The neighbours in the building across the street have replaced the parquet floor on their roof garden with fresh new wood paneling. As a result, they've had to find a way to rid themselves of the old wood. Their solution? Burn it all. For a few nights in a row now, they've filled a barrel with the discarded parquet and burnt it. They've filled the night air with the sweet scent of forest and charcoal, a tribute to summer campfires and BBQs.

The photo above is very primitive, but one can make out the wood ablaze in the barrel, the neighbour responsible for the charred wood, and the plants in the glow of the green lights of the roof garden. I suspect their summer roof parties will commence very soon.

Summer in Lebanon has come swiftly and strongly. It descended on us like a pelican diving for fish in the ocean. Daily temperatures at 30℃ or higher, coupled with intense humidity, leave one glistening with sweat. Not very appetizing to the eye. Not appetizing to the glistening one either. I often get home, dripping, with no thought except to lie down and not move again till the sun has long set over the Mediterranean.

But in the midst of this humid and hot weather, I've found that the Lebanese truly revel in the summer season. It's almost like they say, "Summer, right! Who cares about the economy, politics, and rising petrol prices? Let's hit the beach!" And they do. Either that or they drive east and north into the mountains, to their family villages, and spend the day eating luscious Lebanese fruit and sharing the narguileh.

So, although I hate driving to the American university in the heat, I love watching everyone else going past me with summer smiles etched across their faces. It's enough to remind me that regardless of the conflict here, people like to enjoy themselves, and will always find a way to do so.

Soon, I hope, I'll be joining them.

Part of the Music Team at my church... Our team has dealt with a lot of goodbyes over the past few years. Every six months or so, we say farewell to another member. It feels like the whole structure of the Music Team is undergoing major change. This week we say goodbye to Lucile, and to her dad as well, who have given of their time and talent many a Sunday. As they return to France after 14 years in Lebanon, I find myself looking around, wondering who else will join, only to leave within a few years.

Such welcomes and farewells are common at my church, as common as the tide's movements. They are part of the burden of living on Earth. The bittersweet moments of parting with friends cut to the heart if not viewed through the eyes of hope - hope of heaven, hope of a world that grows smaller with each passing day, and even hope of advanced technology.

Scenes of Lebanon - two are typical, the third is not so ordinary.

Yesterday morning, they found Auntie Lydia's body. After three weeks of looking for her, we now know that she is at perfect rest, free of pain and suffering, where there is love, laughter, and joy. It was a horrible tragedy, but I'm thankful for the life that she lived.

My great aunt has gone missing. This is my paternal grandmother's youngest sister, the little old lady who married a Cypriot Armenian and lived her whole married life in Larnaca, Cyprus. Last week, her daughters put her in a nursing home in the capital city of Cyprus, and everything seemed to be alright... until Wednesday. Auntie Lydia walked out of the home, and hasn't been seen or heard from since then.

No one knows where this 80-something-year-old woman is. It seems the Cypriot police are not being aggressive enough in looking for her either. Perhaps they figure she's not that important, since it's the last days of her life anyway.

My gran is worried sick. She's probably imagining how she would feel if she were lost on the streets of a city, especially scary for Auntie Lydia, who shows early signs of dementia.

Where could she be?

Symbolic and realistic threats contribute to greater ingroup bias. I am living that right now.

Centuries of oppression on my people have left us clenching our identity, tight-fisted and stubborn – refusing to die. A thousand attacks on my people’s land, homes, welfare, and existence have forced us to will ourselves beyond the imaginable.

They shot us down, drove us out, pulled out our insides, and tore at our skin, and we walked on. Silently, at first, but with a growing cry of thunder, “We will not be damned”.

And now, with a few loose handshakes and an imminent contract into the EU on the margin, we are on the verge of losing what little is left. And I can’t stand to see it.

This cannot be the end. Not another massacre. Not another genocide to be denied for another century.