A flash from the Lebanese memory.
Never shall I forget that day that began as any other. That day that turned my life into one long night. That instant when bombs pierced the sky and explosions flashed in the daylight, and my homeland was viciously pounded by the missiles of Israel.
I had to pinch my face. Was I still alive? Was I conscious? I couldn't believe it. But where was I? This was not my home. The rubble I lay under was not my bed. I strained to focus my eyes in the midst of the haze and smoke, and that’s when I began to hear the screaming. These were not cries of people for help, but for each other; fathers calling out for their daughters, sons for their mothers. Siblings for one another. And I was joining the voices.
I called out for my mother and father as any child would, not knowing what was wrong or what to expect. I moved quickly to push as much debris off of me as I could. I was battered and bruised, but the children surrounding me were much worse, their bodies mangled and broken. As I shouted and searched I saw a mother wailing as she clutched her limp child. It was obvious that the child was lifeless, but she held the infant as though a mother’s touch could indeed bring her child back.
Tears slid down my face as the scene came into focus around me. Buildings were torched and twisted; my school had no sign of life and the apartment building I had spent fourteen years of my life in was gone. Ten families had lived in my building. It was now an array of lifeless ruins.
I continued to search for my family, but with each turn I made any hope I had of finding them diminished. Still I searched, and I asked everyone alive if they knew where my family was; but no one had my relations on their mind– they were looking for their own. And then a voice called my name– "Zainab!". Over and over this voice called me and I realized it was that of my youngest brother, Mahdi. I wept and screamed because although I could hear Mahdi I could not find him. I called him, crying out his name until finally, beneath the wreckage, I found my brother. It was as though his bedroom had given way in the explosion and the ceiling had fallen in on him. I tried to remove the concrete but all my efforts were in vain.
I can not describe to you in words what he looked like, my poor brother– his normally glowing complexion masked by a mist of ash and pain. "Zainab, where’s Mama?" he whispered. To comfort him, I said that she was coming. I caressed his cheek and realized his face had been slashed by the shards of glass in the rubble. Mahdi asked for our mother and father over and over again, but all I could say was that they were coming for us both.
A few moments later Mahdi's breathing was much more strained and he struggled to speak. I stood up and began to scream for help; I cried out God’s name a million times and I pleaded and begged for someone to help us. I tried again to remove the rubble, but it was no use. I couldn’t move it and Mahdi couldn’t handle the pressure of the concrete on his small chest. "Zainab please get Mama, please Zainab!" My name was the last word his lips uttered. He moved no more and I was left alone to mourn my brother.
Though Mahdi was buried, I have yet to find my parents and my two other siblings.
A piece of me was stolen on that day in July, when Israel took from me my home and my family. Never shall I forget that day when all of Lebanon’s children cried for her and wept as they witnessed their motherland torn and shattered. We shall never forget.
2006-12-04
06:04:25
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