I frantically combed through images of the dead as Israeli Occupation Forces relentlessly bombed Lebanon. I examined children's toothless, carefree smiles, and the family photos taken in front of the mountains or the sea.
At first, I cried every time I saw a photo of someone whose life was claimed by Israel. The numbers kept rising. I grew numb. I would stare blankly at images of entire families wiped off the Earth and feel the pit in my stomach expand slightly. Often, my friends and I shared Megaphone News videos profiling those who have been killed in airstrikes.
According to the Lebanese Ministry of Health, as of Dec. 6, 4,100 people in Lebanon have been murdered by Israel since Oct. 8, 2023. One of them was Ibrahim Fawaz, the owner of a cozy Beirut bookstore.
On Nov. 23, at 4 a.m., while we were all sleeping, Israel bombed the densely populated Basta neighborhood, more specifically Bourj Abou Haidar. They used so-called “bunker buster” bombs that obliterated several residential buildings and killed 30 people. I jolted awake when I heard that sound thinking the world was being gutted from the inside out, like someone coring an apple. The ground shook for several seconds afterward, and I shivered listening to the roar of jets overhead. It is unlikely that I will ever forget that sound as long as I live.
The day after, while sitting on the couch with my mother, she received the news from our neighbor that Ibrahim — the man who owned a bookstore across from my home in Ras Beirut — had been killed in the Basta al Fawqa strike. Before I knew what was happening, I burst into tears. I hadn’t cried in over two months, but suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Ibrahim was gone.
Fifty-five years ago, Ibrahim and his brother — originally from Tebnine, in the South of Lebanon — opened their small but mighty bookstore, al-Maktaba al-Saghira (المكتبة الصغيرة, Arabic for the little bookstore). They carried international magazines, lottery tickets, and Arabic books. The bookstore endured trials and tribulations, wars, invasions, bombardments, and severe economic crises. And yet, it survived and allowed Ibrahim to raise and educate five incredible children: Ghassan, Hassan, Malak, Hanaa, and Mohammad.
Ibrahim Fawaz and his son Hassan. Photo courtesy of Ibrahim's family.
I’ve known Ibrahim since I was eight. He is known as Abou Ghassan by the community or Jeddo Bob by his grandchildren. I used to wait for my school bus in front of the little bookstore and buy Twix chocolate from him. I saw him almost every day and grew up listening to him open his bookstore. He knew my grandfather well. He recently told me a touching story of how my grandfather got him a telephone for the store when telephones first began to be used en masse. Jeddo and Ibrahim had a special bond, one that spanned a lifetime.
My Teta Hiam and mother May have known Ibrahim their entire lives. When Teta learned of his death, her face crumpled. She told me she only recently had a conversation with him while buying her cigarettes from his shop. They had laughed together about some joke or another. When both Teta and Ibrahim had gotten too old to be going up and down stairs — and when the electricity crisis in Beirut had gotten dire — he set up a basket and wire so that he could deliver cigarettes to my Teta, without her having to make the journey down five flights of stairs. He was thoughtful and innovative in that way.
Snippets from inside al-Maktaba al-Saghira (The Little Bookstore) taken by the author while Ibrahim's son, Hassan, cleared out the bookstore. Image courtesy of author.
My mother told me, “Ibrahim was a permanent fixture in our neighborhood. All the stores have changed around us, and he was the only permanence. Every day, for decades, he delivered three newspapers to Teta and Jeddo. He knew Jeddo wanted to read each one from cover to cover before heading to work. He was one of the last connections to Jeddo that Teta had. I waved to him on the day he died. I wish I had known that would be the last time I would see him.”
Writing about Ibrahim’s life has been painful. But connecting with his family and learning about his life has been cathartic. It has given me a mission: making sure that no one ever forgets who Ibrahim Fawaz was.
His daughter-in-law Rana told me, “Some people do random acts of kindness. 3amo (uncle) did continuous acts of kindness to random people, without expecting anything in return. In 30 years, he has never [gotten angry with] me. He was gentle and soft. His smile filled and lit up every room that he entered.” She continued: “From this small bookstore, he created a family that spread its wings all over the world. And he was very proud of his family.”
Judy, one of Hassan and Rana’s daughters wrote, “My grandfather, Jeddo, was a man of habits and gentleness. He went to bed at 6 p.m. and woke up around 3 a.m. In the calm of dawn, he would pray, prepare for his day, and sit on the balcony to cut fruit while everyone else still slept. Then, he would head off to work at his small bookstore, al-Maktaba al-Saghira — his refuge, his haven of peace.”
