My eyes widened as I stared at the screen, my cousin’s face glowing beneath the harsh light of my phone.
She had finally done it.
She was famous.
A headline.
A strange sense of recognition settled over me, heavy and full of emotion.
I had always known my cousin would be famous.
Wednesday February 11th 2026:
Saturday February 21st 2026:
Thursday February 26th 2026:
My heartbeat echoed in my ears as I walked toward my uncle’s car. Excitement tangled with fear as I wondered how my family would react. I had not seen them for years, not since I was a cheeky six-year-old, arm in arm with my cousin Raneem. We were only a few months apart in age and completely inseparable as children. The last time I visited my hometown of Beirut, we even matched our outfits.
Beirut.
A place where the ocean kisses the shore that I once ran along, waves crashing into Raneem and me, knocking us to the ground. Streets overflowing with sweet and savoury foods, their scents blending together in the air. Fresh bread mixed with spices so intoxicating they could pull you into a trance.
As the car rattled along the rocky road, I was struck by the beating heart of my country. Industry, residential towers and rubble meeting bare-footed children kicking around a makeshift soccer ball. Balconies spilling over with washing and limbs as aunties hustled the neighbours from their windows. Too many sharing a motorbike, navigating the minefield of cars communicating in beeps and honks in the way only the Lebanese can, both riot and harmony in a single snapshot. Mothers in the souq, browsing the abundance of vibrant vegetables and meats, deciding what to feed their family that night. The yeasty smell of fresh khebzeh wafted into the car, triggering my stomach’s violent gurgles. The old men, wearing their omisfanellah paired with checkered pyjama pants, passionately hitting the air with one hand, holding a cigarette in the other as they talk about politics, fresh hot Lebanese coffee on the side, and me watching in wonder, waiting for them to finish their monologue.
My eyes suddenly fixated on a looming mural that seemed to scream at me, its vibrant greens, reds and whites stretched across the canvas of a crumbling apartment building.
I whipped out my phone.
Click
My phone almost flew out of my hand as we hit the millionth pothole. Each bump made me grip the edge of the seat tighter. Out of habit, I searched for a seatbelt. My uncle laughed, turning to my parents.
“She’s been in Australia for too long.”
It is Lebanon, habibi.
Meaning no seatbelts.
Meaning you’re in God’s hands now.
We pulled up in front of my family's apartment building. My mum’s brother and his family lived in one small studio, while my grandparents lived right underneath us. I imagined waking to the sound of voices, children playing, and the comforting smell of strong Lebanese coffee brewing on the stove, cinnamon-infused tea simmering beside it.
My heart leapt.
The front door opened, and arms reached out, grabbing our luggage from us, others were pulling into the warmth of my mum’s family. Tears of joy streamed down our faces as voices filled the room.
“Alhamdulillah 3’ala Salamah.”
I made my way to my grandparents, seated in their armchairs. I bent down, kissed their hands, and pressed them to my forehead. Then I kissed them three times. Once on each cheek, and once on the forehead.
“Allah yer da’layki.”
I laughed through my tears. Making them happy while they were still here, walking and breathing beside me, meant everything.
I turned, and there she was.
Raneem.
Without thinking, I ran into her arms. We jumped, laughed, and held onto each other as if we could make up for all the years apart in one moment. The last time I had held her like this, I was six. This time, I didn’t let go so quickly.
She pulled me into her room, and we talked from Isha until Fajr. She told me about applying to the American University nearby, her voice full of hope. I told her about my plans back home. It felt like nothing had changed.
Over the next few weeks, her family took us around Lebanon. We visited museums, wandered through the ancient Roman ruins of Baalbek, and spent our evenings on the Corniche, drinking shisha. The food was unforgettable. Eating Lebanese food in your family’s home, in Lebanon itself, is something that can never be recreated anywhere else.
Everything felt complete.
Except for one place.
Manara Beach.
My toes pressed into the soft sand as I sat beside Raneem. The sun dipped slowly toward the horizon, spilling colour across the sky. Orange melted into pink, then into soft streaks of gold. The sea reflected it all, each wave catching the light before folding quietly onto the shore. Around us, the distant hum of the corniche faded into the background.
I lifted my phone, angling it toward the horizon.
“Wait, don’t move.”
The frame settled. The sky, the water, the stillness.
Click.
I lowered my phone and glanced at the photo before turning to her.
“What’s your dream?” I asked lightly.
She didn’t answer straight away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.
“I want to be a famous influencer,” she said.
I let out a small laugh and nudged her shoulder.
“Of course you do.”
