ENGL253 focuses on life history including autobiography and biography writing. You will be asked to reflect on the course readings and discussions by contributing to the classroom blog. Each student should write two entries per week. The length of each entry should not exceed 15 lines. Enjoy the blog!
Friday, March 15, 2013
Baby Drafts
Please upload the baby drafts you wrote this week in the workshop with Dr. Lydia Kualapai. I also want each one of you to reply and reflect on one of his/her classmates drafts. What are the things you particularly liked in your classmate's writing?
What Happens During Summer It was a bleak summer in Tripoli, 2006. War would not stop at any rate. Shooting would not end no matter what the truce deals were. It was just so treacherous and dreary! I am not much of a politics person. When I was younger, I did not even try to search for the reasons that triggered war. All I cared about was “getting it over with” so that I could enjoy my summer at the beach. One of those war days, my sisters and I decided to spend some time relaxing in front of the stillness of the blue sea, where everyone awaits that air breeze to strike their faces, and away from all the mumbo jumbo happening inside the city. This same exact day, war decided to outstretch to the only place where no one would expect it would reach- the beach. It is the kind of place where people move to during summer to try to run away from the hotness, the annoying racket, and the unstoppable war in town. It is the kind of place where sunset was the best movie to be watched. It would be the ultimate highlight of the day watching it, from between the parasols, drown in the horizon that was adorned with the beauty of boulders aligning like a line of steady soldiers. It is the kind of place where green never dies, tanning oil never gets out of sight, and activity never reduces. The day I finally decided to leave home- without my mother being so comfortable about it- a warship stood at the horizon in the sun’s place, blocked the gaiety among people, and turned the beach into the worst nightmare. What can I say? A mother’s heart never lies, huh? Anyway, just like any other summer day, I was walking across the shore with a couple of friends, until I see people running away like maniacs in a marathon. I thought that was funny. The funny part did not last for so long when I heard my older sister screaming my name at the top of her lungs trying to reach me through the crowd. The climax of that was the warship being bombarded in the middle of the used-to-be-blue sea. Within a fraction of a second, I felt deep anxiety. All I remember was my sister holding my hand and making me run along her giant footsteps to catch up to her. The economic status was a wreck; thus, my sister went swiftly up to the chalet, reckoning there was anything that could be sold to make some cash, and got it. Just when I saw her tumble upon the last couple of steps as she was holding a whole set of hung clothes, I knew things got serious. She grabbed whatever she saw in her way. Within the list of things she carried was: an expensive watch, a couple of pairs of shoes, water, and a CALCULATOR! How so very focused was my sister at that time! Because of the urge to go back home, people started riding random people’s cars just to reach town. I recall some clothes dangling half the way outside the windows of our car, with three people sitting in the front, and about five people piling up one above the other in the back. We drove insanely enough to break the record in reaching town with the least time ever. Last thing I remember of this day was mom buying stacks and stacks of food that would suffice us- a family of 6- for the next three months. That day was the most terrible, crowded, and jumbled up day in the history of my whole childhood! Nothing went right, nothing was in place. However, at the end of the day, I had a certain sense of security being home with my family despite the fact that our town was in danger of being attacked at any time.
The Goodbye.. When I smell the ¨Suavitel¨ detergent, I remember that bold green-eyed man. Yes, that tall man with that black moustache on his face that reflects the color of his big eyes. That man that seems to be so rigid and serious but that is so weak in front of the tears of anyone of his family. That man that tries to draw his life as if it were the easiest one for his children not to worry. That man that would sacrifice anything to see their smile and their eyes shining brightly and sparkling happiness. Yeah, that man whom I proud to say ¨He´s my father¨. It was on June 2005 when my mom, my brothers and I moved from Mexico to come and live in Lebanon. I still remember his watery eyes when we were on the way to the airport. He was trying to make jokes and laugh all the time so we didn´t notice his hidden sadness. My father was supposed to stay because his work demanded it. We were forced to be separated, my brothers, mom and I in Lebanon and he alone in Mexico. He was trying to pretend that he wasn’t affected by that idea. Consecutive moments of silence were present during our road to the airport. I was holding my tears and praying to be traffic to delay our arrival and all the melancholy that would come along. But no, when you rarely wish such things to happen they simply don´t. My younger brother was playing with his toys and was so happy to be travelling in an airplane. He was too small to understand what was really going on. In that moment I wished I was his age, an innocent four-year old kid who would believe anything his parents said…but no I was very conscious about everything. I could see the gloomy eyes of my twin brother who was holding my mom´s hand as if consoling her. Then, I heard the sounds of the airplanes taking off and landing and I realized that we were becoming so close to arrive. My heart started to beat so rapidly just like how the speakers of the loud music on the night clubs do. We arrived and all the wished impediments were useless. The time to say good bye forced itself and there was no way out, no escape. The car stopped and the workers took the luggage. We all walked out from the car. The car was taken to be parked and my father accompanied us to register the luggage. At that time no one could talk. The bothering silence in the car was replaced by the loud sound of the crowded people in the airport. The time to enter our gate and wait for our plane came. Each one of my family embraced my father and then we took our way. My tears were no more able to be hold. Yeah, goodbyes are not easy at all…
A Sorrowful Ending Whenever people start talking about war and their experiences with it, I used to eagerly listen, constantly asking a few questions, but I never had anything to share back. However, I didn't profoundly realize that until an English assignment triggered my curiosity. Upon conceiving that, I headed over to my mother, I told her all about my worries, that I was supposed to hand over an assignment that I had no experience about, I told her "I am supposed to write about the war and how it did affect me, but I have nothing to say about it, I haven't been directly affected by any war, what should I write about?". Back then, I didn't have anything to write about, but upon hearing her mournful story, I discerned that I could write stories about war and its disastrous effects on our people. "She was a dedicated nurse", she began. "My cousin was just another passionate person whose sole aim was to aid unlucky people that were hurt by the merciless war", she continued. "She accepted a humble salary the AUH used to give her just so she could do what she did best, which is to cure the helpless patients". I remember my mother's face lightening up when she told me about the ever-present wide smile on her cousin's face no matter the harsh circumstances she was forced to endure. However, her fiancé, who she adored, wanted to leave this unpredictable land and go somewhere safer, where they could marry and live happily, somewhere their children could be raised safely, where war is not a worry. After she finished packing, she was ready to head to the airport, she said goodbye to her friends and family, never knowing that this goodbye would be forever. With watery eyes she tried to smile as she wanted to appear strong in front of her family. Holding the hands of her fiancé she headed towards the car that was going to take them to the airport, and into his arms she fell as a baleful bullet hit her in the chest. She muttered her last words as he held her firmly, tears rolling down on his cheeks, refusing to accept the painful fact that she is helplessly dying in his arms. "It was a week, a whole 7 days till her family was able to get her corpse to their village due to the harsh conditions back then", my mother concluded the story, emotions clearly visible in her eyes. It was from that day that I realized that no Lebanese could have escaped the fatal consequences of the war. After hearing that despondently touching story, I felt great grief towards every victim that the war have ended up callously dismantling.
