It’s 5:00 AM. The snow finally stopped last night, but the plows have been humming all evening.

Despite the commute, I love Concord. I look forward to the cozy coffee shops—I’ve tried three spots so far: Brothers Cortado, The Works Café, and of course, Revelstoke Coffee. I like all of them, but Brothers Cortado is my favorite. Also, that beautiful library only adds to the city’s magic. I’ll be enjoying the ride while my wife reminds me of every chore I promised to do a week ago and promptly forgot. I suppose we are all running behind some kind of schedule.

A Memory From Another Life

As the miles tick by, I find myself seeking a contrast. I think about the emotional state of people in a small Mediterranean city —a lesser-known place where I spent over a year as a Red Cross worker.

Yet, not everything about that city was unpleasant. I still carry beautiful moments from Tripoli that comfort me. My routine back then started with coffee from a street vendor and a few cigarettes on the hour-long crawl to work, listening to music. To my right was the long, beautiful Mediterranean beach—a peaceful experience interrupted by potholes and speed bumps I never managed to memorize, mostly because there were no signs; they just appeared out of nowhere.

No matter how late I was to work, I always stopped for my version of a morning bagel: a Ka’ak from a vendor I’ll call Abou Mahmoud. He didn’t actually have kids, so the “Abou” (Father of) didn’t really apply.

Abou Mahmoud had a broken cart across from my office. He was a man who had clearly survived a tough upbringing; the many self-harm marks on his body stood as a witness. Still, he was generous to a fault—always extra cheese, fresh tomato, and corn whenever he had it. He was strict with his stock, though; he only brought a few dozen Ka’ak, and by 10:00 AM, he was sold out. I always had to buy two. I suspect he moved around the city, changing spots throughout the day and likely hiding a stash for other locations. Knowing I wasn’t his “favorite” customer felt like a bit of a betrayal.

The Job

Back then, my job wasn’t very demanding. The hardest part was getting to know people and understanding their needs so we could solve their problems. Honestly? These days, I’m not sure if I am trying as hard.

The day started with a quick team meeting to set priorities before we headed to our project sites. I had several ongoing: one in a Palestinian camp called Beddawi (it doesn’t look like a “camp,” just a tiny geographical area overcrowded with unsafe buildings) and others in the impoverished neighborhoods of Tripoli. I never truly felt safe, but I loved the work. I knew, however, that the job was like raising a wild beast—it could turn on you in a heartbeat.

And one day it did

We were working to accelerate economic recovery by rehabilitating buildings damaged in the “mini-civil wars” between the Alawite and Sunni communities. On paper, it was simple: hire contractors, fix walls, paint sidewalks. The strategy was to recruit the locals—give them a purpose and a paycheck to reduce tension. Personally, I think we failed at the “peace-building” part badly, though my colleagues might not agree with me.

It was registration day, our second attempt. We had split the groups—Sunni in one spot and Alawite in another—behind an imaginary front line. The day before had been something of a disaster; we’d had to evacuate when both sides nearly ignited at the registration booth.

While the registration was buzzing, a man I’ll call Tarek approached me. “Hey, you ought to meet this guy,” he said. “He’s disabled and sick, and he wants a word with you.”

An Exchange I Haven’t Forgotten

I followed him into a crumbling building and down a few stairs. There I met Abbas. He lived a hollow, humble life, paralyzed from the waist down by a previous clash. He had once been the leader of a fighting group. “I need some money,” he said in a demanding tone.

I told him I couldn’t do that. I started explaining “the system”—the allocation of funds, the funding limitations. With every word I spoke, Abbas’s rage grew. He wasn’t alone; a Syrian man sat with him—a wanted man with serious warrants, Abbas claimed—covered in tattoos and looking “checked out” from reality. This man reached into a closet, pulled out a handgun, and began casually playing with it.

Abbas looked at me and told me he had only a few months left to live; he had nothing left to lose. Looking at him, I could tell how sick he really was. I had no reason not to believe him.

In that moment, something in me moved abruptly; I don’t know what it was. A basement with a man who was already dead and another who was effectively a ghost. What emotions could one carry from such an encounter? I still don’t know.

Every time I remember that moment, the heavy feelings return. I can still recall the smell of that house and the suffocating desperation. It wasn’t just the threat of the gun; it was their total loss of hope. The hope that tomorrow could be a better day, or that things would ever truly be alright.

I look at this beautiful Concord, and this beautiful country, where I see so much hope and so many people looking forward to tomorrow. It is something to truly feel grateful and blessed about.