A quiet afternoon in a village café, where stories are shared over cards and coffee. The walls, worn with time, hold echoes of generations.
I am Lebanese, but I left Lebanon in 1987. Since then, my relationship with my birthplace has become unusual—both distant and deeply rooted. Whenever I do visit, it’s not the cities that capture my heart, but the little villages. Besides the sea, which I love, it’s always these villages that hold me.
They retain a character so unique, a kind of quiet magic. There’s a rhythm to life there, a slow and steady pulse that feels timeless. Everyone knows everyone else, and the moment you step into one of these villages and say hello, you’re met with warmth and curiosity. The first thing they ask is where you’re from, and soon enough they start tracing your family tree, connecting dots until they find someone who knows someone who knows you. It amazes me every time.
What also fascinates me is the language—the accents. These villages are nestled close together in the mountains of northern Lebanon, where I come from. You can drive just five minutes to reach the next village, and yet the accent shifts completely. I find that incredible, a real mystery: how can people live so close, in such a small country—one of the tiniest in the region—and yet sound so different?
It’s not just the accents. Every village has its own unique ways of cooking, of making olive oil, distilling Arak, mixing Zaatar, of preparing cheese, and their own beloved dishes that mark your identity, your belonging. These traditions, these tiny cultural signatures, define you as someone from this village or that one.
That’s the charm I miss.
3 responses to “The Magic of the Lebanese Village~”
And the people can tell where others come from, by their accent. “Ah! You’re from … My uncle knew your grandfather…”
Wonderful.
(Do you still have your accent?)
My accent creeps up in conversations here and there😂
Good. Don’t lose it ever…😉