I really liked the story of your mother´s cousin. It was very touching, how war stopped the love story of two young innocent individuals. It´s a dramatic romantic story and those kind of narrations are my favourites. I liked your use of quotations at the beginnig, I think they were very helpful to make your story more realistic. In my opinion, if you develop it well and give more details about the love story between your cousin´s mother and her fiance, more events and memories, it would be a great story...
I really got interested in your touching story.I believe it's a tragic story emphasizing the fate of a couple during the war.Your choice of words and diction grabbed my attention because you tend to use the right word for the right situation in which you made me feel i am living the moment.
The beginning of your story really grabbed my attention and as i was reading the rest of it, i was really touched.Your story shows how a lot of people, including your mothers cousin and her fiance, were suffering from the war and thus were forced to leave their country.Moreover, it was really sad how your mothers cousin died in her fiances arm and how two lovers were seperated because of war.However, i feel like there could be so much more description to this story and it would turn out to be perfect
Depend on yourself For every person a mother is the ideal person who gives love and tender without any return. My mother represents the world to me. She is my leader that I always go back to her in difficult period. She gives solutions for every single problem. In addition, she is not only my idol in actions but also I look like her physically. My mother’s face smelled like a Jasmine flower in spring time. The color of her eyes seems like you are going deep into a large ocean. Her blond hair lightens my eyes by just looking at her. My mother’s face is the only thing that I always wish to see when I am into difficulties and problems. My mother is a dynamic woman. She loves to work. She is an honest person. My mother is a French teacher who has the best charisma to let the student listen to her while explaining. 20 years till now, my mother still the same dynamic and enthusiastic in her job. She gave me something I can never forget, a moral lesson. She always tells me “depend on yourself, not on the others”. For every action I make and for every decision I take I always refer to what she says. The most things that make me laugh when I think about my mother is the smell of her hands that always smell DETOL. She is obsessed with cleaning the house every day after coming from work. She is a well organized woman. I always treat my mother well. I do not remember any time I let her feel sad because she always here for me. I do not regret any moment or any event because I am polite with her and always care about her and let her feel comfortable.
while I was listening to my classmate essay about what his grandmother told him about the war I was kind of thinking why did she tell him? is it to make him a strong man and let him know about war? even him was surprised. I felt that what he said was touching because of the way he read the story and how he explained to Dr lidia how his grandmother was telling him the story. I think that we should know what w3ar is because no one knows if we are going to be in this situation someday.
War! An extremely violent and tragic word. It’s a state in which the economy is disrupted under harsh and severe circumstances in a certain country. It’s a state in which fear and concern dominates, love fades away, and forgiveness ceases! Those are just what I have heard and learnt about war since I personally didn’t acquire any experience with this term and hopefully not. However, my aunt once told me a story that took place during the civil war.
Sam, who was a medicine student, was about to finish from medicine school and graduate with a degree. Like all other citizens, he lived situations full of violence and brutality during the civil war in Lebanon. Additionally, he was known to be a perseverant, hard-working, and an intelligent student. He was passionate for his major keeping in mind that he would become a doctor and help all patients. He was an upright man full of ethics and honor. People loved him and highly respected him.
And there came the day when his life came to an end. He went to his university to attend a crucial class unacquainted that it will be the last class he will attend. “Unfortunately and through the risky moments, he got shot by a sniper when coming back“, cried my aunt. The medical student fell to the ground in present of the destruction and damage of the buildings. She said this phrase with tears in her eyes. She claimed that that was his destiny which no one can change. I felt devastated when hearing this contemptible sorrowful story, and tears burst out of my eyes too.
Sam, the outstanding medical student who was planning for a successful and prosperous future, passed away. Sam, the one whom the society built thriving expectations for, passed away. Melancholia dominated his village all over in present of his parents’ misery and grief. He kept a memorable image in everyone’s mind.
It’s paramount that war is equivalent to people’s suffocation and agony. Sam was absolutely not the only one who had such destiny. A lot shared and encountered the same fate during this atrocious and dreadful era.
Upon scrolling down my classmates' drafts, this one surely grabbed my attention the most. After I skimmed the title, it was not me, it was my curiosity that led me to read the remainder of the draft. "Touching" is not enough to describe this draft, which I believe no word can. First of all, I would like to mention that the draft organization was purely flawless, Karmita knew how to employ every event appropriately. Furthermore, she commenced with defining war while stressing on its negative effects leaving the reader wondering about this obviously despondent story. Nevertheless, she emphasized every now and then on Sam's outstanding nature, as she intended to imply the great loss that the war was responsible for. Last but not least, she used Sam's story as an example to the many agonies that took place during the war, nut-shelling people's adversity. Hence, she clearly got to her point, and certainly to the reader's heart.
