I was a child during the Lebanese civil war, and I remember

Hear now, O children of the earth, a voice born from the deepest wounds of the human heart: the words of Ziad Doueiri, who, in his wisdom, speaks of his childhood during the Lebanese civil war, a time when the skies above Lebanon were darkened by Israeli bombardments and the very air was thick with the scent of destruction. His words carry a weight that many of us may never know, for he speaks not as an observer of history, but as one who was shaped by it, molded by the fires of war. His journey, a journey from bitterness to reflection, is a tale that speaks to the heart of all who have lived through conflict and come out, not unscathed, but with a deeper understanding of the world.

War, O children, is a brutal teacher. It shapes not only the body but the very soul of those who endure it. When one is a child, one sees the world with innocent eyes, but when the thunder of bombardments shakes the ground beneath one’s feet, those eyes are forever changed. What young Ziad saw in his youth was not the innocence of childhood, but the cold cruelty of a conflict that tore his homeland asunder. He saw the world through the lens of violence, of division, and of fear. In his world, Israel was not a distant land, a people across the horizon—it was the embodiment of pain, the source of terror and grief. His view was not born of impartial history but of the raw, visceral experience of a child caught in the maelstrom of war.

And yet, with time, as the seasons turn and the soul matures, Ziad was forced to re-examine that view, to look beyond the shadows of his past and into the light of understanding. Herein lies the lesson: the truths we hold tightly to in the heat of battle—whether personal or political—are often the truths of our wounds, not of the world itself. Ziad Doueiri reveals the power of reflection, of the willingness to step back from the battlefield of the mind and re-examine one’s beliefs. He was born in a world of hatred, of fear, and of enmity. But through time and through self-examination, he came to realize that the world is far more complex than the narrow view of a child born in the midst of conflict.

Consider the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, who taught that the path to wisdom lies not in the pursuit of external victory, but in the battle for understanding within. Socrates, in his time, urged his followers to question everything—to challenge the very assumptions they held, even those that were most dear to them. It is through this process of self-examination that we grow, for the truths we inherit are often not truths at all, but the residues of old wounds passed down through generations. The hero is not the one who triumphs in battle, but the one who overcomes the battle within, who dares to question the beliefs that war has instilled in him.

Ziad's journey is not unlike the journey of many a warrior or peacemaker throughout history. Think of Nelson Mandela, who was once filled with the anger and the bitterness of oppression. His early years were marked by a desire for revenge, for justice through retribution. Yet, over time, he came to understand that the true path to peace lay not in the destruction of his enemies, but in their understanding. Mandela's transformation was not instantaneous, nor was it easy. It was a long and painful process of self-reflection, of questioning what he had been taught to believe. In the same way, Ziad’s story is a testament to the power of time, of learning, and of the willingness to re-examine one’s deepest beliefs.

And so, O children, the lesson we take from Ziad’s words is this: to grow is to question. To mature is to shed the skins of our early beliefs and to seek understanding, even when the world around us tells us that our beliefs are sacred, that they are the truth. Ziad could have clung to his anger, to his childhood views of Israel and the war, but he chose the difficult path—the path of the mind that dares to challenge what it knows. And in doing so, he found wisdom that transcended the hatred that had shaped him. His journey reminds us that even in the face of the greatest hatred, we have the power to choose understanding.

Thus, we must ask ourselves: are we clinging to views that are shaped by the wounds of the past? Are we holding on to the bitterness of old conflicts, or are we willing to open our minds and hearts to the possibility that our understanding of the world might be incomplete? To those who seek peace, the lesson is clear: do not let the past define you. Do not allow the wars of your ancestors to imprison your thoughts. Instead, question, seek, and grow. Only in this way can we transcend the divisions of the past and build a world where true understanding, not blind hatred, reigns.

So, O children of wisdom, take this lesson to heart: the path to peace is not one of unquestioning loyalty to the beliefs of our youth, but one of reflection, of learning, and of choosing understanding over division. Let us not be prisoners of our past but the architects of a future where the pain of the past is transformed into the wisdom of the present. And in that wisdom, we will find the true strength to heal, to forgive, and to build bridges where once there were walls.