Dear Anyone,
The walls hold our secrets and the smell of fear that took with it the glimmer of hope.
When will I cry?
Am I destined to scream for the rest of my life?
Will we ever belong again?
Hallucinations. Illusions.
And the photo of a little girl playing in the open trunk of her father's car.
He turned it into a colorful playground for her, made of embroidered sheets and some toys he managed to pick as they fled their home.
A car flew to the roof of a building in Beirut today, from the pressure caused by one of the defeating raids.
And the buzzing of that menacing drone hovering over us all day and all night.
A triumphant, nasty fly we cannot reach.
Revenge? Taking sides? Protesting? Sharing horrific stories?
All of that is not necessary.
Hallucinations.
Illusions.
And I must admit I wore a lot of makeup this morning.
A red dress suitable for festive occasions.
My sister said quietly:
:You look like a dead mannequin".
I smiled.
She asked If I heard the horrific raids last night.
"I was surprised you didn't call with your usual screams", she added.
What raids?
I put the music on high volume and I got busy winning an Oscar!
"They were the most terrifying since the war started".
I do not care.
I was busy winning an Oscar for one of my movies, and then I wrote a story about a woman who wishes to be elsewhere.
Or was that after the 2020 explosion, when everything ended?
I have lost track of time.
The sweat covers my face and my body at all times.
My best friend passed by to tell me goodbye.
"We will only be gone for a month. The children are shaking uncontrollably at night, and we cannot stay here anymore".
Paris is a beautiful haven.
She handed me a small red coffee maker.
"A little gift from Italy. Keep it safe until I come back. We will gossip for hours as we sip our usual coffee blended with some cardamom".
I hugged her a bit too tightly.
"Don't forget me", I whispered.
"I shall write small stories about our beautiful little life in this beautiful country. Write to me about the delicious croissants and Chocolat Chaud", I said quite tragically.
She started to cry.
"When did you become A drama queen? And why are you wearing so much makeup? You look like a dead mannequin. See you in a month".
I have made my decision, dear Anyone.
I shall find a way to emigrate to a small village in Italy or Portugal and become a farmer.
Perhaps life will allow me one last chance to become a woman once more. Do you still remember dear anyone when the weight of a man on top of us was the only fascination we lived for?
A farmer in love.
Hallucinations. Illusions.
I am too tired to continue writing.
I need to kill that buzzing fly.
Until tomorrow,
Hanadi
P.s. I have assumed you would like that weight on top of you to be that of a man's. Forgive me my Lack of respect for whatever your choice of gender might be. It is not important, is it?
What is, is that fleeting moment of fascination.
Hallucinations. Illusions.
October 7th 2024
EN 
AR