The images of utter destruction remind Lebanese-Americans of the Lebanon of the 1980’s, long before the Taif Accord and the liberation of southern Lebanon. Buildings freshly decimated by Israeli air strikes sit next to those just reconstructed, while the new generation of Lebanese is enduring what typified their parents’ narrative: war and the myriad of fears and emotions that follow.

I returned to Beirut in the summer of 2004 and was warmly welcomed by a world-class airport, well paved roads, neatly manicured walkways, and luxuriously refurbished downtown. Beirut was resurrected, as was the spirit of the people, who assembled in the vibrant city squares, the coast’s lush beaches and thriving cosmopolitan streets. This was hardly the portrait of the city etched in my mind which my family and I fled in 1988.

From America, I was often revisited by images that defined the city we left: tattered, homeless children selling Chicklets gum on the streets; an elderly man with no legs, tied to a skateboard inconspicuously rolling down Verdan Avenue; the co-mingled smell of za’tar and munitions smoke in the streets. I also recall packing to leave our home, and bidding farewell to family and friends, and asking my mother: “Why are we leaving, and why can’t they come with us?”

Age compromised my ability to answer those questions then, but today, this war brings to the fore the many taboos and complexities that Lebanese Americans must deal with: guilt, fear, anger, a ripened divide, and a suspended existence between our daily routine and our emotional volatility.

Lebanon, on July 17, 2006, is looking more like the Lebanon of 1988, the one we fled because it was “no longer safe and suitable for any American.” However, is it safe and suitable for the millions of Lebanese who are not Americans, and have no avenue to flee death and destruction?

The answer is surely in the negative.

As I write, the U.S. State Department plans to evacuate the approximately 25,000 Americans and provide them with temporary solace and eminent refuge. For them, there is escape and an option to live on. As these Lebanese Americans sit shoulder to shoulder in small protection quarters with family who cannot leave, how many of them appreciate that this may be the last time they touch, see and speak to these loved ones after they evacuate?

A good friend of mine, Abdel-Rahman, who I liken to somewhat of a revolutionary because of his insistence on returning to Beirut to help with its progress after being educated in the United States, wrote to me July 14, “Last night, I was being awakened by Israeli bombs coming from the sea and the sky above.” I thought to call him as I read his words, hoping that what he heard from the sea and sky the following night would merely awaken him again, and not more. I dialed his number several times, each attempt failing to receive an answer.

From afar, a diaspora’s perspective on war is colored by not only a concern for ones left behind and nostalgic memory, but an elusive romance for home. As a result, it has become part of the Lebanese narrative to exceptionalize their plight without viewing it within the greater context of global, even regional, crises. This is in part a natural reaction to still unraveling disaster, as in the case of the events in Lebanon. Before engaging the political dimensions of crisis, we often fear for the well-being of loved ones, our people and our country, while ignoring the preceding and simultaneous incursions into Gaza.

Yet, it is those situated directly within the crisis who often have the clearest perspective. With missiles above and destruction abound, Abdel-Rahman wrote: “The people of Lebanon are paying the price [of resistance] in terms of human lives, but I don’t know any history books that described a liberation movement in any part of the world without a cost. People in Lebanon keep on saying ‘why do we Lebanese have to pay the price?’ as if we are the only people in the world suffering.”

Although my intellect agrees wholeheartedly, I struggle from afar, like most Lebanese Americans who fled years ago, in finding a way in sharing in that cost, or helping mitigate that price.

The Arab community in the metropolitan Detroit area, home to the United States’ most concentrated grouping, has a rich history in political activism and dissent, particularly when related to events in the Middle East. Dearborn, adjacent to Detroit, is heavily populated by Lebanese, earning the unofficial monikers of “Lebanese Town” among Detroiters, and the “Arab Capital of North America.” East Dearborn’s busiest commercial district boasts several Lebanese restaurants, grocery stores which sells good shipped directly from Lebanon, and delectable dessert shops serving the finest kanafa and halawa. Just recently, the doors of the first Arab American National Museum, commemorating the narratives, achievements and culture of Arab America, were opened. For these Lebanese in particular, and the Diaspora at large, East Dearborn is ultimately a paradox: a transplant of home in America while also a ubiquitous reminder that it is not home.

Sitting in Shatila on Warren Avenue, a popular dessert shop and social center, it is commonplace to overhear conversations about the homeland while sitting over a hot plate of kanafa, each sweet bite met by a sour tale of longing for home.

The humanitarian crisis in Lebanon intersects with a very dynamic moment in the history of Arabs in America at large, including Lebanese Americans. Tumult in various corners of the Middle East intersects with the tumult of civil liberties for Arab Americans, which handicaps free political speech and activity. For Lebanese in America, our struggles are more varied than ever before: the external struggles with profiling and the even more trying internal, existential struggles that were triggered since we first left.

Until one struggle on either front is resolved, we will sit in front of our televisions and talk amongst our friends and family about war, concern for our loved ones, and the fond and painful memories of home.

Khaled A. Beydoun is a lawyer for the ACLU of Michigan. He was raised in metro-Detroit, Arab America’s most concentrated community, and now lives in Detroit. He has family all over Lebanon, and is from Bint Jbeil.