Tuktuk to Beirut

 

To endure the steep descent — both literal and economic — that Lebanon has faced since October 2019, 

I chose to become a tourist in my own country rather than a fully engaged citizen.

Not out of apathy, but as a conscious act of survival.

To wander instead of resist.

To observe without despair.

To hold a tender distance between myself and the unraveling.

Each day, during my commute from our village in the Chouf mountains to my workshop, I began noticing the sudden presence of tuktuks — these three-wheeled vehicles weaving through the landscape.           Red, yellow, black, white, blue, green, even pinkish ones. Some idle at street corners, waiting for passengers; others speeding up and down the mountain roads with a sense of purpose and stubborn hope.

Intrigued, I began sketching them — Then I met their drivers — craftsmen of survival, navigating broken roads with laughter and grit. Eventually I started shaping their forms in clay.

Through this process, the tuktuk became more than a vehicle: it became a symbol of movement, adaptation, and the quiet persistence of everyday life in Lebanon.