But she didn’t laugh.
“I’m serious,” she said, turning to face me. Her voice was steady. Certain.
Something in her expression made me pause.
“One day,” she added quietly, “I’ll make headlines.”
The waves rolled in beside us, steady and endless, as the last light slipped beneath the sea.
Thursday March 1st 2026:
Before I knew it, the day came.
The day I had been avoiding.
It was time to leave.
I promised Raneem I would text her every day. That I would FaceTime her whenever I could. I kissed my grandparents’ hands one last time before walking down the stairs and stepping back into the car that would take me away.
Weeks passed, and I found myself longing to return.
I missed the streets of Tripoli. I missed eating tangy citrus booza on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I even missed the power cutting out unexpectedly and curling up with Raneem and Zena because we were “scared of the dark.”
I missed waking up to big breakfasts. Helping prepare dinner. Serving dessert to my uncles and grandparents, who always held a cigarette in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other.
Most of all, I missed the sunsets.
The stillness of the world. The sky painted in orange and pink.
I missed the feeling of being rich in laughter, in memories, in family.
I missed my family.
Once only a few steps away.
Now kilometres apart.
Two planes, to be exact.
Weeks passed, and I kept my promise to Raneem. I FaceTimed her whenever I could, and we would talk for hours until one of our mums called us away.
Saturday March 26th 2026:
I opened our chat out of habit, my thumb hovering over the call button before I stopped. The call history sat quietly above our messages. I scrolled up. One call. Then another. The dates grew further apart the higher I went.
February.
I paused, staring at it longer than I should have. My finger traced over the screen, as if it might change. It didn’t.
The last time we had spoken for hours, laughing until one of our mums called us away, was now buried under weeks of silence.
I opened Instagram, hoping to rekindle one of our conversations.
But one post stopped me.
It felt like it shouted at me from the screen, freezing me in place. A shiver ran through my body, settling deep in my bones.
I immediately flew to our chats, each tap on the screen feeling a moment too long, like in any second something could happen to Raneem.
Thursday April 9th 2026:
For days, my feed had been filled with posts about Lebanon. Videos of buildings collapsing, headlines flashing across the screen, stories I couldn’t bring myself to watch fully, but couldn’t ignore either. Each one lingered, replaying in my mind long after I put my phone down.
I tapped through a mutual’s story, one after the other. The same words appeared again. The same letters, arranged in the same way.
This time, I read them properly.
Each word, each syllable, echoed through my head. My heart sank. A wave of dizziness hit me, and suddenly my throat felt dry.
Without thinking, I opened my chat with Raneem.
I continued to refresh my social media until new words screamed across my screen.
One of the names stood out.
Beirut.
Another post appeared an hour later. Images of those martyred in Israel’s firebombing of Lebanon.
The world did not shatter.
It did not scream or collapse.
It simply stopped.
Silently.
My eyes drifted to the bottom of the page.
A photograph.
For a moment, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.
I recognised that photo. I had taken it on her balcony.
She wore a soft smile, her eyes glowing with joy.
Alive.
Still.
Untouched by everything that followed.
My legs gave way beneath me. My ears thumped loudly, drowning out everything else.
I stumbled toward my mum. She was sitting alone on the couch, her phone pressed to her ear, her other hand wiping at her face. I sank beside her, trying to meet her eyes.
She placed her hand gently on my head, patting it softly.
“She’s here. I think she’s seen it,” my mum said into the phone, her voice unsteady. It was probably my dad on the other end.
I wrapped my arms around her, holding on tightly.
Heavy with grief, she wiped the tears from my cheeks and her own.
“The only thing we are promised in this life, my love, is death. To God we belong, and to Him we will return,” she whispered, her voice trembling, before pulling me back into her arms.
I always knew my cousin would be famous.
But not as a headline I would read through tears.
****
This story may be fictional.
But Raneem’s death isn’t.
These people are not just names.
Not just numbers.
Not just headlines you scroll past.
They are someone’s Father, mother
Someone's sister, brother
Someone's Daughter, Son
Someone's Grandmother, Grandfather
Someone's Aunty, Uncle, Cousin
Someone's colleague
Someone's Friend…
… Their Best Friend
Someone who once wrote letters about their cat, their dreams, their future.
Now that you have seen them,
will you speak?
Now that you have seen them,
do you recognise their value?
Or will they remain as headlines,
Because once you have seen them,
Choosing silence is no longer ignorance.
It is a decision.
If you wish to show your support and donate, this is a link to Ausrelief’s Lebanon Emergency Appeal Project:
-