Creative Writing

Every year my family and the members from our Lebanese culture, come together to celebrate sharing a meal before Lent arrives. I’ve never really understood why we do it or the history behind it. I just know that every year I have to go whether I want to or not. I’ve always tried to be a part of the group, supporting my father’s love of this event. All the men are joined together through their connection with Lebanese politics. Over the years it has become harder for me and my sister to feel a part of this event. Each year we go, trying to be supportive of our family and each other.

There was one day that was harder than usual. We remember the date clearly - February 3, 2013. As per usual, we had to leave the house early to collect supplies for this event. As we were waiting in the car, my sister and I tried to plan how we could get out of it. I couldn’t say I was sick because mum would just give me panadol and tell me to get over it. We were desperately hoping there would be a family emergency but as we sat in the car we knew that it wouldn’t happen. We both silently cursed our teachers who always gave us homework, except for this weekend when we really needed it as an excuse to stay home. The trip seemed to pass really quickly. Why is it when you don’t want to get somewhere there is no traffic on the roads? Everything was going against us and that wasn’t fair.

As soon as we arrived at the “party,” Mum said, “Get up and go check with the mothers to see if they needed help with cutting bread rolls or preparing salads.” About half an hour later the men bought raw meat and small bowls of lettuce to enjoy for breakfast. They had also bought Krispy crème donuts and my brothers, sisters and I went to have some and enjoy them. That was the best thing that had happened that morning.

A couple hours later, lunchtime had come around, and my mum had apparently been looking everywhere for my sister and I to come and join her in the Lebanese traditional dance called the...