It was also the first time my Aunt Amal, a Professor of Education at the American University of Beirut, voted for parliamentary candidates. She woke up at six in the morning on the day of elections in her Hamra apartment.

“I suppose I was excited to get the day started,” she said, dressed in a white blouse and blue jeans, her hazel-colored hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She rarely visits Hlaliye, where our family is registered, and prefers the city. However, on Sunday, she could barely wait to step foot in it. She had never voted before because she never thought her vote counted, that her voice meant something.

“Without Syrian influence, my vote can make a difference,” she said.

We left Beirut before nine, and soon enough, on the highway heading east toward the Metn, the excitement of the day became palpable. In the heavy, moving traffic, cars embodied the various political parties, with portraits of the candidates stuck to their hoods, windows, and doors, and flags fluttering from their open windows: yellow for Hezbollah, red for Druze leader Walid Jumblatt, orange for Free Patriotic leader Michel Aoun, green for the Amal movement, a Cedar tree encircled by red upon a white background for Samir GeaGea. Medium-sized buses filled to capacity labored along and pick-up trucks, with men in the back waving their flags and shouting slogans in the air, honked on by. At one point, an extra lane was made by driving in the outer lane of the opposite direction.

In El Kahhale, a Christian village on the outskirts of Beirut, the opposing parties of Aoun and GeaGea stood close to each other, bearing their flags and respecting each other’s distance. During the turmoil of the civil war, such peaceful coexistence was unheard of. Further east, in the Druze village of Qubaye, crowds of children, adults, and sheikhs lined either side of the road. Larger than life posters of Jumblatt hung over the side of apartment buildings. Outside of Qubaye, army trucks and jeeps full of soldiers were parked on the side of the highway.

At half past nine, my aunt and I stopped in Hammana to buy zatar manaakeesh. Unlike the rush and noise of the highway, an uninterrupted calm reigned over the village, the chiming of church bells soothing to hear. Few cars or villagers passed through the main square; only posters and portraits of candidates betrayed the political atmosphere. Michel Aoun’s portrait, in a black beret and army uniform, suspended high above the road, rippled in the passing breezes. Ten meters away, portraits of Samir GeaGea were stuck to the metal grilles of shops.

“Now that’s a democracy,” my aunt cheered, looking at the portraits of Aoun and GeaGea. “Everyone gets to support their own candidate. This day reminds me of March 14, when we all went out with our flags to protest.”

I understood my aunt’s allusion. On that historic day, over a million Lebanese marched to Martyrs’ Square in downtown Beirut to protest the assassination of former Prime Minister Rafik Hariri. Patriotism was as conspicuous on that day as it was on Sunday.

Approaching Hlaliye, the road narrowed to barely fit two lanes and snaked up and down the mountains dense with pine. The thick smell of shrubbery drifted into our windows as we drove up the incline of another mountain. Reaching higher ground, the panoramic view of the lush valley was in sight, a lone black bird flying above.

“I don’t like these isolated roads,” my aunt said. I didn’t bother to argue with her. She’s a Beiruti.

The road descended and the clamor of enthusiasts returned. We had reached Aabadiye and were stuck behind a long line of cars that moved ever so often. A voting poll nearby was the cause of the traffic but no one seemed to be bothered by the intermittent progression. Men of different parties handed out small rectangular fliers with the names of candidates printed on them. Young men on mopeds and boys on bicycles rode up and down the road, red flags tied to the back of their seats. The road was so narrow and the traffic so tight, that when cars drove up in the opposite direction, we had to fold in our side mirrors.

“You’re almost there,” a driver cried out his window as he passed us.

After a half-hour, at 10:30, we finally made it through a clearing in the traffic and descended further down into the valley until we finally reached Hlaliye. The road became treacherously steep and too narrow to fit more than one lane.

“I can smell the cows,” my aunt said. I heard a rooster crow.

We parked by an olive tree on the crest of a rocky hill where close by, a white horse stood. A soldier sat under the shade of a walnut tree, and by the looks of his paraffin stove and kettle for either coffee or tea, it appeared he and his platoon were scheduled to be stationed in Hlaliye for the remainder of the day.

The voting was held in a small school, but before we could even approach the door to the voting booth, distant relatives crowded us and tried to trace our lineages to see how we were all related. They implored us to visit their homes.

“Another time,” my aunt told one after the other.

In every direction, I saw people greeting and hugging each other and heard the loud slaps of handshakes and the crispness of kisses.

A line of anxious voters stood outside the door to the voting booth, ushered in three at a time by a soldier. An official told us that from 7-10 a.m., it had been busy but had slowed down recently. Thirty-five percent of Hlaliye had already voted and he expected that by three o’clock, three hours before the voting booth was to close, the rest of the village would have voted.

Having not registered in time for the elections, I waited outside the door for my aunt. Several men stood together in groups and by the color of their shirts, I could tell which candidate they supported. The most pervasive color was red, for the Jumblatt party; orange for the Aoun party and blue for the Talal Araslan party were few in number.

Fifteen minutes later, my aunt emerged from the voting booth brimming with smiles. She had dropped her very first ballot in the tin box. I was happy for her, and although I knew a long night lay ahead for the both of us in front of the TV to see how the results would turn out, my aunt’s vote was a beginning of a democratic process free of Syrian intervention. It was a beginning for Lebanon.

“Thank God, we’re done,” my aunt said on the drive back to Beirut. “I’ve been waiting for this day since March 14.”