brother owns in Dekwaneh, just north of Beirut. It wasn’t furnished, but we weren’t expecting a five-star hotel. There are lots of things that were different from life in our village. In Beirut, the tap water smells like diesel, and it feels greasy when you’re taking a shower. Plus, the neighbours looked at us like we were from another planet. In the village, we know everyone. 

These are little things in comparison to how much other people suffered, but sometimes I would get fed up. With so many people, it took forever to get a chance at a shower. Once, I had to get out with shampoo still in my hair. It had been about a week, and that’s when I had enough. I said to everyone, “pack your things, because we’re leaving!”

It wasn’t about the shampoo, it was the build-up of so many things. I exploded.

My wife’s cousin doesn’t live in Lebanon, and she had already told us we could stay at her house in Araya. It had been empty for two years. The area is in Mount Lebanon, and it looks like a village; surrounded by nature. When we got there in mid-October, I went straight to the municipality, where they registered our names as displaced. It’s not easy to be called that word: “displaced”.

The people there were so kind. There’s a huge difference between living in a city and in a village. We discovered beautiful people and got to know the communities around us. They were mostly Druze, and we are Christian. I didn’t know anything about what their villages were like, or their customs or traditions. Their villages look a lot like ours. They treated others with such kindness and openness.

When we left, we were teary, and so were they. The butcher, the vegetable seller, the supermarket owner, the municipality, even the head of the municipal council; we are still in touch.

We drove back on the day of the ceasefire. When we got to the south, I just wanted to open the window and smell the air of the south. But I was also crippled by fear. I didn’t know what had happened to my friends and their homes. We lost contact. I knew our house was ok, but I didn’t know about the rest of the village.

At first, I just wanted to check on all the people we hadn’t heard from. After what happened, so many martyrs, everyone was filled with frustration. Nobody was smiling. We were grateful that our house was still standing. Only some windows and doors had been broken. 

When we arrived at home, I whistled for Rocky. He eventually came and his head was burned, from his eyes up to the top of his skull. For a week after we returned, if he saw me getting in the car, he’d come and sit next to me. He was scared I’d leave him behind again. We found Bunny too, two doors down.

The reality within my community now is that none of us truly feel safe. We are living in an atmosphere of constant unease. We are fully aware that everything could change in an instant. The warplanes and drones are still flying overhead, targeting as they please. And there is terrible grief.

Things have changed, and since the war I’ve been thinking about buying an apartment in Beirut. I love my village, and I hate the idea of living in it. But something inside me keeps saying: my children' s future matters more. I don’t want them to go through war after war, like I have. I have been through other wars, but this time the fear was greater: We saw what happened to Gaza, and thought it could happen to us.

But I want to be here in Kfour. People who don’t know anything in the south may imagine we are living in hell. But it’s not like that. It’s paradise because we choose to be here. I could have packed my things and left for good. But I chose to come back and adapt. Yes, we were affected by material things; we were affected by so many changes. But my spirit, my way of relating to my friends in the village, was never touched.