The nurse in the hospital laboratory scolded me immediately as I entered to get my blood drawn, because I forgot to take off my shoes. She yelled at me again when I asked where exactly I should take them off. I was pretty scared during the entire procedure, since everything I did seemed to enrage the woman. She was slightly overweight, had a bleached perm, and wore orthopedic shoes and earrings that were fashionable in the eighties. I can doubtlessly say that all these are included in the overall uniform of the Russian medical worker at a government hospital. I can also say that you will definitely be scolded numerous times as you’re getting your health check-up. But hey, it’s all for free! You can get a friendly, expensively dressed doctor for money at any time, but not many can afford it with their meager salaries. Russia has made a show of haphazardly balancing on the leftover communism, while desperately clutching onto the capitalist necessity of the modern world. With the collapse in 1991 and an apparently incompetent first president of the newly formed Russian Federation, the government turned into jeopardy and still largely remains in that state to this day. However, everything is changing and things are looking brighter than before (the old generation would at this point start disagreeing). I was put before the historical reality last summer, when I visited the estate where the last tsar of the Russian Empire was ambushed and killed along with his family. The events became almost tangible and this made me feel more competent to converse about it.
Sorry, this is not complete.
When I was listening to Nicole's writing about her grandfather's experiences, I liked her abundant use of imagery. Her style managed to put us all in the situation with all the details without seeming redundant. I like how she portrayed her grandfather's distress. We immediately understood what a reader would naturally: the psychological struggles of the human existence :)
reading olga's story, i couldn't help but feel like i was watching it tske place before my eyes. her use of descriptive details placed me in the government hospital, standing in front of the enraged nurse. i liked the way she developed the idea behind her story, perfectly transitioning from a simple incident to her views regarding communism and capitalism. her use of humor lightened up the mood and showed us readers that even in our worst times, we can still try to take our situations lightly and cope with them in an easier way.
In July 2006, it started. You can only hear a fast whistle two seconds before the main event. A whistle that catches your breath and drives you crazy. It makes you look around searching for a shelter, a big hole in the ground, a cave that can fit you, etc… anything to avoid the shell. Then in a blink of an eye you see the smoke and explosion, and even sometimes feel them. The enemy destroyed all the bridges, radars and even ships heading to Lebanon. In the 16th of this month, I took my bicycle and went from home (in Amchit) on my way to the nearest bakery. That day was so calm comparing it to the ones before. As soon as I finished breakfast, I drove back home. Well at least that was what I intended to do. Luckily on my way back, I had to pass near the military base. It was 9:15 AM when I heard the helicopter of type gazelle. But that wasn’t what made me scared. 20 seconds after that I heard it. A whistle so close that I knew this is the end of me. They wanted to hit the radar of the military base, but instead they missed, and the shell fell on a car parked ten meters away from me. The explosion was so huge that it threw me away along with my bicycle and all what surrounded it. As soon as I hit the ground, the bicycle landed on top of me. The metal cylinder that hangs in the back wheel of my white BMX bicycle strikes my head. When I woke up, 23 hours later, I was in st. Martins hospital in Jbeil, my sister asleep next to me and my father talking to the doctor just outside the door. No one thought that I would wake up, I heard the doctor saying two words that stuck on my mind, the first was my name, and the second was:”COMA”. I went in a 23 hour coma and woke up with 5 stitches in my head, a fracture in my skull, and dislocated shoulder. However, with all of my injuries, it was the only time I couldn’t wait to go home back to my family and friends, knowing that it could happen again or maybe worse any time and place. Thus you prefer to have your family with you the moment your down, because they are your legs, your heart and your needs so you would keep going on with your life.
I liked your story and it is so impressing as it talks about war and your experience. I liked the way you described places and events and how you introduced Al Ghassani. Your article is rich in vocabulary. What I also liked is how you described your first time experience of such a fear and what you and your cousin Joe had gone through since the gunshot started. All in all, I liked your article from different perspectives; however, the article overlooked a title. Your conclusion gave me a feeling about you could not own what you had owned before in your hometown, and that what is gone would never come back. Things change with time.
I never liked Sundays, but this one was different. It was cloudy in the morning, no rain, just a lot of clouds. I woke up to answer my phone. It was my friend Ghazi, he wanted to see me. As i got ready i realised that there was nobody home, and that the neighborhood was very calm, i gave no importance to that. He met me downstairs to walk around together, storming the streets of Tripoli. No cars , no people, everyplace is closed, the sky was gray to dark blue, a sun would crack every now and then.
we walked around, talking about stuff any two 16-year olds would talk about. Sudden Gunshots filled the air and explosions of RPG's played no nice symphony, so we started running to places we could hide under. Red, Orange, and green bullets filled, and met in the sky. We kept running until we met a big-muscled, long-bearded, tall, fat guy that started screaming: "get down on the ground, get down or ill kill you" we had to do what he said after he pointed a gun at us. he asked about where we're from, our whereabouts, just getting some identity. we replied to every question as soon as its been asked, with mumbling, shivering voices, repeating every answer twice. we were on the most known street in Tripoli "al kazdoura" and there was no one around, just me, my friend, and this big bulldozer. Our eyes seemed to tear as we looked deep into the man's eyes, we could know nothing about the man, than we quickly removed our sight to the floor and kept staring at it. He let us go for no reason, just like he called us, for no reason.
We rapidly started running away from the man, as our necks would turn with every step we took, to have a look at the man, to see if he is going to shoot, and also so we dont forget how he looks. we finally arrived to an internet cafe where we all used to hang out. nobody was there. It was closed. We were far away from both our houses, and did not know what to do. Why wasn't there anyone in the streets? Why did the guy point a gun at us? what is goin on?
Just as we asked ourselves these questions, 10 trucks each with 10 soldiers, were passing right infront of us. We followed them, They were our only hope. we almost got to Se7et El Nour (Abdulhamid Square), right next to my house, as soldiers told us to stop \, because they were going to a dangerous place. we asked them where it was, they replied: tebbeneh.
We looked at eachother, threw random sentences at eachother out of confusion. we got to the square, to find about three hundred men, along with a hundred envoys. most of the men were long bearded, they were the Salafis. it was quite a scene. everything was so mixed up, we couldnt understand anything.
