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Remembering My Name: Reclaiming Lebanese Roots Through Folklore, Faith, and Fire

 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 Lebanon—and Islam was part of what I found. It’s the rhythm of the region. The heartbeat in the call to prayer. The architecture, the customs, the poetry that shaped our ancestors' days—sometimes layered over older traditions, sometimes replacing them, always leaving a mark.

My journey into Islamic history wasn’t about conversion—it was about context. Understanding Islam helped me understand what my people lived alongside. It helped me make sense of the world my great-grandparents left behind—the tension, the beauty, the coexistence. And it reminded me that religion and spirituality are not always the same thing.

Folklore Lives in the Gaps

Before any organized religion, there were rituals. Folk magic. Earth-based mysticism. There were amulets pinned to shirts and salt at doorways. There were dreams that guided decisions and ancestors who visited in the quiet of night. There was Dabke danced in celebration and ululations that carried grief to the skies.

I’m returning to that too.

I light candles now—not for saints, but for memory. I listen to Fairuz and find my chest cracking open. I speak the few Arabic words I’ve salvaged from the silence and let them land like prayers. Not perfect, not fluent, but true.

I’m Not Trying to Be Anyone Else

This isn’t about going “back.” It’s about becoming whole.

I don’t want to pretend I grew up immersed in all of this—I didn’t. I grew up American. Catholic. Queer. Disconnected. But I also grew up with something ancient burning inside me, something that always felt... missing.

Now I know it was the echo of Saab. The resilience of Bahudub. The holiness of a people who carried faith in many forms—Christian, Muslim, folkloric, mystic—and still kept dancing.

For Anyone Reclaiming What Was Taken

If you’re queer and Arab. If you’re the grandchild of immigrants. If you’re the child of assimilation and survival. If you grew up disconnected and are just now remembering what your soul never forgot—this is for you.

You don’t have to fit neatly into anyone’s definition of heritage.
You don’t need to speak fluent Arabic to feel its sacredness in your chest.
You don’t need to be devout to be devoted.

Ana Arabi. Ana queer. Ana Kevin.
I am Peterson, yes—but also Raymond.
I am Saab. I am Bahudub.
I am Roman Catholic. I am descended from Maronites.
And I learn from Islam to understand what shaped us all.

This is not a return to religion. This is a return to remembrance.

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