I was actually lost in Beirut on the way home.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
Beirut is where I was born and raised.
In 1975, I left the burning city of Beirut for the quiet insanity of England. To say that short, frail and wispy 15-year-old me didn't fit in would be such an understatement as to be a joke.
When I look back on my childhood, I think of that short time in Beirut. I know that seeing the city collapse around me forced me to grasp something many people miss: the fragility of peace.
During my youth, the idea of moving from Lebanon was unthinkable. Then I began to realise I might have to go, like my grandfather, uncles and others who left for America, Egypt, Australia, Cuba.
If I'm still walking, I am not dead. So I have to still walk and run towards the benefit of Lebanon.
I went to Israel when the missiles were falling there.
'Each One Lost' I wrote the day after I got home. My week in Afghanistan was a very short trip, but it was a powerful experience.
I was the only outsider to visit the Abbottabad compound where bin Laden lived before the Pakistani military demolished it.
I got lost one time for a couple hours. It was pretty bad. I got lost in a creek, and I couldn't find my way back. The cops even had to come.
In the wake of 9/11, my wife Trish and I were stranded on the East Coast. We had planned a vacation to Greece, but flights had been halted. Instead, we ended up on a tiny island off the coast of Georgia.