A big explosion bursted out into my ears, of which we found out to be a Press SUV.everything was mixed up, and the explosion didnt help us. it turned out to be for new-tv. we didnt know why they set it on fire.
we couldnt take it anymore, we started running towards my place. all the way from the square to my place, still no one on the ground. we raced to the building, called the elevator, i opened and entered.
my mom hugged me thanking God i was fine, she just kept saying her prayers every time i asked her what was happening. Ghazi made no gesture as he looked at my mom, cuddling me, as he thought, for no reason.
later on, she told us everything, the war was back on. the streets of tripoli were full with gangs, grenades all over the place, gunshots literally everywhere. she was quite mad because i left my cellphone home. we were a releifed, we were finally home, ghazi called his parents and everything.
All of a sudden, i heard the sound of breaking glass, ran to my fathers office ,
Your story touched me. The way you were describing it grabbed my attention. It was well explained and detailed. Every step and thought was fairly developed. I could tell what were your feelings because I live in Tripoli too. I feel ashamed to say that we are not protected in our country. I am glad you mentioned what happened with you to let others be aware how scary things could be sometimes.
More than 24 years ago, my parents with my old brother used to live in America. They lived there for 7 years and then when my mother knew she was pregnant with me, they decided to move to Lebanon and I wish they never did. November 4, 1994 was the day I was born. This day was supposed to be a very special day for my parents but instead it turned out to be a disaster. Sometimes I say to myself “If I hadn’t been born, this wouldn’t have happened to my mother.” There are a lot of times where I blame myself for what happened to my mother but then again we all knew it was 90% the doctor’s fault. While my mother was in labor, her pressure got high and reached 22 and the doctor didn’t do anything to lower her pressure. My uncle, who was a doctor, told my mother’s doctor to do a caesarean in order to avoid any danger on my mother’s life or on my life, however the doctor refused. Therefore, as soon as my mother gave birth to me, she was affected by a stroke and thus went into comma. After a long nine months carrying me, my mother was not able to neither feel nor live the feeling all mothers get when they give birth to their first baby girl. After tough nine months, she was not able to see her new born baby, touch her soft skin, smell her fresh scent, and hold her tiny hands. She was deprived of all that because of a stupid mistake the doctor did. The doctors would tell my father that there’s a huge possibility my mother wouldn’t wake up and that we’re going to lose her. However, my mother didn’t give up on us. She kept fighting for her life and after 48 hours she woke up from the comma. It was a miracle. Even the doctors were surprised that she was able to make it. On the other hand, after she woke up, the stroke had affected the right side of her brain. She wasn’t able to see for a whole day and she couldn’t talk; her mouth was drooped to the right. My mother, today, can’t write with her right hand, nor run, nor wear high heels, and her right side is numb. For example, if she was wearing a ring and it fell from her finger, she doesn’t feel it. In fact, this happened twice to her and she lost 2 gold rings. However, that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that she was able to come back and share this tough world with us because honestly I don’t know what I would do without her. continued
My mother plays the role of both parents to me; a mother and a father. About 7 years ago, we were told the bad news. It’s like everything bad is haunting us. We knew everything was going to change and things were never going to be the same but we just had to deal with it. Alzheimer. We were told that my father has Alzheimer. The worst part is that there is no cure for this illness. Why does almost every illness have a cure except for the one my father is affected with? There’s only a medicine which slows it down and it really helped in my dad’s situation but the illness is still there and it’s getting worse day by day and my mother is getting affected by it the most. The amount of love and appreciation I have for my mother is indescribable. She’s the strongest woman I have ever seen by the way she handles things. What she went through was really tough and what she’s going through today is even worse but she still manages to act fine and put a smile on her face although I know that deep inside she’s not. My mother is always trapped at home because we cannot leave my father alone and I’m at university most of the time. Wherever she goes she has to take him with her because she’s afraid to leave him home alone and in the very rare cases where she does leave him alone she locks the door and comes back home in a maximum of an hour. She has to feed him, help him wear his clothes, take care of him…She’s his fulltime nurse. “Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” (Einstein) This is what my mother taught me from life. No matter what difficulties you go through, you must fight for your life and make it worth living. Be strong and never give up on the ones you love because you don’t know whats waiting for you in the days to come. Take every opportunity and show them you love them because you never know when God decides to take them away. And most importantly, life goes on.
He rushed down the stairs behind his wife and children carrying a few snacks and bottles of water. They headed down to the garage. They couldn’t hear each other, not even their own screams. All they could hear were the sounds of gunshots and bombs dropping all around them. As soon as they reached the garage, he called his son to help him carry the sand bags they used for protection. All five of them sat in silence. At that time, him and one of his sons had to work to make enough money to pay for his oldest son’s tuition. They would leave the house as soon as the sounds of the bombs and gunshots died down. His wife and daughters would wait for them, praying that they would see them again that night. As my grandfather told me the story, I imagined what it must have been like for my father and his siblings to live through a war. Our house was being renovated at the time. Day by day I would watch the bullet marks on the concrete slowly disappear with every smash the workers applied to the walls. I would watch my grandfather wince with every memory being destroyed before his eyes. A few years went by, and in 2006 a war started. Living in Brummana though, we were completely safe. Most of the shops moved up from Beirut to Brummana, and it was just like any other summer- maybe even better. The day would go by, and we would be distracted by our petty problems. But at night, we would watch the news and realize that while we were too busy enjoying our summer, there were people in this same country fighting for their lives. My grandfather would watch the news, then he would let out a deep sight and go to bed. He couldn’t bear seeing anyone go through what he went through. We could all tell that it was a rough time for him. He spent so much time trying to forget the past, only to live in a country that’s never moved on from its past.
I like the character analysis in this story. It brings sentimentality and authenticity to the narrative. The description of events is well written, and also the chronology of what is being said is advertent to characterization. I liked your simplicity in language, it gives leeway to a wider scope in audience and understanding of the subject. Your story and feeling and honesty. It was enjoyable :)
Nicole's story is a proof that when talking about war, one does not need to come up with a lot of fancy words and comlex sentence structures. All it takes is telling the brutal truth of how it happened, which she did pretty good. Lying in bomb shelters, denial of the war at some points and compassion for all of those fighting the war are but some of the reoccuring tragic events of every war. Also the shift from one war to another(consequently the shift from her grandfather's time to her own) portrays the continuity of war from one generation to another and was a nice twist compared to other stories and plots.
