Sereen Sarhan’s family have lived in Ireland since the 1980s, when her father Abed fled Lebanon during the Israeli occupation. In 1986, he and his brother Ali opened The Cedar Tree restaurant on St. Andrew’s St. in Dublin. They moved back to Lebanon at the turn of the century, and lived there for a few years – until Israel launched another invasion, forcing them, once again, to flee to Ireland. They’ve remained here ever since, returning to their extended family during the summers. In recent weeks, Israel has once again launched vicious attacks and airstrikes against what is primarily an Arab country, which borders Palestine. So far, close to 3,000 people have been killed and 1,200,000 displaced.

Nearly 4,000 km to the west, Sereen Sarhan and her family wake up every morning to scour the news and social media for updates on their loved ones in Lebanon, having to watch, in horror, as war is brutally expanded in their homeland. Here, Sereen discusses the beauty of Lebanon, fostered by warm childhood memories, and how Israel’s campaign of mass destruction poses a profound threat to the country’s future.

– Caroline Kelly

Sereen’s Story:

I was born in Ireland in 1998. I have an older sister who was born in 1996 and another sister who was born in 2007. All three of us were born in Ireland and have pretty much lived here our entire lives. My older sister and I lived in Lebanon for a few years, and then we moved back in 2006 when Israel invaded the south.

We could hear all of the bombs – it was so loud at night – and even smell the smoke from them. One time they came close. My older sister and I tried to sleep in our room, but we were so scared and couldn’t stop crying, so my uncle’s wife came in and helped us get to sleep and calm down. My mom, dad, sister and I moved back to Ireland quite soon after that night.

Since my parents have citizenship, and my sister and I were Irish-born citizens, we were allowed to leave Lebanon through Syria. It was awful leaving my entire family behind.

Sereen Sarhan and Caroline Kelly. Copyright Miguel Ruiz.

Our family house is a pile of rubble now...

We try to check up on them as much as possible, but no news is good news. I constantly watch the news and try to stay updated on social media. Everyday I wonder the same things: Where did Israel bomb this time? Was it close to our family?

My grandparents recently fled to Romania and have been living there for a couple of months now. My uncle works and lives in Romania, so he was able to bring them over safely. About a month ago, their house was hit by a bomb and was completely destroyed. It’s not the first time their house got hit. The first time, many years ago, the bomb didn’t go off – it just went straight through the kitchen window and hit the fence.

But the second time, it actually went off and destroyed everything. That was my mother’s childhood home, and my childhood home during the time we lived in Lebanon. It’s all a pile of rubble now. Everything is gone. All of the memories, photos, clothes. Gone. The olive trees and walnut trees. Gone. All of it.

I have so many memories of Lebanon. My aunt, cousins and I used to go to the market in Nabatieh all the time. We’d walk through my grandmother’s grove of olive trees as a shortcut and end up in the marketplace. We’d get sweets and eat them in the sun afterwards. That market was completely demolished a few days ago; it had been there for centuries. My dad’s family home is around that area, and I’m pretty sure that’s gone, too.

I hope the photographs survived

My cousins and I used to play all sorts of games around that house, then we’d take naps on the couches while the sun warmed our skin. We were often woken up by the smell of a barbeque outside while our dads grilled all sorts of food. My grandmother loved to sit in the sun and crack the olives she’d just harvested for pickling. She’d send my grandad over to the neighbour’s house to get fresh yoghurt, because the neighbours had a cow. There was a huge table, about two metres wide, to accommodate all of the food that was cooked throughout the day: fresh tomatoes the size of my fist, pickled olives, a huge pot of food, grilled meats. I can remember how the sun glistened through the grapevines while our parents chatted during the meal.

The last time I was in Lebanon was in June for my cousin’s wedding. Israel began to hit the south around that time. I stayed with my uncle in Beirut and it was so nice seeing everyone. I managed to get back home to the south because my cousins were still staying there. We could hear bombs in the distance; for a brief moment, everything would shake and the echo of explosions filled the air, before returning to normal. I also managed to check on my dad’s family house to make sure everything was okay. Looking back, it feels like a missed opportunity, because I had the chance to get our family photos. I hope, at the very least, that those photographs survived.

Why won’t they help us?

