There is something tragic about the life of Mai Ziadeh, a writer who was falsely accused of insanity in her 50s. This accusation stripped her of her freedom, money, and civil rights. It ruined her reputation, and she was forcibly thrown into a mental institution, thanks to her cousin, her “best friend.”
Since I left Lebanon in 1976 to establish myself in France, I have been asked many times, with the best intentions in the world, if I felt more French or more Lebanese. I always give the same answer: "Both." Not in an attempt to be fair or balanced but because if I gave another answer I would be lying. This is why I am myself and not another, at the edge of two countries, two or three languages and several cultural traditions. This is precisely what determines my identity. Would I be more authentic if I cut off a part of myself?