I had never heard such deafening silence before. It was loud and white and all encompassing. The only tangible evidence that proved I was still alive was the arresting panic and fear that had drenched my stark body cold. Moments later, a piercing resounding sound began to fill the black void I was enveloped in, followed by a shrill cry. At first, I didn’t understand. Who was screaming? Was I imagining this? And then it dawned on me. As a pair of sturdy arms wrapped around my fragile body, and held me in a way I knew my father only could, I understood that the high-pitched scream was coming from inside me. Inside my chest, out my throat, and into the open space. I wasn’t imagining this. My father held my head in between his shoulder and neck, and gently whispered it was going to be okay, it was all going to be okay. As he held me, and as the adrenaline pumping through my veins began to dwindle down, sensation was restored. I could finally feel the dampness of my cheeks from the tears; the dampness of my clothes from the sweat. And in spite of my father’s safe embrace, a cold chill ran through the shallow layers of my skin. I felt cold. Chilly even. Not the sort of chilly brought on by the weakened wisps of the cool air on a warm spring afternoon; cool air that rushes and gently caresses the sun kissed skin of you face and neck, and blithely plays with the loose strands of your tied up hair. No. Not that chilly. The sort of chilly that runs cold panic from your heart down deep to your bones; a panic that tingles down the length of your spine and makes you shiver. “Where are they?” I asked my father in a voice that seemed foreign to the one I had come to know as my own. “Where are mommy and Fadi?!” I asked him once more.
The situation I described here was the aftermath of a bombing during the civil war in Lebanon. My mother, father, sister and brother lived underground, under our house in Brummana. This narrative was written in the perspective of my sister. At the time her and my brother were both six and four years old respectively. My father had found her first, and then they’d moved through the debris and rubble to find my mother, Janet, and my brother, Fadi, hidden in the bathtub. This work of writing was not completed, I’d wished to go on about how the neighborhood has changed, and how the children that grow up there now will never know what had happened, that had permanently affected and shaped the lives of four individuals. That house will never be just a house to my family. It’ll always be the place flooding with memories from a past they wish to never relive.
During the journey of our life, we sew these remarkable unbreakable bonds with the dearest people around us, bonds we would never trade for the world. It starts from our birth day with our beloved mother until the ones with those closest friends we make for life. Personally, one of them touched me considerably and helped in shaping what I am today: my relation with my brother. My older brother who was, has been and always will be my idol on all levels, professionally, educationally, ethically and physically. Those deep blue eyes revealing a great deal of smartness has always captured my attention whenever he was discussing an issue or making a joke. His attractive tallness, humor and knowledge were for me, an 11 year old little girl, qualities I would like to find in my soul mate. He meant a great deal for me as a kid and I never stopped admiring him for being my brother, friend, father, teaser sometimes and icon. My dependency on him grew over time whenever I needed help in my school work, or an advice concerning my parents. And what a slap in the face I received when I knew my charming brother was travelling abroad due to the retreating state of our country, especially economically. Feelings of enormous abhor and anger ran through my skin and I accused Lebanon for the loss I was experiencing. I remember that day in 6th grade when I wrote an incredibly elaborated poem about what I was going through. I can never forget the tears of my mom running on her soft cheeks when reading my painful words; she actually kept it with her till now. During those long years separating us gradually by mind and soul, I must say I grew up for real. The departure of my brother was one of my early life shocks that led me to maturity. It made me realize not everything I desire will happen and at some point I must apprehend what losing meant to appreciate what I have. Of course, my dependency diminished eventually but still my brother remained one of my most adored male models I’ve ever laid eyes on. And now as I participate in raising his children, I hope one day I will make a family of my own with a man resembling my brother.
“The convoy of cars escaping from Marjeyoun has been bombed.” , that was all they wrote on the bottom screens of some T.V. channels. “I can’t talk now, we’re hiding in trenches away from the road” , then a series of those annoying beeps, that was all my mother heard when she tried contacting my father who was in that convoy on that dreadful night of the 2006 war with Israel.
At that moment I had a flashback of the last time I was walking through the lively streets of Marjeyoun. It was the first week of July, which I devoted –like every other year of my childhood- to selling tombola tickets for the upcoming Saint Elijah fair. How happy people were to be reminded about this occasion! The commotion and hustle in Elie’s Bakery sort of kicked me out, but he assured me with that warm smile of his, “I’ll buy some tickets later! “. My next heading was the town’s central market, but before I reached the end of that downhill road leading to the market, the high-frequency barbaric sound of an F-16 missile barged in on our peaceful and cozy commotion. Deafened by the sound, I shivered and fell on the ground as the earth was still quacking and window shutters were still chaotically slamming the walls. As I fell to the ground, I was thankful that I was still quivering -and able to hear myself breathing -on that hot pavement under the burning summer sun. While a couple of kilometers away and through the thick dark cloud of smoke you can see the meters-wide pit, which the missile caused and the wreckage of a few surrounding houses. But your imagination goes to murkier places where that pit is now being filled with blood of the surrounding dead bodies. I was offered a ride home, and on the way there I told that kind man –doing all his best to remain calm, as the surrounding village are still being bombed- to honk the car horn when I spotted mom panicking and asking random people about my whereabouts. As the car pulled in behind the house, we directly we directly went down to the family supermarket just below our house. My father was serving customers with all four hands, those who are now shopping to be ready for the war, however my father did find a way to keep hold of his Marlboro cigarette between his lips. He could be spotted easily in the biggest of crowds with that shiny bold head of his. As I reached him through the crowd, I kept hearing it again and again: ”How long is the war going to be this time ?!”. For some reason people asked my father that question, his response was a calm and quiet puff of smoke, as he returned the cigarette to his mouth and turned his back to see which shelves need to be refilled with food supplies. I don’t really recall looking into dad’s eyes as he waved us goodbye, on the eighteenth day of the war, luckily it was not the last time I was going to see him. My mother was taking us away from the South, away from the war in that overly packed 1983 Volvo. How brave she was on that day and even after every call from my father to inform us on the most recent bombings of roads and bridges; roads which we passed 15 minutes earlier.
