The Balcony

What does music do for you?

To me, it lifts me up—and sometimes it brings me down. It stirs memories of the past: the good times, the sad times, the moments that shaped my life. I’ve always loved music. Spanish flamenco guitar, Greek ballads, Arabic melodies—they speak to something deep inside me. That love goes back to when I was a little kid.

When I lived in Beirut, my room opened onto a balcony. From there, I could hear music drifting up from the street—accordion players, singers, laughter. This usually happened at night, when the city softened and the melodies floated more freely. I would step outside and watch them from above, letting the music carry me away. For a moment, I forgot my problems. For a moment, I was somewhere else—somewhere I dreamed of. So you see, it wasn’t just music. It was hope. And for a few moments, I was fine.

Also, where we lived, one block away was the President’s residence. Right across from my house were the soldiers’ barracks. Every day at 4 p.m., a small group of soldiers would form a band, play music, cross the street, and walk the block to the President’s residence to lower the flag. On Sundays, it was an even bigger event. The band swelled to fifty soldiers—it was like a parade. This was a show in and of itself, and the entire neighborhood looked forward to it. The music, the uniforms, the ceremony—it added a kind of magic to our street.

Sometimes when I was on the balcony, looking toward the soldiers’ barracks, there was this one soldier—a Frenchman—who would wave at me. I would wave back. One day, the doorbell rang. My mother answered, and it was the soldier. He introduced himself and asked if he could come in. He told my mother that he saw me every day on the balcony and that I reminded him of his son. My mother invited him in. He sat down and showed us pictures of his boy. The soldier graced us with candy and other delicacies. He was so grateful. I was thrilled to meet him. That moment stayed with me—it was kindness, unexpected and pure.

Downstairs on the corner, depending on the season, trucks would pull up and people would set up markets to sell fruit, nuts, and other seasonal goods. It was a cozy corner where people came together. A light was set up for nighttime, and music played too. I would watch from the balcony. I watched the people come and go—including my mother—as they gathered around the vendors. The sellers would remain overnight, sleeping beside their stalls until every last item was sold. It was a rhythm of life, simple and beautiful.

In those days, there were hardly any cars in the street—maybe one or two were parked. I was thrilled when I would see a car go by. It was entertainment for me. Just the sight of it rolling past felt like a small event, something to watch and wonder about.

I also remember my cousin. He worked for a man who owned a Chrysler that was used as a taxi to transport people between Syria and Beirut. My cousin was hired as a driver, and whenever he came to Beirut, he would stay with us. When I knew he was coming, I would wait on the balcony, scanning the street. I’d see him pull up and park the car, and I’d run downstairs. He would lift me up, hug me, and carry me upstairs on his shoulders. Sometimes he stayed one or two nights, depending on the needs of his customers. I always had my suitcase packed—just in case I could go back with him.

One time, when my cousin visited and was getting ready to return to Syria, I ran down the stairs with my suitcase, threw it into his car, and hid—thinking I was being clever. My mother knew what I was up to, but little did I know she had emptied the suitcase to wash my clothes. I ended up in Syria with an empty suitcase.

My cousin, who was an adult, lived with his mother—my aunt. Needless to say, they found clothes for me. I loved staying at my aunt’s house. I was treated like a king. At home, my younger brother got all the attention, so I often felt invisible. But at my aunt’s, I felt special. Seen and loved. 

Music never made me angry. People have. People have hurt me and caused me harm. But music? Music heals—if you let it. That balcony became my comfort zone, my refuge. It was where I felt safe, where I dreamed.

I especially remember the beautiful girl who lived across from me. Her balcony faced mine. I was six, she was sixteen. We would wave to each other, shy and sweet. I remember the view too—the Mediterranean Sea, stretching out like a painting. I watched the ships glide by, heading toward the port. Beyond that, I could see the mountains where we spent our summers. It was magnificent.

That balcony still lives in my heart. It was more than a place—it was a feeling. A place where music, kindness, and quiet wonder came together. And even now, when I write, I return to it. I return to the boy waving at a soldier, dreaming of ships, and listening to the world sing.