{"id":1620,"date":"2024-12-16T10:35:01","date_gmt":"2024-12-16T10:35:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/fabulousbeirut.com\/?p=1620"},"modified":"2025-06-27T10:57:22","modified_gmt":"2025-06-27T10:57:22","slug":"letters-to-no-one-number-6","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/fabulousbeirut.com\/ar\/letters-to-no-one-number-6\/","title":{"rendered":"Letters to No – One: Number 6"},"content":{"rendered":"
Dear Anyone,

My father visited me two nights ago in my dreams.
He stood beside me in all his glory and his dignity.
His head slightly tilted upwards.
His thick mustache.
His larger than life nose.
And this heartbreaking half smile he used to hide the garden of disappointments he wove around himself, for heaven knows what reason.

He held my hand tightly, and we walked side by side in our old neighborhood.
He wouldn't look at me, however hard I tried to meet his eyes.

Suddenly, he stopped walking and he pointed towards the apartment I was born in.

His smile didn't broaden, nor did it shrink as he quietly said in his manly voice:

\"Say goodbye to everything you know\".

I looked towards the fifth floor.
The balconies were empty.
They looked brighter.
Unburdened by memories.

I woke up sweating, as usual.
Half an hour later, my sister called.
She quietly announced the death of my aunt's husband.
I told her about the dream.
I added, unable to cry:
\"I knew dad was coming to take someone. I thought it was me\".

A year ago my father left.
Unwillingly.
When we were gathered around him, trying to help him leave peacefully, I could feel his struggle.
His body was slowly becoming colder and colder, and his eyes were rolling.
But he did not want to leave.
His fingers were angry.
His spirit feistier than his icy body.

Three months later, my aunt on my mother's side left.
The next day, my mum joined her.
Mum wanted to leave.
She was not afraid of death, nor did she want to stay.
She kept trying to remove her oxygen mask and push us away.

\"They are waiting for me. You must let me go\". She would repeat over and over.
I could not recognize her voice.
She was not afraid of her cold body.
She did not want the warm blankets or the winter hat that covered her head.
She simply wanted to leave.

Perhaps my father was right.
It is time to say goodbye to everything I know.

The raids hardly ever stop.
We never see them coming.
We never know who is next.

The good news is, I finally took a shower.
I stayed in the tub for one hour and 45 minutes.
I used 15 beauty products, and over ten cleansers for my face.

I kept the bathroom door open, and played \"Bridgerton\" on my tablet as I proceeded methodically in killing the germs and erasing all that I know.

For the first time since the war started, I gathered enough courage to see some of the displaced who have turned the streets into their home.

One girl smoked her hookah on a pavement.
Her eyes were foggy.
Old men ate sandwiches.
Young men slept on the floor.
Their naked feet as black as the color of disappointment.
Colorful tents.
Tens and tens of bags.
Containing, perhaps, the lives of those who are trying to hang onto the remaining threads of life.

We listen to the news all day.
We watch in disbelief the photos and videos circulating on various online platforms.

Bombs and missiles with different shades of color.
Erasing neighborhoods in a second.
Villages becoming flat.
Women cleaning the debris.
Trying to save what little is left of their dignity.

Children hugging their tiny bodies on the pavements, in the parking lots, the schools, hospitals, abandoned buildings.

Wounded animals crying out in relief at the sight of the hundreds of volunteers who are running from one area to the next city in order to save them.

The war will end.
But oh! how I hope we will all remain as united, as protective, as God fearing, as loving as we are now.
That also goes for some of us who are using our various platforms to boast about our generosity towards those who have not asked for this fate.

\"Don't cry. They are all together now. Playing dice and laughing and talking at the same time\", my cousin comforted me as I screamed uncontrollably.

It is his father who died.
But he had to comfort ME.

That should give you an idea, dear anyone, of the state I'm in.

Until next time,

P.S. I have started writing a story for children.
The title is: 
\" A girl who doesn't belong\".
It might come as a surprise to you, dear anyone, but it is a happy story.

October 12 2024





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