Written September 16, 2024, on a flight home from Beirut. Published March 2026.

I wrote this somewhere over the Atlantic, still carrying the weight of two weeks in Lebanon in my chest. As a Lebanese-American photographer, I have spent my whole life holding two worlds at once. I wasn’t sure when I would share this, or whether I even could.

Now, as I watch the news and see Israel bombing Lebanon again, I know it’s time. Because silence feels like a betrayal of every person, every street, and every memory that made me who I am.

This is my love letter to Lebanon. Written before the bombs fell again. Shared now, because Lebanon deserves to be seen as more than a headline.

The Summers That Shaped Me

I was six years old the first time I set foot in Lebanon.

Wide-eyed and buzzing with excitement, I was ready to meet both sets of grandparents and spend an entire summer in the mountains with my mother’s family. My grandparents’ summer home in Dhour Cheuir became my favorite place in the world almost instantly. It was the kind of place where love lived in every corner and joy was something you could feel in the air.

Each summer started the same way: my grandfather renting us bikes. Each evening ended the same way: him running behind us as we pedaled toward cotton candy stands. Their home sat on family land, where each of my grandfather’s siblings had been given a piece, but only he and one sister chose to build. That choice meant my summers were full of cousins’ laughter, cherry and apple trees to climb, and a garden that felt like its own little universe.

Those summers are a big part of why I became a photographer. They taught me that the quiet, in-between moments, the ones that feel too small to photograph, are actually the ones most worth preserving.

Growing Up as a Lebanese-American Photographer

Being Lebanese-American wasn’t always magical.

Growing up, I felt constantly caught in between. Too American for my Lebanese relatives, yet too foreign for my classmates. I spoke French with an American accent. Arabic never came easily to me. Because of all of this, I carried that quiet ache of feeling half-complete for most of my childhood.

When we moved to Maryland, things got harder still. I was in fifth grade when September 11 unfolded. Within weeks, my classmates discovered I was Lebanese, and the whispers started. Terrorist. I was ten years old, and my heart shattered. Because to me, Lebanon wasn’t scary. Lebanon was the safest, most beautiful place I had ever known.

That experience lives inside everything I do today as a Baltimore photographer and storyteller. The belief that every person, every identity, and every love story deserves to be seen fully and celebrated without condition. Inclusivity isn’t just a value I list on my website. It is something I carry in my bones.

Going Back

That’s why returning after so many years away felt both necessary and terrifying. As a Lebanese-American photographer, going back wasn’t just a personal trip. It was a reckoning.

My last visit had been in 2015, when my grandfather was hospitalized and later passed away. Since then, I had watched Lebanon from a distance: the devastating port explosion in 2020, which moved me to launch Charleston for Beirut to raise funds and resources. Then came the political turmoil, followed by the heartbreaking economic collapse. Still, something deep inside me knew it was time to go back. So I cleared my calendar, booked the ticket, and trusted that pull.

What I Found There as a Lebanese-American Photographer

The Lebanon I saw over those two weeks wasn’t the Lebanon of my childhood summers.

Poverty and homelessness met me everywhere I looked. Children as young as four were begging on the streets, while families were surviving on salaries of no more than $800 a month, what once was considered middle class. Although I had followed the headlines for years, seeing it up close broke me open in a way that words barely cover. Many nights, I came back to my grandparents’ home and cried.

And yet, amid all of it, I felt something undeniable: Lebanon is still love.

It is resilience. Moreover, it is the reason I believe so deeply in the power of community. It is why I carry my heritage proudly even when it feels heavy. As a photographer based in Baltimore, Maryland, serving wedding couples and brands across Maryland, DC, Virginia, and Charleston, I am always chasing that same truth I first learned in a Lebanese mountain garden: that real moments, honestly captured, are the ones that last forever.

Lebanon, I See You

Now, as I sit with the news of bombs falling again on the country that raised part of my soul, I feel that same shattering I felt at ten years old. As a Lebanese-American photographer, I have always believed that images have the power to make people care. This time, however, I know exactly what is being destroyed. I have walked those streets and breathed that air. The people sheltering in fear right now are the same resilient, warm, generous people who fed me, loved me, and shaped me into who I am.

Lebanon has already survived so much: the civil war, the port explosion, and an economic collapse that gutted an entire middle class overnight. Yet every time I have witnessed Lebanon broken, I have also witnessed Lebanon rise.

I have to believe it will again.

This trip reminded me that the world can change in an instant. Because of that, we have to hold our people tighter, speak love out loud, and extend kindness whenever and wherever we can.

Lebanon, this is my love letter to you. For the summers you gave me, for the lessons you continue to teach me, and for the children running through mountain gardens who deserve to grow up in peace. Above all, thank you for the reminder that even in brokenness, there is breathtaking, stubborn, undefeatable beauty.

If You Want to Help, Here Is Where to Start

Lebanese Red Cross provides emergency medical and humanitarian aid on the ground right now. You can donate directly at redcross.org.lb

Live Love Beirut is a grassroots Lebanese organization that channels support directly to communities in need. Learn more and give at livelove.org

Additionally, sharing this post, talking about Lebanon, and refusing to look away are all acts of love. Thank you for witnessing this with me.

I’m Jen El-Haddad, founder of Jennifer Mary Collective, a photography studio specializing in weddings, elopements, brand photography, and visual storytelling for entrepreneurs. As a Lebanese-American photographer based in Baltimore, Maryland, I serve couples and businesses across Maryland, DC, Virginia, Charleston, and destination locations worldwide. If you believe your story deserves to be told beautifully and authentically, I would love to connect.

Elevated Stories, Vibrantly Told.