Every morning, my generation wakes up to the same routine: check Instagram, scroll through TikTok, watch another Lebanese influencer film their morning coffee in an old and traditional Lebanese village. But in that single glowing frame I see something deeper, something far older. In my mind, it becomes a quiet porch, a worn chair.

I picture a grandfather in his village chair, his hands tough from years in the fields, spinning tales not with threads but with words. I can smell the thyme and slow-roasted coffee in the background as he talks about Phoenician ships carving through the Mediterranean; they didn’t just carry cedar wood and silk; they carried their alphabet, spreading their culture through stories to whoever listened. The old man never heard the word 'influencer’, but it fits him perfectly. His stage was a porch. And his secret? Knowing how to narrate. 

Today the porch is a glowing rectangle in our pocket. The cedar ship didn't disappear, it became a smartphone, and the sea it sails on has no edges. My generation is still at it, telling stories as digital Phoenicians. We flick past things fast, forgetting how deep this habit runs. All those Lebanese 'influencers' posting sunsets over Harissa or sharing a recipe for mloukhieh; none of these are rejecting traditions, they are simply playing the same note in a different way. 

If you squint a bit, the old merchant in Byblos, laying out rare dyes and handmade glass, doesn't look so different from today's creators. They'll spotlight a Tripolitan soap maker’s careful hands or the tight composition of Beiruti zajal. Both are peddling culture. Both understand the power of a brief story. Our ancestors were the original networkers, building bridges of commerce and culture across continents. Now we hop platforms instead of continents while chasing the same urge: to bring a bit of Lebanon to the diaspora in São Paulo or Sydney, and to global citizens with a glimpse of our home - the scent of orange blossoms in a garden in Batroun or the sound of a mijwiz at a mountain wedding.

This is us: always somewhere in-between. East and West don't just touch here; they're tangled up, waltzing. Watch someone film their day: Arabic coffee in the morning, a French quote by lunch, and an Italian dress for whatever comes next. That's our truth: a mix of culture and openness to the world. The influencer is what the village storyteller always was; only now, the whole world listens. They hold a mirror to our persistent duality, not to shatter it, but to show its strange, glittering beauty.

Digital storytelling changes us, sure. Sometimes it sands down the roughness and filters out the grit that makes Lebanon what it is. But when it's done right, something sacred happens: the world sees us, and we see ourselves, still here. Still making. Still swapping stories, beauty, resilience, all of it. In a time when our physical roots feel shaken, these digital stories become new taproots, feeding a scattered family with the nourishment of a shared identity.

So, when another video pops up of a Beiruti artisan sketching calligraphy, or of a laughter echoing through a vineyard in Zahle, I don't see another trend. I see the same conversation that the grandfather started and passed down for thousands of years, finally reaching the far-off places he once dreamed of. The people of the cedar are still standing; in whatever way they can. The vessel has changed, but the voyage and the vibrant undying cargo remain the same.