Local woman recounts evacuation from Beirut

Editor's note: Sally Farhat is the editor of the upcoming edition of Northwest Best Places and a former reporting intern at The Seattle Times. She was visiting family in Beirut before her evacuation began Thursday and ended Monday with her arrival in Seattle. This is her first-person account.

Growing up with Lebanese immigrant parents in Lake City, Lebanon was always a part of our daily talk, our food and our lives. Mom and Dad, who became U.S. citizens early on, taught me, my brother and sister to be grateful for living in the best country in the world.

And we were, especially as we watched the bombs destroy Beirut — and paralyze my aunt's legs — in the 1980s. My father, who came to Seattle in 1970, often flew the American flag in front of our house.

Now, I understand why.

Thanks to the efforts of the United States government, I am safely back home, an ocean away from the thundering sound of bombs and the sudden sight of panicked people running in streets. Sadly, my aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents are stuck in Lebanon, so my homecoming, after four days of long lines, of being herded from boats to buses to planes with nearly no sleep, is bittersweet.

I had visited Lebanon before, but this summer was going to be different. I couldn't wait to get to know my family better and to attend a journalism conference.

And until the bombings began, my life in Lebanon was filled with parties, days at beach resorts and concerts. I considered staying until the end of the summer. But after hearing my first bombs, I wanted out. And so I became one of about 12,000 American evacuees.

The long trip home began with standing in line for five hours in Lebanon, where U.S. Marines checked our passports and bags. Then we spent 21 hours on a U.S. Navy ship to Cyprus. Onboard we stood in more lines, including at the mess hall, where we ate fried chicken and mashed potatoes.

The 35-year-old USS Trenton wasn't glamorous, but for the rest of my life, I will love the Navy. There were 1,700 of us evacuees and 400 sailors, and they welcomed us.

"We're like the houseguests who come over, trash the place, then leave," said fellow evacuee Deric Gruen, 24, of Seattle.

Most of the time, I sat on a chair. Nearly every inch of the ship was covered in mattresses. I slept for a bit in a narrow bunk. Below me, an old man slept on the mattress that I'd originally claimed as "mine."

We finally landed on Cyprus. There, thousands of Americans spent the day waiting at a state fairgrounds warehouse. Then our names were called in groups to fill tour buses that shuttled us to the airport. A chartered plane flew us to Ireland, where we stopped for two hours before heading to Philadelphia.

In Philadelphia, we were greeted like heroes. The Red Cross and airport officials applauded us, then gave us food and helped us find our way. A customs official embraced me. "You look like you need a hug," she said.

That night, I collapsed in a Philadelphia hotel, where I slept until my flight.

Now, I worry about my grandparents, who are still in the Beirut area. Their town was bombed just four days ago.

Everyone around them has left, but they have nowhere to go. As my evacuation began, I called my grandma from the line to say goodbye. She said, "Out of all my grandchildren, I know you're probably bothered the most by the sounds of all these bombs at night, my dear. I am so sorry you're here now."

How unselfish, but also, how Lebanese.

When we landed in Philadelphia, the pilot announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, you've just landed in Philadelphia, U.S.A."

We applauded, shouted and cried. Those three letters are at my core — a feeling I'd first felt three days earlier when I boarded the USS Trenton.

That's when I saw the American flag. Wall-to-wall, across the width of the ship, a fan blowing behind it so that it waved like you see it in the movies. "You are now officially on U.S. soil," read a computerized sign on the ship.

My eyes brimmed with tears.

I'm free.