She continued, “Jeddo [Ibrahim] showed his love through the simplest, yet most beautiful gestures. Since we were children, he would look at us with that tender smile and always ask, ‘Beddik bonboné ya Jeddo?’’(Do you want candy, Jeddo**?’) I still remember the time I told him I loved a brand of biscuits called Dabke. The next time I saw him, he brought me an entire box. That was Jeddo — he listened, he remembered, and he brought joy, expecting nothing in return.”
The stories go on. I was lucky to meet Hassan, Ibrahim’s second son, in person, at his father’s bookstore. Hassan reminisced about his father while sitting in the chair that his father sat in for most of his life. He was surrounded by extended family members of Ibrahim, as well as Ibrahim’s neighborhood friends. He describes Ibrahim’s commitment to the bookstore as being “the joy of his life.”
Ibrahim's son, Hassan, at the bookstore after his father's death. Image courtesy of author.
“It was never about work — he genuinely enjoyed every day at his bookstore. He used to spend an entire day on his feet on days when lottery tickets were sold, and he would tell me those were his best days.” He also described his father’s dedication to tradition. “He always went to Tebnine for Eid and read the فَاتِحَةِ at Hassan’s grandfather and grandmother's graves. Every Eid Futr, when the whole family was together, they would go with him to the graveyard. Although Ibrahim’s father died when he was just six months old, he honored him in this way his whole life. He repeatedly told Hassan: ‘Get your children used to honoring the dead so that they honor you when you’re gone as well.’”
And so we honor you, Ibrahim, as you taught your son. What can I say about such heartbreak? I pray that your death was quick. I hope you didn’t feel any pain.
When I close my eyes, I think of his smiling face when he greeted me in the morning. I remember the day Rania and I made* a photograph in front of his bookstore. I remember him telling me about his childhood in the South of Lebanon. I think of the wonderful family that he leaves behind, and his wife Leila, whom he fell in love with at first sight in Tebnine decades ago.
Ruwan and Ibrahim, Beirut, Lebanon. Photo by©️ Rania Matar 2024
The story goes that he encountered her and her sisters farming tobacco. When she looked up at him from working the land, he fell in love instantly. He asked for her hand in marriage shortly after, and they lived together in the same apartment building in Bourj Abou Haidar for their entire marriage.
I know that he’s at peace now, smiling over us and keeping us safe.
Wedding photograph of Ibrahim and his wife Leila. Photo courtesy of Ibrahim's family.
His granddaughter, Zyna — Rana and Hassan’s daughter — shared with me a beautiful tribute to her Jeddo. Her words, written originally in French and translated below, are deeply moving:
“Do you want some candy, Jeddo?” This is the phrase my grandfather would say to me at every visit, until my last visit when I was 18. Today I am 20. Having lived abroad for almost all my life, it has been two years since I last saw him.
On Saturday, Nov. 23, I woke up startled to my mother saying “They hit el Basta at 4 in the morning. Your grandmother is in the hospital. We can’t find your grandfather.” Since the balcony was demolished, and knowing that my Jeddo Bob is a routine-oriented person who makes his breakfast to go to work at that hour, one thing was certain. My grandfather is dead. My grandfather was killed.
Injustice overtook me before sadness. As I calmed down, I remembered what he used to say when I worried about him during the war, when I begged him to come live with us in France. He would reply that his house is his home, and the land is his. That if he were to die, he would die at home, on his soil.
My Jeddo had a second home; his bookstore al-Maktaba al-Saghira (The Little Bookstore). But this bookstore is anything but small. At the age of 86, the community he made there gave him the strength to live. Everyone who bought books, candy, chocolates, and newspapers and played the lottery there can testify to his kindness, his generosity, and his goodness.
He opened this bookstore the day my father was born, 55 years ago. Despite not having gone beyond elementary school, my grandfather managed to educate his five children thanks to this bookstore. For him, education was very important. He was proud of me, my sister, and my cousins for all that we have accomplished academically. We hope to continue making him proud.
Jeddo, I want to tell you that I love you. If only I could kiss and hug you one last time. It pains me greatly that the Lebanon that I will return to will be a Lebanon without you.
Photograph of a young Ibrahim on a Vespa, courtesy of his family.
