On Writing We Walked On by Thérèse Soukar Chehade

On April 13, 1975, the sky above Beirut erupted with bombs and machine gun fire, marking the beginning of the Lebanese civil war. Within weeks, the city divided into two warring camps, a division that would last for fifteen long years. I was twelve. My life changed forever. 

A year into the war, Beirut was de facto partitioned into East and West. Religion dictated where you could go. I questioned the line of the party that ruled my sector, but the banding together, combined with the banning of dissident literature in a country that was once known for its freedom of expression, gave a distorted view of the conflict. Only when I moved to the United States in 1983 and started reading about the war did I understand the full story.

My first novel, Loom, is about an immigrant family living in rural Vermont. It describes the difficulties of establishing roots in a new country, as well as the enduring legacy of the past. I knew I’d eventually write about the war that upended my life and sent me into exile. In a way, We Walked On continues that story, exploring why people leave their home countries in the first place. 

The title came first, a vision of people walking away from violence. Hisham, a thirty-year-old Arabic teacher at a Catholic school, and Rita, his fourteen-year-old student, came next, bonded by their love of literature. 

I spent a year researching and taking notes before I wrote the first draft. With no official account of the war, I sifted through conflicting stories, seeking to include them in the novel to show the country’s diverse struggles, creating a cohesive narrative to make sense of the upheaval. It was crucial to include the historical context of Lebanon’s modern borders, established by colonial powers after World War I. I aimed to dispel the myth that violence is inherent to the region, showing instead that is it a direct product of historical processes. 

It was important to vividly capture the sense of place, bring the Lebanon of my memories back to life on the page and foreshadow the loss to come. Yet, as I wrote, it became clear that my memories of pre-war Beirut, especially West Beirut, where I hadn’t been since the start of the war, were hazy. Over the years, I had visited the country infrequently. The pain and fear were still too intense. When my immediate family moved to Canada, my trips all but stopped. 

To revive my memories, I turned to old YouTube videos, maps, and conversations with people old enough to remember pre-war Beirut. These efforts, though helpful, were insufficient to fully recreate the city’s vibrant life. I returned to Beirut one summer, re-exploring the streets of my youth and documenting my impressions. Despite the country’s dramatic changes, it was one of the happiest times of my life. Walking around what I still mentally referred to as West Beirut (the city had been reunited by then), I recalled all the times I spent at the beach and cafés with my family before the war. There I was again, strolling down the section of Beirut that had once been declared enemy territory, piecing together from familiar landmarks the fragments of my past. 

Describing life during wartime posed a significant challenge. Could a language that was intact and restricted by conventions convey the experience of huddling in bomb shelters, wondering whether you would make it out alive? Could I express the horror without fracturing the language into a thousand pieces to mirror the devastation? I opted for a mostly chronological tale, interspersed with several chapters that stood out as distinct points in time, exploring alternative understandings.

The novel’s structure was clear from the start. A “before” section depicted normalcy before the collapse, with mounting tension foreshadowing the war. The prologue, comprising two disembodied voices emanating from a single consciousness, encapsulated the novel’s thematic drive—resisting conflict through memory and imagination, and asserting life by pushing the war into the margins. The war section is the longest, followed by a coda that traces the characters into their present lives. 

We Walked On took a long time to write.  It does not claim to represent the entire Lebanese experience but offers a glimpse into a small community’s ordeal. My goal was to write from the margins, highlighting how war impacts ordinary people and the moral compromises it forces upon even the most ethical individuals. Little did I know that it would be released during the current turmoil in the Mashreq. Although the players have changed, Lebanon faces many of the same issues it did almost half a century ago. Yet, unlike before, the Lebanese today recognize their pluralism as a strength, resisting divisive tactics. The solidarity they display offers hope, even as they navigate the ongoing destruction and suffering. Understanding the region’s history and cultures, and acknowledging its people’s humanity, is essential for achieving the peace and prosperity this beautiful area deserves.

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Thérèse Soukar Chehade, author of Loom, has spent the last two decades teaching English Language Learners at a public school in Amherst, MA. She lives in Granby, MA, where the autumn foliage still fills her heart with gladness. Her novel We Walked On, was published by Regal House in the fall of 2024.

WE WALKED ON

Set during the early years of Lebanon’s fifteen-year civil war, We Walked On immerses readers in the landscape of war, weaving political unrest into everyday life. With Hisham, a thirty-year-old Arabic teacher, and Rita, his fourteen-year-old student, Chehade has created two richly drawn characters who counter violence with the redemptive power of books and human connection and find authentic hope in untenable circumstances. We Walked On is a timely novel that examines the power of war to pervert our moral sense and asks if peace is ever possible in an unjust world.

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Category: On Writing