Lebanese Americans open their wallets and hearts as war rages back home

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CANTON, Mich. (AP) — Every week, Mirvet Makki sets aside earnings from her catering business to help people in Lebanon displaced by the war between Israel and Hezbollah militants.

Makki, 47, who cooks Lebanese dishes like couscous stews and traditional kibbeh balls in the Detroit suburb of Dearborn Heights, immigrated to Michigan in 1990. But her heart never left her childhood village of Bint Jbeil, now one of the hardest-hit areas in southern Lebanon.

Nearly every Lebanese American has felt the impact of the latest round of fighting, which has displaced more than 1 million people — roughly one in every six Lebanese — and killed more than 3,500 people. It’s Israel’s deepest invasion into Lebanon in more than a quarter-century.

“I was thinking, ‘What can I do for other people?’” Makki said. “So I used my business.”

Even with the rising cost of living in the U.S., she said, “the money I can spare personally, I’ve been sending it to family.”

In areas like metro Detroit, where Arabic signs adorn restaurants, coffee houses and bakeries on bustling suburban avenues, a sense of grief has blanketed the war-weary community as they watch the crisis unfold thousands of miles away.

Like Makki, many grapple with guilt and hopelessness. It’s not easy to help loved ones who are unwilling or unable to leave their country and face a worsening economic crisis.

“Honestly it’s hard. Like, what do you say?” Makki said. “They’re going to ask me what I’m doing. Let’s say I’m at work. They lost their jobs. Let’s say I tell them I’m home. They lost their homes.”

Lebanese immigration to the U.S. dates to the late 1800s. Roughly 625,000 Lebanese Americans live here now, according to census data, though some estimates put the number closer to 1.4 million.

Opinions about the Lebanese government, Hezbollah and Israel vary among the diaspora as they do in Lebanon, where views are heavily influenced by religious affiliation. The population there is about equally split between Sunni Muslim, Shiite Muslim and Christian denominations, along with a smaller Druze community.

Despite their differences, millions of people in the global diaspora remain deeply connected to their home country, in part through billions of dollars sent back each year.

“There is really no Lebanese homeland without the Lebanese diaspora,” Edward Curtis, director of Arabic Studies at Indiana University, said.

Lebanese Americans often rally around common causes, like during the 2024 U.S. presidential election for the “ uncommitted movement ” protesting U.S. support for Israel’s war in Gaza, or to condemn the Michigan synagogue attack carried out by a Lebanese man in March.

“When they see suffering in Lebanon, people’s immediate reaction ... is for the community to come together, raise funds, raise money, and try to help everybody as much as they can,” Akram Khater, director of Lebanese Diaspora Studies at North Carolina State University, said.

Most rely on one another, rather than looking to Washington for help.

Curtis said many Lebanese Americans have grown disillusioned with U.S. politics, instead seeking to “celebrate Lebanese life when other peoples are threatening its death.”

Maya Attoui, whose parents still live in Beirut, is organizing a metro Detroit fundraiser to support Lebanon and raise awareness about the conflict. She said she doesn’t have enough money to spare to support her numerous relatives, but hopes an event with activities and speakers will generate far more funds.

“We don’t feel like talking, we don’t feel like cooking in our houses,” Attoui said. “We’re just 24/7 on the phone or on the news. Our heart is really melting and breaking because of whatever we see.”

Although people send remittances to countries all over the world, Lebanon is particularly dependent on its vast diaspora. The country’s economy has been shredded in recent years, to the point where the U.S. dollar is gradually becoming the de facto currency.

Makki visited Lebanon in February and saw how much prices had risen. Where $200 used to cover a car rental and a hotel room, this time it barely paid for a dinner out.

Some people crowdsource funds online. There are established relief organizations, but most prefer to send money directly to loved ones.

Makki doesn't want to send more than $10,000 in total, to avoid appearing suspicious. After that, she laughed, “Maybe take it there myself?”

Nadia Bryant, 37, of Troy, Michigan, has been sending money to her half sisters in Lebanon, who are in temporary housing after their village of Ayta ash-Shab was invaded by Israeli forces.

Rather than spending the money on themselves, Bryant said, her sisters used it to help orphaned children.

“They’re such righteous people,” Bryant said. “They are not even trying to take the money and get themselves a better house or anything. They’re like, ‘Oh, we have shelter, but this person needs a mattress.’”

Her sister sent a photo on WhatsApp of a teapot steaming over a fire amid the rubble of their former home, calling it the “best cup of tea” since the family fled in October 2023.

Bryant said it “feels so stupid” to ask relatives how they’re doing. Instead she checks in with questions such as “‘What does today look like?’ or ‘Where are you today?’”

Attoui, the fundraiser organizer, has tried to convince her family to move to the U.S. multiple times since she came in 2006. They don't want to leave. Regardless, the U.S. stopped processing immigrant visas for Lebanese nationals in late January.

“I have all my aunts and my cousins over there,” she said. “So like, how many people can you bring here?”