I slept at seven P.M. last night.
Things were relatively calm, and I felt hope, and a glimpse of safety. Almost normalcy.
"Illusions. All my life was adorned by illusions", my father would say in his final days.
And then suddenly hell broke loose again.
Very weak vocabulary, I must admit, but it is appropriate for our new reality.
The raids started and I am now in the kitchen, as I grew tired of hiding in the closet.
It is becoming claustrophobic.
I could have lamented my fate.
However, that would have only aggravated my claustrophobia.
I could also describe to you the sudden appearance of thousands of cars, and the suffocating traffic all day and most of the night.
What words would I use to describe the nauseating smells emanating from the once elegant, historical streets?
The displaced have nowhere to practice their human rituals.
I will leave it here.
For the time being.
Talking about it would only aggravate my claustrophobia.
I could paint you a picture of the volunteers from different cities, working tirelessly to provide some sort of respect for those who are now facing a frightening new story.
But I could also write to you about those who are using their platforms to build fame and gain recognition through helping those in need. Accompanied by their cameras and a condescending tone.
However, that would only shorten my already short breath.
I keep repeating myself don't I?
Please forgive me, for words have become my only home. As for the same words, the same ideas, the similar phrases, why they almost bring back my father and mother who decided to leave this year. Together. Barely three months apart.
My nephews took me two nights ago to walk in the mountains, midst extravagant villas built in an exclusive neighborhood.
Tens of people walk there every night in order to escape this abstract war we do not know yet why we are forced to live.
Suddenly, for over an hour, I caught a glimpse of who I used to be.
We discussed the possibility of starting a new life in Greece.
We decided to open a small supermarket by the sea.
"Illusions. All my life was adorned by illusions", my father would say in his final days.
I keep repeating myself, don't I?
The same ideas.
Almost the same phrases.
Some images are all the safety I have left.
When the raids are excessive and the buzzing of the drone works on erasing whatever memories we hang on to, my family and some friends gather in my brother's bookshop.
We all sit on the pavement and laugh.
Probably at our fate.
We call ourselves:
"Les Miserables - Beirut Version".
We might all buy a huge land in one of Lebanon's highest, untouched mountain, and build Airbnb.
"Illusions. All my life was adorned by illusions", my father would say in his final days.
I could talk to you about the disturbing riots appearing here and there.
Slowly shaping a frightening new story.
Perhaps the structure of a new story.
About hungry families who have yet to benefit from the NGO's services.
About the thieves who are caught and are being hanged by their hands midst the streets, so that everyone can curse them and witness their descent into oblivion.
However, that would only shed light on the hopelessness of our current situation.
I could write to you a poem about the entire family made of 20 people who was eradicated in one raid.
The photo of their last lunch together is circulating all over our country.
However, that would cost me more nightmares, and I already am facing trouble erasing their faces from my memory.
The raids have stopped now.
And the drone is resting before continuing its mission:
To kill us all slowly, deliberately, in the upcoming hours.
With its rhythmical beats.
It is Two - fifty A.M.
I shall make some tea.
I am sitting on the balcony of my luxurious room in the elegant hotel where I hide every summer to write stories about a heroine who could be real.
I am spying on lovers who still believe in the magic of beginnings.
They are exchanging naive words of love.
I am complaining to the moon.
Lamenting my fate.
Oh! wait, dear anyone, that is from another story.
I believe I keep writing to you the same stories.
This repetition soothes my heartbreak.
It is the lullaby written exclusively for a little girl who forgot to grow up, and spent her days and nights in the corner.
Writing stories.
And pretending that she did not not want more. She was too afraid to ask for more. And she hid further and further more, as the years went by, in that small corner.
And pretended that everything was okay. It was simply her fate, nothing more.
"Illusions. All my life was adorned by illusions", my father would say in his final days.
Until tomorrow,
And If it is not too much to ask, Come back for more. Even if I do bore you with constant repetitions of old forgotten ideas, And little girls who hid in the corner and forgot to grow up.
October 10 2024
AR 
EN