Five minutes ago, I discovered that Isaac Choua is not only someone preserving Lebanese Jewish memory. He is Rabbi Isaac Choua, a rabbinic adviser and board member of the Sephardic Brotherhood of America.
The timing genuinely made me laugh.
Earlier today, I went to buy a shawarma and shish taouk. While standing there, I found myself thinking, very sincerely: “I need a rabbi. Some parts of what I am trying to do have gone beyond my knowledge and reach.”
Then, only hours later, I opened Instagram and found what felt like a love letter from Rabbi Isaac to Lebanon:
“To my beloved Lebanon and its people:
Our destinies are intertwined. Though I was born in Brooklyn because the Lebanese Civil War drove my family from Lebanon in the 1970s, my heart belongs to Lebanon. My connection is more than heritage; it is a living memory passed down through my family.
Our roots run deep, from Deir El Qamar to Beirut. Even without setting foot on your soil, I, like many Lebanese abroad, know the ache of el-ghorbe, and cherish the nostalgia of what you were and what you could be.”
Love letter
I stopped and laughed to myself because life has an unusual sense of timing.
Isaac was born in Brooklyn because war pushed his family out of Lebanon. I was born in southern France because war shaped my family’s life too. I later came to Lebanon, connected with almost no one, felt bound to almost nothing, hated practically everyone, and eventually left because of another war.
Yet here I am, almost thirty years later, digitizing the South.
Preserving its stories. Recovering names. Rebuilding fragments of memory. Creating a place for histories that were neglected, forgotten, displaced, or deliberately erased.
I spent years believing that I had left Lebanon behind. Apparently, Lebanon had other plans.
There is also something deeply personal about Deir El Qamar. It carries a first-class nostalgia for me, the kind I will probably never explain completely on the internet. The Lebanese internet is already overcrowded with Cringe Ministers, professional storytellers, and people competing to establish who possesses the most dramatic connection to every village.
I kid you not, I could be standing inside Walmart and some random Lebanese man would approach me and immediately invent an ancestral story involving Deir El Qamar, three political leaders, a hidden family palace, and a grandfather who apparently advised the entire Middle East.
So I will spare everyone my own mythology.
But the connection is there, and I cannot ignore it.
There is another reason I felt that I needed a rabbi.
I cannot work with Jewish history, Jewish memory, sacred places, or anything connected to Judaism without approaching it with spiritual purity. For me, this is non-negotiable. It is not about appearances, performance, or proving something to an audience. It is a private obligation between God and me.
I may present myself as a powerful person. I may speak as though nothing frightens me and no obstacle can stop me. But everyone has a limit. Mine appears when I enter territory that requires religious knowledge, responsibility, and guidance beyond what I possess.
Some things should not be improvised.
Some histories deserve more than enthusiasm.
Some doors should be opened with the right person beside you.
And apparently, on the exact day I admitted to myself that I sincerely needed a rabbi, Instagram delivered Rabbi Isaac Choua and his letter to Lebanon.
Coincidence? Perhaps.
But I have learned not to dismiss timing too quickly.
So, Rabbi Isaac…
WhatsApp?
Shall we expand this initiative from Sidon and the South to Deir El Qamar?
And, pardon my Lebanese tongue, shall we نبعبص كل مين شكّ فينا?
Shall we prove every person who doubted us wrong?
Rabbie Choua pretending to read a newspaper behind a 19th century feminist picture