The guard’s name was Michael, which in Lebanese Arabic is pronounced Michelle. He stopped our car at a military checkpoint on the highway to Hariri airport, on that day in 2014 when I made my final trip out of Beirut. “Why are you going to the airport?” asked Michael, as he examined my Syrian passport, flipping its pages too fast to read. His M16 rifle rested on his shoulder. His military uniform had never felt the touch of an iron.
“I am emigrating to Canada,” I answered. My words seemed to anger him. He flicked through the pages until he found the Canadian visa. He waited a moment, then tossed the passport through the car window. It landed in my lap.