War spared no one, yet back then when I was 11 years old, I might have been grateful that my name wasn’t Ali or Mohammad living in South Lebanon. But they were my friends. My mother –an elementary school teacher- still see children wail and cry every time an enemy F-16 is doing flight maneuvers over our skies. To the world Elie is just another number to add to the death tally; but to me he was the one who didn’t have the time to live and buy a tombola ticket, maybe he wasn’t so lucky after all !
It was brutal , destructive, filled with anger and hate. Lebanon was no longer the emerald of the middle east . The foolish citizens fought day and night . Day after day , the friction got stronger and fire was generated , destroying all the beauty of the heaven on Earth . Between all the people included in the war , there were ones who had no benefits and wanted nothing from it.
My family was one of those people who closed the door of the home and stayed in their praying for this end and nobody is hurt. In my grandparents’ house they felt safe and secured. That never stopped the cruel war from penetrating the walls , as a gunshot broke into the walls and passed by uncle’s ear . It was a miracle, probably because of all the praying. In one of these dark days , armed men walked into the house and attacked my family ,but my family managed to escape , except my father who hided in the closet . The reason for the survival of my was my grandfather who was the head chief of the police department . He was a strong tough guy who was raised in the mountains , working in planting fruits and selling them . He had his gun everywhere he went , since he had a lot of enemies due to his position in the government . My grandpa has green eyes like most of the family and bright brown hair. My grandpa is 75 year old in age and he is still in shape , we go to the gym sometimes . He is still a working person , owning a company and still providing an income to the house . My grandfather smells nice actually, it is probably because my uncles always get him expensive perfume from Belgium . he has a lot of perfume that he gives them away immediately for anyone. Sometimes he smell like olive oil , because it is part of his job, and this smell is nice cause it resembles the true smell of the koura nature .
This is my grandpa the hero of my family , and till now did not retire from that , since he is there whenever someone needs him whether a relative or a friend . He is my hero and I always relate to him when I’m in a certain situation .
November 17, 3 a.m, the emergency bell rang violently at the red cross station where i was spending my night. That night heavy sectarian clashes erupted in Tripoli, our neighbour city: As usual Bab El Tebenneh and Jabal Mohsen were having their monthly deathmatch.
Wearing my bulk helmet and an obese body armor, i jumped quickly into the 'war' ambulance. The 10 minutes distance seemed infinity to us. We felt that it might be our last night alive.
Before entering Kobbe neighborhood, the driver, my team leader callsigned Casper, dimmed the headlights: Sniper shots were landing around us. Gunpowder's fresh odor infiltrated the ventilation shaft, it was my first sense of war. Impacting RPGs interrupted the mysterious darkness of the power outage. Through the window i could see red tracer bullets taking a long journey into the black sky. The moment of truth was there. A voice through the noisy radio transferred to us the injury's address: It was just on the demarcation line, the death line. As we reached the place, a distant echoed voice called us. An old wrinkled woman, holding a 2-year-old baby with fresh tears on her pale cheek, prayed us to come into her miserable shelter. The only thing that i could do when i passed over the threshold, is feeling the poisonous humidity that lived with the family. The old woman, whom i forgot the name, guided us through a tenebrous alley: There a 54-year-old man "Ali" was lying in a blood bath: A hateful bullet sheared his stomach, dripping blood intensively. We did our life-saving job: I applied a bandage while my teammate 'Turbo' was preparing the stretcher. We took Ali, accompanied by his wife, to a nearby hospital, where he recovered from his severe injury.
It was a shocking night for me. My first experience of war was soaked with blood, the blood of a father whose only fault was closing the window to avoid sniper sights. That night changed my life in an bizarre way. It made me feel the twilight of war, of the dark blood.
In really enjoyed reading your story. The fusion of misery, war and courage was noticeable and it somehow accentuated your writing style with the personal touch of feelings you added while describing. The bloody scenes, the courageous persona you represent and the whole imagery of war and fear was well described and detailed. Your story touched me mostly because these sorts of conflicts in Tripoli are familiar to me. And one more thing, I can't but salute you for the amazing work you did that night.
The unfinished painting. Her fingers itched. The cheap "pastel" tickled her white skin and tinted it with a fusion of cold colors. The painting stood still on the tripod in front of her. A fine-looking woman sitting gracefully on a wooden bench, surrounded by flourishing blossoms and an orchard of green grass that shined like jade. She seemed to be waiting for something, or someone maybe. However, the unfinished angle of the drawing left wide space for imagination. She was about to attack that precise part of her drawing. Was it the secret lover she was willing to draw? Was the woman in the painting expecting her prince charming who would come and join her in this enchanted setting? Or was the bench left to welcome fowls and nomad birds? She held her black pastel and cuddled the thin paper with the touch of an artist, when suddenly; she heard a gunshot followed by a scream. When she first heard the gunshot, she made no reflex. The hunting season was at its best at this time of the year but the crying she perceived made her perplex. She kicked the tripod and ran to the door and before she could reach the door lock, it happened. An explosion erupted and then, as if the entire cosmos felt the shock, there was a moment of silence. The universe shivered. As soon as the shockwave exhaled its last breath, lights went off and deafening screams rose in the dark. That’s how my mother began the story of her miserable journey during the civil war. It was the first time she shares such a touching incident that happened in her life. One she taught she had forgotten… but never did. Frightened, she began to scream when a firm hand grabbed her by the shoulder. She felt safer as the hand seemed familiar. Her father was there, she felt protected. In a short time, they managed to escape from the house. Rushing footsteps followed them and as she turned, she saw her mother and sister running towards them, terrified. A bomb had exploded in their neighbor's house that was suddenly surrounded by scary shapes of big men carrying guns. My mother overheard the news the previous day. She knew that the religious conflicts in the country were getting more serious but she never imagined that an isolated village like Rahbeh would ever witness such an abomination. Such a horror. Such a misery. (I've chosen the first part of the draft due to character restriction. The story is to be continued.
