A Proustian ExperienceBy Mariam Labban

It is day ten of the war between the United States and its ally Israel against Iran. If we are to go by the American president, however, this is not a war but merely an “incursion” or a “confrontation”; a convenient technicality designed to avoid condemnation by Congress. Whether President Trump chooses to describe this reckless and wholly unnecessary action as a war is not my primary concern. What affects me far more directly are its devastating consequences on my daily life, as well as on the already fragile global economy.

In Lebanon, global crises never remain distant for long; they quickly translate into local anxieties. As the head of the committee in my building, the most pressing issue I face these days is securing fuel for the generator. Electricity cuts are hardly new to us, but the stakes feel higher now. The price of a ton of fuel has already doubled and continues to rise by the day. This means recalculating the monthly contributions required from residents in order to keep the generator running, a task that has become both mathematical and moral. Every increase weighs heavily on neighbors already struggling with soaring living costs.

On another front, the Minister of Economy has announced that Lebanon has enough flour reserves to last three months. Under ordinary circumstances, such an announcement would be reassuring. Yet in a country where shortages have become part of collective memory, reassurance rarely dispels anxiety. In supermarkets, trolleys are stacked high with canned goods, rice, pasta, oil, and other staples as people rush to stock up, just in case.

Displaced citizens are also contributing to this atmosphere of urgency. Their presence is a stark reminder that instability in the region rarely respects borders. One cannot help but wonder how long they will be able to sustain their expenses before their savings run out and what will happen then. It is a question I hesitate to pursue too far, because the answer is neither simple nor comforting.

School administrators, meanwhile, find themselves in the hot seat yet again, facing a familiar dilemma that Lebanon has confronted repeatedly in recent years. Should schools resume in-person teaching, adopt synchronized hybrid learning, or revert to fully online classes? The answer is far from straightforward. Several factors must be weighed carefully: How many students and teachers have been displaced? Are roads safe enough for daily commutes? Is the school building itself being used as a temporary shelter for families in need?

In Lebanon, education has become an exercise in resilience. Administrators, teachers, parents, and students alike have learned to adapt with remarkable flexibility. Yet each new crisis tests that resilience once more.

Amid this cacophony, after being effectively stranded at home for the past ten days, I felt an overwhelming need to escape the imposed routine and break the relentless cycle of watching breaking news and political analysis. There are only so many hours one can spend absorbing grim headlines before the mind begins to crave something quieter, something familiar.

Since it is Ramadan, I decided to visit a nearby sweets shop.

The moment I stepped inside, I was greeted by the unmistakable aroma of fried dough drenched in syrup, a scent so deeply embedded in our culinary traditions that it instantly evokes Ramadan evenings across Lebanon. Large trays of golden pastries were being lifted from bubbling oil and plunged into vats of syrup, their glossy surfaces catching the light.

This particular sweet, filled with tangy cream and crisp on the outside, is a beloved Ramadan indulgence. During the holy month, Lebanese streets come alive at night with pastry shops displaying trays of syrup-soaked delicacies, from kellaj to atayef to znoud el-sit, their aromas drifting into the streets as families prepare for iftar or gather for late-night visits.

Standing there, watching the pastry chef at work, the smell alone was intoxicating. For a fleeting moment, the noise of the world receded.

And then, quite unexpectedly, I was transported elsewhere.

Suddenly I was back in childhood Ramadan evenings: the kitchen alive with activity, trays of sweets arriving at the table, the anticipation building as we waited for the call to prayer announcing iftar. The same fragrance had once filled our home; warm, sweet, and comforting while family members gathered around the table, sharing stories, laughter, and the quiet joy of breaking the fast together.

The memory was so vivid it felt almost tangible.

In that instant, the pastry became more than a dessert. It became a portal.

It reminded me of the famous literary moment described by Marcel Proust, when the taste of a small cake, immortalized as the Madeleine, dipped in tea unexpectedly unlocks a flood of childhood memories in his novel In Search of Lost Time. What begins as a simple sensory experience suddenly becomes a bridge to the past.