I live in Sidon, and Sidon lives in me — for more than fifty years now.

My office today stands just a few dozen meters from Shakriyeh Gate, from the wall that once enclosed the eastern side of the Old City, stretching from the Upper Gate — near the land castle — to the Lower Gate by the sea, with Shakriyeh Gate in between.

My office is also only a few hundred meters from the house where that young boy once stayed — the boy I was — at the beginning of the 1961–1962 school year, preparing for the primary certificate. Whenever the weight of sectarian tension feels heavy, and whenever I find the chance, I leave my desk and let my feet carry me uphill, through the Street Quarter, from Shakriyeh Gate to the old Frères School.

The aroma of falafel — Akkawi’s (25 piasters a sandwich) and Abu Hassan Badi’s (15 piasters) — the Basat Bookshop, Munir Basat’s sweets factory with its halva and Turkish delight. These steps lead to where Talal once lived. In front of that cellar, the young boy would steal glances — and scents — of the pastry maker in his apron, piping white cream onto rows of brown cakes set in wooden molds.

Here was Francis’s house from Tanbourit; there the entrance to the tavern. At this corner stood Jawhar’s home; on those stairs you first climbed to the apartment your brother Mohammad and fellow students from nearby villages rented — your refuge away from family. Through that door, in your second year, you moved into a room at “Um George’s.” A few steps before the stairs leading to the land castle, you turn right — Abdullah Soufan’s shop. From that balcony, students from Adloun and Ansariyeh would call out to you.

You pass through Zoueiteini and on to Rijal al-Arbaeen, overlooking the vast blue sea. There lies Bahr Iskandar, the Potters’ Quarter, and here Joura al-Jamal — where you nearly drowned while first learning to swim.

From Rijal al-Arbaeen to Zahr al-Mir Square, to al-Maqasid School and the Great Omari Mosque, then to al-Maslabiyeh. To the right: Al-Hamra Cinema and the passage to Al-Nadi Al-Ma’ni, in the golden age of volleyball. To the left: Al-Ambir Cinema and the Kanaan Quarter. A few steps more — the stairs of Al-Qzzaz Café. At the top, to the right, the fava-bean shop of Abu Adel. The tall Akkawi man in his white cloak would greet you proudly, carrying his oil flask, boasting that Haj Amin al-Husseini once dined at his restaurant in Acre.

You reach Bab al-Saray Square — the square of gatherings, speeches, and demonstrations. From there to the markets: the carpenters’ market, the butchers’ market, the upholsterers’ market, the fabric market, the shoemakers’ market; to the Qishla and the Lower Gate. Passing along the towering western wall of Khan al-Franj, the Sea of Eid opens before you — the port, the sea castle, and the island.

You awaken from your dream.

Sidon carried me in my youth, along with my generation, who came from across the South to attend its primary and secondary schools, and the Teachers’ Training Institute, throughout the 1960s. Sidon was then a miniature Lebanon — almost a Rahbani village in spirit. They came from Bint Jbeil, Nabatieh, Tyre, Jbaa, Iqlim al-Tuffah, Iqlim al-Kharroub, from countless villages and towns — and they settled here.

Sidon embraced us in its modest yet spacious and warm homes. We were barely out of our mothers’ arms, between twelve and twenty years old. It guided us through its covered alleys — crossing, branching, intertwining — easing the fatigue of youth with pathways that concealed more than they revealed, allowing us to wander its neighborhoods several times a day without tiring.

Sidon gathered us in its schools: Al-Maqasid, the Frères, the Sisters’ School, the Evangelical School; in the boys’ and girls’ intermediate schools; in the Zaatari Secondary School; in Dar al-Mu’allimin and Dar al-Mu’allimat. It gathered us in the Great Omari Mosque and the Hussainiya, in the Orthodox Church near the carpenters’ market, the Catholic Church on Bishop Street, and the Maronite Church on Riad al-Solh Street. It introduced us to cinema from the balconies and halls of Al-Hamra, Al-Ambir, Hilton, Shahrazad, Rivoli, and Capitol.

They tell me the city has moved elsewhere. Why don’t you move your office? Why don’t you follow the city? Time plays its game. After forty years, life returned me to the closest point to where I first arrived in Sidon — and I have never been able to leave.

I ask myself: am I closer to the Sidon of the 1960s than to any other time?

Sidon is our tent.
Sidon is our memory.

Hussein Harb, Notary Public