Remembering My Name: Reclaiming Lebanese Roots Through Folklore, Faith, and Fire There’s a kind of ache that comes from forgetting things you never knew you were supposed to remember. A pull in the blood. A whisper in the bones. My name is Kevin. I was born a Peterson—but that wasn’t our name before America. My family names were Saab and Bahudub , once proudly carried through the mountains of Lebanon. When they arrived on American soil, those names became Raymond , and just like that, a thousand years of memory got folded into silence. I was raised Roman Catholic. My family was Maronite Catholic before that. I knew the prayers, the sacraments, the incense and holy water. But I didn’t know the stories of our people. I didn’t know our ancestral dialects, our folklore, or the way we used to touch the sacred before colonial borders were drawn and religion became a box. I Went Back to Find Myself I didn’t go looking for Islam out of religious interest. I went searching for Leb...
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