Sierra Leone also known as the “mountain lion” is located in West Africa. It’s enriched with beautiful landscapes and mountains green as ever. Each beach is unique and different than the other. The water is calm and blue, the breeze would just blow through your hair so calmly and smoothing. The people are so generous and peaceful, living a calm and carefree life. Even though it’s a huge country almost everyone knows everyone there. The Lebanese had a tight community. I was raised and lived my whole life there. Sierra Leone was my home, my land, until my home became at war. Wake up! Wake up! I opened my eyes and woke up to the sound of my mother screaming. “We have to hide”: she said. It was on an afternoon day. I was about 10 years old, living with my parents. My mother grabbed me immediately and took me to the dining room. I was so confused and scared for I did not know what was going on, but all I could hear were gunshots and people screaming. As we laid there in hiding, all I could think of was how we are going to survive, when the rebels are outside killing people. My mother sat there beside me, trying to comfort me, but how do you really comfort a 10 year old in a situation like this? While I was hiding under the table I approached the window out of curiosity to see what it was like outside. Outside where it’s not safe filled with blood and tears. As I peaked at the window I saw a black woman running for her life with her little baby rapped behind her back. The woman suddenly stops, takes the baby off her back and hugs him. I was just sitting there and so confused and lost to why is this woman hugging her baby instead of her running and saving them both. All I see next was the woman placing her child on the floor and just running. It was then that it struck me and everything made sense. Death! Death is what happened to the poor child. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Such a sad image to be stuck in a 10 year old’s head. Next thing I felt was a huge and tall man grabbing me it was my father. Taking me away from the window so I don’t get shot at. I hugged him, I was so scared and emotional but I felt safe in his arms. Then suddenly all we hear are men screaming loudly and banging on the door. My father looked at my mother, the way he looked at her made me sure that danger was heading out way. He told her to take me to the room because the rebels are in our house.
Battle I used to hear my parents speak of war over and over. They used to remember every second of it and every detail as if it was yesterday. I used to hear my father’s stories since I was a kid. Over the years, I thanked God that I was born after the disastrous battle that happened in our country. War lasted 30 years and it somehow affected my parents both positively and negatively. My father was still not married when war started, yet he still managed to fall in love and get married. During my parent’s wedding day, the only road that lead my mother to church was bombed. My mother along with her family never gave up and somehow managed to reach the wedding ceremony at time. When the wedding was over, both my parents went back home and realized that their eight story building was targeted by the enemies. The place that was supposed to be home has now become ‘hell’. My father was the first to enter the apartment and insisted that my mother stayed out. Till this day my mother describes the feeling of devastation that she felt at that moment. It was a confusion of feelings, being safe in the arms of my father, yet feeling the sorrow of a destroyed shelter. Over the next few years, the same exact scenario was repeated seven times. My father’s reaction would be calm as if he got used to being targeted. He always offered my mother refuge, which she always refused. It was a strong moral, social and emotional bond that joined my parents. No matter the stress they lived, my parents had an oath to stay together no matter the difficulties. War destroyed our home one time after the other. The enemy killed everyone including women and children and my parents could feel the danger growing. Once my father was asleep and suddenly woke up to the sensation of hot metal through his pillow. He woke up to find out that a sniper had targeted him during his sleep. The bullet missed his head and went through his pillow. From that moment on, sleeping which was considered the only escape from the brutal reality was targeted by the enemy. Normal daily life activities were targeted too. As my mother was doing her laundry one day, she realized that a bullet had pierced the wall behind her, yet she managed to keep her calm. They both stayed and never once retreated. And after the countless years of war, my parents became immune and resistant and lived normally as if war never existed. They were more that satisfied with what they had and their only hope was love and determination.
Orange blossoms Will never smell the same. As I take a walk between the orange trees,the scenes of war Replay before my eyes. To some people, war was for months and years, but for me, it was only for 5 min. It was 2 am, everyone Was asleep, a calm village,a loud voice of a little cricket echoing in the silence, and me...only me, awake, admiring the beautiful space of darkness. And then it happened. How? I don't remember...it was sudden and scary. No time to think, I could only see the window's sunscreen falling and a quake under my nude feet. I immediately carried my little sister without waking her up cz I didn't want to scare her and then I ran to the living room. I couldn't see anything that moment. I was suddenly in a silent movie. I could only see my parents running toward me and speaking words that I couldn't hear. They took us to my grandparents house which was only few steps away from our house, but they wanted to make sure we are all fine. My grandparents were acting weird, like nothing happened! I can say they got used to it. No harm was caused, only the sound of the bomb hitting a nearby mountain called" Jabal terbol". But eventhough nothing happened to us, the whole thing was fritening. My parents and my grandparents laughed, a 5 min of war was simply like a thunder and few rain drops, but for me it was a different case. I felt that these 5 min were the end of the world, how could they even take years of war and 5. Min drove me crazy?! Since that day "akkar" changed. I still have my childhood memories carved in its Trees and sky and even the sweet summer breeze. But whenever I walk between the orange trees I don't enjoy their exquisit odor anymore, their smell is now a reminder of the past, these blossoms arena longer blossoms of oranges....they became blossoms of smoke.
What Happens During Summer
ReplyDeleteIt was a bleak summer in Tripoli, 2006. War would not stop at any rate. Shooting would not end no matter what the truce deals were. It was just so treacherous and dreary! I am not much of a politics person. When I was younger, I did not even try to search for the reasons that triggered war. All I cared about was “getting it over with” so that I could enjoy my summer at the beach. One of those war days, my sisters and I decided to spend some time relaxing in front of the stillness of the blue sea, where everyone awaits that air breeze to strike their faces, and away from all the mumbo jumbo happening inside the city. This same exact day, war decided to outstretch to the only place where no one would expect it would reach- the beach.
It is the kind of place where people move to during summer to try to run away from the hotness, the annoying racket, and the unstoppable war in town. It is the kind of place where sunset was the best movie to be watched. It would be the ultimate highlight of the day watching it, from between the parasols, drown in the horizon that was adorned with the beauty of boulders aligning like a line of steady soldiers. It is the kind of place where green never dies, tanning oil never gets out of sight, and activity never reduces.
