Dear Anyone,
I slept Inside the closet last night.
Do not ask me to elaborate, if you please.
Allow me to feel sorry for myself.
Might I ask you to feel sorry for me without any need for the beautiful mask of dignity?
My 2 small dogs were crammed by my side.
I sang for them as loud as I could.
Louder still than the hundreds of bombs hurled at us from all directions.
I hid my face and their fragile trembling bodies behind the clothes I should be wearing if only I had a life.
Families, over one million of them, are scattered on the streets.
But today, I ask you, implore you, to feel sorry for ME.
The bombs have turned my chest into their home.
I breathe them all day and all night.
They slither their way into my memories.
And what are memories but the distant sounds of a broken heart.
The silence that precedes their daily and nightly visits is frightening.
Friends are fleeing the country.
For a few weeks.
Perhaps a few months.
Or so they reassure themselves.
Their children can no longer stand those cold – hearted sounds.
Between you and me, they cannot stand it, either.
I haven’t taken a shower in days.
We never know when the bombs will fall on us.
We scream a lot.
Whenever a door slams too loudly.
Or a truck’s wheel ducks down into a hole in the streets.
I scream if the bell rings.
At friends who send me funny reels.
When I practice Tennis at the club next door at seven A.M. of every Friday.
My coach says I should join the war.
It seems, I am swinging the balls a bit too violently.
I scream When the internet Bombards me with pictures of small bodies of children resting their tired heads on the pavements.
I scream when I forget to open all the windows in the house ever so slightly, so that when the bombs and missiles are hurled at us from all directions, the windows do not shatter into a million piece.
Exactly like my memories.
And what are memories but the distant sound of a broken heart?
Sunday was the one year memorial of my father.
My siblings and I could not make it to the north because we did not know where we will be bombed next.
So we screamed at each other.
For no particular reason.
For all the reasons in the world.
We are told we might stay in our homes for weeks.
Perhaps.
I took up cleaning as my new hobby.
I clean all day.
Another hobby I fell in love with recently is counting my money, Dear anyone.
Making sure I have enough to sustain me until we are able to live again.
And we send each other pictures of our heroes disguised as normal human beings, helping the displaced in whichever way they can.
Saving their abandoned pets who have been left behind.
I scream with joy when I read about the man who wouldn’t leave his two dogs and goat in his slaughtered village, and was eventually able to bring them with him to Beirut.
There is a small bag I have delicately placed by the door.
It contains all that I and my two fur babies would need, If we are asked to evacuate the building, the neighborhood.
I sing all day.
And I scream.
My sister insists I take a shower.
“we must not let them defeat us. I will stand at the door and protect you from the hundreds of bombs swaying around us, above us, and some even from underneath us”.
Friends scream at family members:
“we must get used to this. We must try to live as normally as we can”.
I scream at everybody.
And I sing loudly when the bombs refuse to leave my chest.
I might take a shower tonight.
Friends and foes reassure us that tonight will not be as horrific as last night.
Will let you know tomorrow what happens in the upcoming hours.
But until then, might I ask you to feel sorry for me?
Hanadi
October 4th 2024
AR 
EN