Tomorrow Is A Better Day
At the psychiatrist’s small clinic, I sit and wait for my turn. The uncomfortable chair, the loud action movie playing on the TV, and the sound of crying babies coming from the clinic next door all make me more anxious. I close my eyes and try to regulate my breathing. Inhale … exhale.
I can feel my racing heart beating throughout my body. I open my eyes to the sound of a door being opened. “Come in, Salam.” I summon all my energy and walk in. Yalla, the time for thinking is over, and now it’s time for talking.
Where do I start? How can I organize thoughts that are running faster than my heartbeat? Yalla, tell the psychiatrist that you’ve left the job that you love because you can no longer focus and feel that you’re intellectually crippled. It’s not a big deal!
Fear, anxiety, and sorrow controlled my life in the first few months of 2021. My life had finally become the sweet life I wanted for myself, but things changed after the Port of Beirut explosion. My hope for change stemming from the protests I took part in was destroyed by the economic crash, and I lost the love that emanated from my social circle after the three closest friends to my heart immigrated because of the situation in Lebanon. My house became empty, my mind became muddled, and my heart lost its ability to love.
After the psychiatrist listened to my long-winded answers to his simple questions for an hour, it became apparent to him that I may have a mood disorder. He chose not to be haste with his diagnosis; he wanted to monitor my response to mood stabilizers in the upcoming months. Yet, he saw the symptoms were obvious, there was no doubt about them. The king of which was depression. How? And more importantly, why?
There’s a sentence the psychiatrist said in a later visit. It keeps ringing in my ears as if I’m hearing it for the first time: “a mood disorder is not strange for someone who experienced physical and psychological abuse while growing up, and it can, in your case, bubble up as recurrent depression”.
Hold on, what? I don’t understand. Am I stuck in a loop? So the harm of unjust patriarchal authority from which I’m supposed to have been freed years ago, which wasn’t even something I had any control over, will continue to cause me trouble that I have no control over either?
I felt thrown back into the trench that I left seven years ago. The song Bint El Khandaq by Mashrou’ Leila started playing in my head; I was reunited with “the feeling of estrangement I was born into”, and my fear of “sleeping for years only to wake up as my father’s girl still” was not misplaced.
Mashrou’ Leila, a one-night project, has lived with me through days and nights of loneliness throughout my last bout of depression that cleared up seven years ago. Ironically, I didn’t know when it started, and at the time, I didn’t know what it was called. All I knew is that the voices in my head had gotten much louder, and I could no longer quiet them down. But I must know! I must understand what’s happening to me.
Here, the many existential questions unfolded one after the other, like “who am I?”, and “why am I here?”. From that, I called my depression an existential crisis. And here, I started the journey of self-reflection that made me face my painful experiences.
The oppressive family system I lived in my whole childhood took away my simplest personal choices. It made me live in constant fear inside the home that was supposed to be a safe space. The psychological terror made me feel like I was being punished every day just because I was a girl. It programmed my brain to feel sadness, self-blame, and guilt. It aimed to convince me that I didn’t deserve to be happy.
At the same time, societal norms dictated how I should talk, how I should dress, and how to live. It gave me my ideals, my beliefs, and my political opinions without explaining why. Here, take them.
In short, everyone around me decided who I am, what I want doesn’t matter anyway. These people want me to get used to something that is not normal, and they have succeeded in convincing my mother that she must live with the violence for the sake of her daughters. Is it “my sake” to watch my mother die every day, and live through it just for me? Oh, my sake is crying in the corner…
There was nothing I could do besides remaining prepared to intervene in times of distress. Most of the time, I just tried to escape my thoughts and the voices in my head. I couldn’t express my feelings and I was convinced nobody could understand them anyway.
I found an escape in music and used it to regulate my mood, but Mashrou’ Leila’s music had a completely different effect, and I fell in love with it. The band’s lead singer, Hamed Sinno -yes the person who looks and sounds different- gave me hope that there were people like me and that I wasn’t alone in the trench. Their songs became a way for me to breathe; my language for expression, and my tool for resistance. Seriously, I’m not even exaggerating.
Every time I felt down, the song Wa Nueid gave me strength. It taught me to say no, and it answered the question “who am I?” for me; I’m the angry and rebellious against everything that society perceives as normal. I’m the revolution against violence, and the thorn in my abuser’s eye. I’m the warrior, my voice is my weapon of choice, and I will continue to tell my story about domestic violence and mental health. It’s enough for me that people like me know they’re not alone, and that there are people out there who understand their struggles until we can all say “We’re still standing, we’re still steadfast, and we’ll do this over and over again.”
When my mother received the divorce papers, of course after a painful journey, we tasted freedom for the first time: my mother, my three sisters, and I. I was eighteen at the time.
Perhaps the thing that made me sense this freedom most of all was the many concerts I attended. Want to guess which concert was my first? No, I’m joking, the episode title makes it obvious. I went to all of Mashrou’ Leila’s concerts in Lebanon, the band and their fans were my second family. A group of people who accepted others from all backgrounds, even if we didn’t know anything about one another; we created a safe space for everyone to express their identity. I hope the band members understand how, with their music, they were able to make people like me feel safe.
I tried to express my gratitude to them once. At the signing of their album Ibn El Leil in Beirut in 2015, I gave Hamed Sinno my ring, engraved with the words “Love doesn’t fall”. Upon my insistence, he took the ring, and I left him alone afterward. I just wanted him to smile, for all the times that his words made me happy.
I was finally able to go out of the house to recharge some energy and joy before reality caught up with me. My family is one of the lucky ones, we escaped alive. But many women and children are overpowered by societal, financial, religious, and political circumstances.
