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Amid devastation, Lebanese newlyweds hope for normalcy

By Arwa Damon
CNN
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TYRE, Lebanon (CNN) -- A rented, dark green Jeep Cherokee suddenly came screeching around the corner and grinded to a halt, disrupting the quiet conversation we were having with the Jabr family about the war.

"Ah, Abbas is here," his grandmother says, smiling.

Just four days before his wedding night, Abbas Jabr came back to Qana, Lebanon, for the first time in 11 years. The 28-year-old drives without speaking through the streets toward his childhood home, absorbing the scenes of devastation around him.

This is where he used to play as a child, wreaking havoc with his brothers. Abbas left Qana for Africa at 17 to work alongside his father. Now, the streets are deserted. The buildings left standing are shuttered.

He finally speaks as he pulls in to his driveway.

"This is the first time that I have come here since I have been back," he said. "I was not even sure that I would remember where my home was."

Outside the car, he repeats those words, looking down at his trembling hands.

The power is out as he makes his way up the stairs and opens the front door. The call to prayer echoes eerily through the shattered glass and billowing transparent curtains. He pulls back the teddy bear shades in his childhood bedroom then makes his way over to the dresser, where his old photos remain.

He pauses for a sad look. "These are my brothers," he says.

Out on the balcony he points out the now burned fields he used to play in.

"There was a soccer field over there, we would take that winding path," he remembers, laughing a little at the memory.

He comes across as soft-spoken, but perhaps he is just overwhelmed.

"It's bizarre," he says. "A lot of terrible emotions."

As the sky darkens, Abbas drives to Tyre, past more shells of destroyed buildings for his wedding celebration. But there is little time to dwell on all that his hometown has lost. Tonight is his night to look to the future.

At the salon, his 23-year-old bride, Huda, looks stiff and uncomfortable as the stylist applies the final touches of hairspray. She is a slender, petit girl, glittering bronze make-up outlines her wide eyes. Her handmade dress is embroidered with delicate beads.

She, like Abbas, is soft-spoken.

'It was love at first sight'

"Imagine," she said, "our families introduced us over the phone and Internet. Then we met for a single day in Belgium three years ago."

"It was love at first sight," she says and then asks me "Do you find that strange?"

Huda already was in Lebanon preparing for her big day when the war broke out.

"I was born and grew up in Africa; I did not live the other war," she says. "But I lived this one."

Abbas was able to make it back to Lebanon only four days before their wedding.

"I can't explain my emotions when I finally saw him," Huda says, pausing. "I really can't, I can't. I love him too much."

Abbas trades his rental jeep for a flashy silver sports car, tastefully covered with wedding flower arrangements.

"I trust that you did not go through too much trouble," he jokes softly with his bride as he helps her into the car. She laughs. She has just spent 15 hours in the salon.

Nearly everyone here knows someone who died

The couple is greeted at a restaurant with the Zafe, a swirling Lebanese dance with mock swords and shields symbolizing masculinity. But once the music dies down there is not much conversation. The mood here is subdued, the underlying anxiety etched on the faces of many of the guests.

Nearly everyone here is from Qana, and nearly everyone here knows someone who died. Countless people whose voices I can barely hear over the music ask me I if I thought that war would break out again.

They all tell the story of a baby, named al-Waid al-Sadeq, born on the first day of the war. The baby's name, which means "honest promise," also was the name of the Hezbollah operation to capture two Israeli soldiers that sparked the hostilities. The baby sleeps peacefully, unaware of the turbulent times he was born into and named for.

The only dance allowed here by the owners of the restaurant is the Dabke, a traditional Lebanese dance that signifies celebration and joy. But here tonight, everyone says that more than anything it signifies defiance and resilience. High-heeled feet stomp, dresses swirl in tune to the music. Girls baring their tummies interlock arms with others wearing head scarves and weave through the guests.

Abbas' grandmother sings praise to Hezbollah, not uncommon in a nation where politics has become a way of life.

Abbas and Huda raise their glasses of fruit cocktail to all the guests, signifying that the night has come to an end, to the blaring music of "Congratulations ... I want the world to know I am as happy as can be."

But Abbas and Huda will be living out their happiness overseas, outside of Lebanon's turbulence.

"I wish that what we lived never comes back," Huda says. "We always have hope for the future, to try and live life normally."

Normal is something that she only believes she can find elsewhere.

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Huda and Abbas Jabr pose for pictures at their wedding reception in Lebanon.

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