Lokman Slim’s Mother to Asharq Al-Awsat: Sorrow Is My Constant Companion

A mourner, left, looks at a monument of Lokman Slim during a memorial service to pay tribute to the slain Lebanese political activist in the southern suburb of Beirut, Lebanon, Thursday, Feb. 11, 2021. (AP)
A mourner, left, looks at a monument of Lokman Slim during a memorial service to pay tribute to the slain Lebanese political activist in the southern suburb of Beirut, Lebanon, Thursday, Feb. 11, 2021. (AP)
TT

Lokman Slim’s Mother to Asharq Al-Awsat: Sorrow Is My Constant Companion

A mourner, left, looks at a monument of Lokman Slim during a memorial service to pay tribute to the slain Lebanese political activist in the southern suburb of Beirut, Lebanon, Thursday, Feb. 11, 2021. (AP)
A mourner, left, looks at a monument of Lokman Slim during a memorial service to pay tribute to the slain Lebanese political activist in the southern suburb of Beirut, Lebanon, Thursday, Feb. 11, 2021. (AP)

No feelings of animosity and vengeance are harbored towards the killers of Shiite political activist Lokman Slim.

His mother, Salma Mershak has refused to move out of her house in Beirut’s southern suburbs of Dahieh, a Hezbollah stronghold. Many in Lebanon have accused the party of assassinating Slim two years ago.

Mershak is a Lebanese-Egyptian-Syrian writer. Her father is Syrian and mother Lebanese and she lived in Egypt for a time.

She only has words to ease the pain of her son’s loss.

“The pain of a parent’s loss of a child cannot be healed in days and years. It differs from the pain of losing a parent,” she told Asharq Al-Awsat.

She added that sorrow has become her constant companion and will remain with her until the day she dies.

Mershak lamented that the judiciary has failed in uncovering her son’s killers. She has also expressed her dismay in the dire state of affairs in the judiciary overall.

“The law does not have the final say, rather the killer, who portrays himself as the hero, does,” she stated.

“What sort of barbarity is this?!” she wondered incredulously.

She recalled a time when her late husband Mohsen Slim won a lawsuit against the Lebanese government back in the 1940s.

“The independent judiciary that existed back then no longer stands today,” she lamented.

Asked if she knows who her son’s killers are, Mershak replied: “Those who possess the weapons know. My weapons are words and ideas. I don’t know who killed him and can’t make any accusations, because I may harm myself and my family if I do.”

She could find no reason why Lokman was killed, except that he was “honest and spoke the truth.”

On how he would describe the dire state of affairs in Lebanon today if he were alive, she said: “He would have been extremely sad because the country is like a person who is standing on top of a mountain and hurtling towards the abyss.”



Lebanon's Public Schools Reopen amid War and Displacement

Children playing in a shelter center for displaced people in the town of Marwaniyah in South Lebanon (AP)
Children playing in a shelter center for displaced people in the town of Marwaniyah in South Lebanon (AP)
TT

Lebanon's Public Schools Reopen amid War and Displacement

Children playing in a shelter center for displaced people in the town of Marwaniyah in South Lebanon (AP)
Children playing in a shelter center for displaced people in the town of Marwaniyah in South Lebanon (AP)

In the quiet seaside town of Amchit, 45 minutes north of Beirut, public schools are finally in session again, alongside tens of thousands of internally displaced people who have made some of them a makeshift shelter.

As Israeli strikes on Lebanon escalated in September, hundreds of schools in Lebanon were either destroyed or closed due to damage or security concerns, according to the United Nations Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (OCHA).

Of around 1,250 public schools in Lebanon, 505 schools have also been turned into temporary shelters for some of the 840,000 people internally displaced by the conflict, according to the Lebanese education ministry.

Last month, the ministry started a phased reopening, allowing 175,000 students - 38,000 of whom are displaced - to return to a learning environment that is still far from normal, Reuters reported.

At Amchit Secondary Public School, which now has 300 enrolled students and expects more as displaced families keep arriving, the once-familiar spaces have transformed to accommodate new realities.

Two-and-a-half months ago, the school was chosen as a shelter, school director Antoine Abdallah Zakhia said.

Today, laundry hangs from classroom windows, cars fill the playground that was once a bustling area, and hallways that used to echo with laughter now serve as resting areas for families seeking refuge.

Fadia Yahfoufi, a displaced woman living temporarily at the school, expressed gratitude mixed with longing.

"Of course, we wish to go back to our homes. No one feels comfortable except at home," she said.

Zeina Shukr, another displaced mother, voiced her concerns for her children's education.

"This year has been unfair. Some children are studying while others aren't. Either everyone studies, or the school year should be postponed," she said.

- EDUCATION WON'T STOP

OCHA said the phased plan to resume classes will enrol 175,000 students, including 38,000 displaced children, across 350 public schools not used as shelters.

"The educational process is one of the aspects of resistance to the aggression Lebanon is facing," Education Minister Abbas Halabi told Reuters

Halabi said the decision to resume the academic year was difficult as many displaced students and teachers were not psychologically prepared to return to school.

In an adjacent building at Amchit Secondary Public School, teachers and students are adjusting to a compressed three-day week, with seven class periods each day to maximize learning time.

Nour Kozhaya, a 16-year-old Amchit resident, remains optimistic. "Lebanon is at war, but education won't stop. We will continue to pursue our dreams," she said.

Teachers are adapting to the challenging conditions.

"Everyone is mentally exhausted ... after all this war is on all of us," Patrick Sakr, a 38-year-old physics teacher, said.

For Ahmad Ali Hajj Hassan, a displaced 17-year-old from the Bekaa region, the three-day school week presents a challenge, but not a deterrent.

"These are the conditions. We can study despite them," he said.