And even then, we still had to face psychological terrorizing, such as my father’s attempts to discredit us, harassing us where we work and study, threatening to get in the way of our education, and more, there isn’t enough time to count them all. That’s besides abusing his job and social standing to control our lives, but despite everything, we’re still standing.
My sister Doja is an activist and defender of rights, my sister Rana is good at everything she does, and my sister Waad shows a whole other dimension of excellence. My gorgeous mother Leila, whose name is the first reason I like Mashrou’ Leila, remains the best mother in the world. She would never take back all her sacrifices for us, and despite all that happened, she continues to love and give with all her heart. We’ve been through a lot together, and survived it all together. Without our love for one another, our wounds wouldn’t have healed.
Although I studied psychology at university, my love for the Arabic language drove me toward writing, translation, and editing. I started doing what I loved every day, and I met some of my best friends at my workplace.
One day, in a Facebook post, Hamed Sinno asked for an editor’s help to review the lyrics of a song written in Fusha (Standard Arabic), and some of our mutual friends recommended me. I still remember how excited I was to be part of the journey of one of their songs. Even before I knew anything about it, I was sure I’ll love it, and it’ll mean a lot to me.
When I read the lyrics of the song, which I later found was called Maalik (Cavalry), I understood just how the band members were struggling both personally and artistically.
After they were prevented from performing two concerts in Jordan in 2015 and 2016, all hell broke loose after their concert in Egypt in 2017; there was no accusation or stigmatization that mainstream media channels didn’t use to destroy their image, even though all that happened was that someone flew the rainbow flag.
Some people at the concert felt safe for a moment, and expressed their queer identity, in defense of love in all its forms, but they were robbed of all safety for the rest of their lives. They endured physical and emotional abuse in prison. The same abuse that took Sarah Hegazi’s life.
It’s understandable for the band members to feel guilty about the struggles of the queer community at the hands of the regressive nature of the Arab community, even though it’s not their fault. Queerness is not a trend that Mashrou’ Leila started or advertised, and the goal of their songs was never to desecrate sacred beliefs or worship the devil, or any other bigoted excuse that justified oppression.
In all their interviews, the band members always left the interpretation of their songs up to their audience, and they never forced their personal experiences on us. Hamed even refused to explain the song Bint El Khandaq to me when I asked him at the album signing, and he said that art is personal, and the receiver is free to interpret it as they wish.
After a few weeks, my friend and I, who was also a friend of Hamed’s, saw him at a shop in front of our place of work, and my friend introduced me to him as the girl he spoke to on Facebook who helped him with the song lyrics.
Hamed gave me his headphones and played the song Maalik on his phone. A small coincidence made me hear a new song by my favorite band before it was released. It made me very happy, and what made me even happier is that it turned out to be a strong message in the face of oppression, and the video was a tribute to the resistance in Palestine, and all other human rights issues.
I was very excited to hear it live and sing it at their 2019 concert in Byblos, but a new wave of threats had arisen, from Lebanon this time, and the band chose not to risk the safety of their fans and canceled the concert. Many people who bought tickets got their money back, but I didn’t; I kept my ticket as a memory. I had a feeling that after Maalik, it was going to be the last Mashrou’ Leila concert in the Arab region.
The band has since then split, and a part of me still awaits the last concert.
Life in Lebanon is … strange. I don’t know how else to describe it, it’s unique. In 2019, the situation deteriorated, yet again, so we took to the streets. It wasn’t the first time we participate in protests and marches, but this time was different; it was a true revolution. We wanted justice for everyone without exception. The chants and music brought us together. My favorite part was the feeling of trust among strangers, that the person next to you had your back, even if all they could do was give you an onion if you smelled the teargas.
Of course, we were met with oppression, threats, intimidation, and discredit. The political factions that were bankrolled by foreign powers accused us of being affiliated with foreign powers. Oh, the irony!
As a response, protestors used the slogan “I’m the revolution’s leader”. Indeed, every one of us was the leader of their own revolution, their voice was loud and clear. I remember writing on a wall in Beirut’s downtown, “Hamed Sinno is bankrolling the revolution”. His words awakened a sense of revolution in us. It made me feel that my voice against oppression has value, and I mustn’t lower it for anyone.
After the Port of Beirut explosion, we lost a lot, and we were broken. There was no safety anymore because the danger could now reach inside our homes, and we lost all hope for anything. We now breathe disappointment in Beirut, which keeps crashing worse than the Lira. Many people like me have survivor’s guilt, and so the discourse about mental health has become more important than ever. Some of us took part in initiatives to clean and rebuild houses, some of us got angry and protested, and some of us felt powerless. Every person has their way of dealing with a traumatic event; fight, flight, or freeze.
At the time, someone told me there are Arabs who sleep to the sound of bombing every night, trying to remind me how good I have it. Comparing someone’s suffering to that of others is not a fruitful way to console them; it only makes them feel guilty because they’re unhappy, and it invalidates their feelings.
Many others like me only want someone to listen to and support us whether we’re unhappy or depressed, without conditions, unsolicited advice, or reprimanding.
Everyone has their own life and lived experiences, and sometimes we forget that. We expect others to deal with their emotions the same way we do; that’s one of the reasons I hesitated to tell people about my depression. I isolated myself from everything and lived in my bubble.
To me, depression is the loss of hope and sense of belonging, and at the same time, it’s the journey of restoring them. It is a filthy trench, from which we get out as a new version of ourselves, we rise anew. It can teach us a lot about ourselves, but we do get out.
Please seek help when you need it. It’s a sign of strength, not weakness. Learn to feel and appreciate your feelings, even the painful ones. Without sadness, there can be no joy.
And most importantly, forgive yourself. This is what I remind myself of when I feel defeated. Music helps me a lot; it brightens my days and helps me patiently bind my time, for tomorrow is a better day.
Mashrou’ Leila, thank you for the hope.