The first thing I do every morning go on my phone and check the news to see what is happening back home. My uncle is a cosmetic surgeon, but he’s at the hospital every day helping people who have been seriously injured. I’m worried for his life all the time. I called my cousin, his daughter, and she kept crying on the phone. She’s so worried because she can’t do anything to get her parents out. They won’t leave because they want to help. She won’t leave them behind.

Her mom, my uncle’s wife, is a dermatologist and has been helping people get their prescriptions no matter what health issues the people have. My cousin tells me that sometimes they all go out for a walk to see some of the destruction. But it’s not too close to where they are, so they are okay right now.

It makes me feel choked up to even talk about it. It’s so difficult to wake up every morning. Some days, I have no interest in going to work. Every time I go for a smoke break during my shift, I try to see what’s going on and keep tabs on everyone in Lebanon. I find it incredibly hard to put on a smile and be happy. I don’t really see my friends anymore, because I’m not in the mood for socialising.

I feel like I’m putting on a facade and pretending everything’s okay, when it’s not. I feel so guilty. It doesn’t feel right to grab a coffee with friends or go for dinner and a movie. I don’t want to talk about trivial things. I don’t want to talk about what they are doing to the roads or how much the government spent on a bike shed. I don’t care.

My family is deeply affected by this. My dad stays up all night. He’s been trying to get into this habit of sleeping early and it’s impossible. He’ll sit there watching the news until five in the morning, checking in to make sure his siblings are okay. He’s so tired. The first thing my mother does every morning is put on the news.

I constantly check social media to see what’s happening: how many people have died? Are they going to try to stop it? Will the UN do something? Is Ireland going to do anything? Are they gonna try to help the families of their citizens, or will they pretend it’s too difficult when they helped the Ukrainians just a couple years ago? Why won’t they help us?

Sereen Sarhan. Copyright Miguel Ruiz.

My uncle is completely alone...

I have very little faith in the government. I usually tell my family, friends and people abroad that I think of Lebanon and Ireland as equal homes to me. They both hold such a special place in my heart, and it’s painful seeing one side being completely destroyed while the other side doesn’t try to help. I still hold Ireland – its people and the community – in such a high regard, but I’m hurt. In the simplest way, it feels like I’ve been stabbed in the back. They say they care and want to help, but it feels like they’re lying to my face.

I hope the Irish government will finally enact the Occupied Territories Bill and place more trade sanctions on Israel. They need to give more support to the Lebanese community that lives in Ireland. We pay our taxes. We pay our bills. We support the community. We’ve been here for years. My sister and I were born here. We consider ourselves Irish as much as we would consider ourselves Lebanese.

It doesn’t make sense that we’re being ignored like this and not getting the right support. I wish I could at least bring some of my cousins over. They are incredibly competent in their jobs, and would be of great value to the Irish community. I would love to safely bring my uncle, who worked and studied in Ireland, here. He doesn’t have a wife or children; he’s completely alone. I’m so scared for him.

I wish there was a way to keep my family in Lebanon safe with the advantage of me being an Irish citizen. But it’s so difficult. It was so hard for my cousin Shadhi to bring his wife over. I don’t know if the Irish government will make it any easier for us, because they consider the Middle East a constantly war-torn area. It’s painful to see them trying their best to bring over the Ukrainians – whom my heart goes out to – but then they do nothing to help us and our families. I don’t think they see how hypocritical they’re being right now.

We have a similar shared trauma

In the nicest way possible, it’s due to racism. I don’t think I’ve ever felt discriminated against in Ireland, until this past year. It wasn’t until recently that I’ve actually felt the weight of the colour of my skin. There are so many people that don’t know the severity of the trauma I’ve suffered – and my story is just one out of so many. So many people in Lebanon are completely displaced and moving all of their stuff every night. There are so many people who want to leave but do not have the resources to do so.

Ever since October 7, we’ve been waking up watching the news, and going to sleep watching the news. Something my dad and I always say is that the Lebanese people are Palestinian people, and the Palestinian people are Lebanese people. Our cultures are so intertwined, and we have a similar shared trauma. We haven’t had to go through as much as they are currently enduring. But every time Palestine is hurt, we get hurt too. I don’t think Lebanon will ever be the same as it was until Palestine is free.

• In conversation with Caroline Kelly