The day I finally decided to leave home- without my mother being so comfortable about it- a warship stood at the horizon in the sun’s place, blocked the gaiety among people, and turned the beach into the worst nightmare. What can I say? A mother’s heart never lies, huh? Anyway, just like any other summer day, I was walking across the shore with a couple of friends, until I see people running away like maniacs in a marathon. I thought that was funny. The funny part did not last for so long when I heard my older sister screaming my name at the top of her lungs trying to reach me through the crowd. The climax of that was the warship being bombarded in the middle of the used-to-be-blue sea. Within a fraction of a second, I felt deep anxiety. All I remember was my sister holding my hand and making me run along her giant footsteps to catch up to her.
The economic status was a wreck; thus, my sister went swiftly up to the chalet, reckoning there was anything that could be sold to make some cash, and got it. Just when I saw her tumble upon the last couple of steps as she was holding a whole set of hung clothes, I knew things got serious. She grabbed whatever she saw in her way. Within the list of things she carried was: an expensive watch, a couple of pairs of shoes, water, and a CALCULATOR! How so very focused was my sister at that time!
Because of the urge to go back home, people started riding random people’s cars just to reach town. I recall some clothes dangling half the way outside the windows of our car, with three people sitting in the front, and about five people piling up one above the other in the back. We drove insanely enough to break the record in reaching town with the least time ever.
Last thing I remember of this day was mom buying stacks and stacks of food that would suffice us- a family of 6- for the next three months.
That day was the most terrible, crowded, and jumbled up day in the history of my whole childhood! Nothing went right, nothing was in place. However, at the end of the day, I had a certain sense of security being home with my family despite the fact that our town was in danger of being attacked at any time.
The Goodbye..
ReplyDeleteWhen I smell the ¨Suavitel¨ detergent, I remember that bold green-eyed man. Yes, that tall man with that black moustache on his face that reflects the color of his big eyes. That man that seems to be so rigid and serious but that is so weak in front of the tears of anyone of his family. That man that tries to draw his life as if it were the easiest one for his children not to worry. That man that would sacrifice anything to see their smile and their eyes shining brightly and sparkling happiness. Yeah, that man whom I proud to say ¨He´s my father¨. It was on June 2005 when my mom, my brothers and I moved from Mexico to come and live in Lebanon. I still remember his watery eyes when we were on the way to the airport. He was trying to make jokes and laugh all the time so we didn´t notice his hidden sadness. My father was supposed to stay because his work demanded it. We were forced to be separated, my brothers, mom and I in Lebanon and he alone in Mexico. He was trying to pretend that he wasn’t affected by that idea. Consecutive moments of silence were present during our road to the airport. I was holding my tears and praying to be traffic to delay our arrival and all the melancholy that would come along. But no, when you rarely wish such things to happen they simply don´t. My younger brother was playing with his toys and was so happy to be travelling in an airplane. He was too small to understand what was really going on. In that moment I wished I was his age, an innocent four-year old kid who would believe anything his parents said…but no I was very conscious about everything. I could see the gloomy eyes of my twin brother who was holding my mom´s hand as if consoling her. Then, I heard the sounds of the airplanes taking off and landing and I realized that we were becoming so close to arrive. My heart started to beat so rapidly just like how the speakers of the loud music on the night clubs do. We arrived and all the wished impediments were useless. The time to say good bye forced itself and there was no way out, no escape. The car stopped and the workers took the luggage. We all walked out from the car. The car was taken to be parked and my father accompanied us to register the luggage. At that time no one could talk. The bothering silence in the car was replaced by the loud sound of the crowded people in the airport. The time to enter our gate and wait for our plane came. Each one of my family embraced my father and then we took our way. My tears were no more able to be hold. Yeah, goodbyes are not easy at all…
A Sorrowful Ending
ReplyDeleteWhenever people start talking about war and their experiences with it, I used to eagerly listen, constantly asking a few questions, but I never had anything to share back. However, I didn't profoundly realize that until an English assignment triggered my curiosity. Upon conceiving that, I headed over to my mother, I told her all about my worries, that I was supposed to hand over an assignment that I had no experience about, I told her "I am supposed to write about the war and how it did affect me, but I have nothing to say about it, I haven't been directly affected by any war, what should I write about?". Back then, I didn't have anything to write about, but upon hearing her mournful story, I discerned that I could write stories about war and its disastrous effects on our people.
"She was a dedicated nurse", she began. "My cousin was just another passionate person whose sole aim was to aid unlucky people that were hurt by the merciless war", she continued. "She accepted a humble salary the AUH used to give her just so she could do what she did best, which is to cure the helpless patients". I remember my mother's face lightening up when she told me about the ever-present wide smile on her cousin's face no matter the harsh circumstances she was forced to endure. However, her fiancé, who she adored, wanted to leave this unpredictable land and go somewhere safer, where they could marry and live happily, somewhere their children could be raised safely, where war is not a worry.
After she finished packing, she was ready to head to the airport, she said goodbye to her friends and family, never knowing that this goodbye would be forever. With watery eyes she tried to smile as she wanted to appear strong in front of her family. Holding the hands of her fiancé she headed towards the car that was going to take them to the airport, and into his arms she fell as a baleful bullet hit her in the chest. She muttered her last words as he held her firmly, tears rolling down on his cheeks, refusing to accept the painful fact that she is helplessly dying in his arms.
"It was a week, a whole 7 days till her family was able to get her corpse to their village due to the harsh conditions back then", my mother concluded the story, emotions clearly visible in her eyes. It was from that day that I realized that no Lebanese could have escaped the fatal consequences of the war. After hearing that despondently touching story, I felt great grief towards every victim that the war have ended up callously dismantling.
I really liked the story of your mother´s cousin. It was very touching, how war stopped the love story of two young innocent individuals. It´s a dramatic romantic story and those kind of narrations are my favourites. I liked your use of quotations at the beginnig, I think they were very helpful to make your story more realistic. In my opinion, if you develop it well and give more details about the love story between your cousin´s mother and her fiance, more events and memories, it would be a great story...
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteI really got interested in your touching story.I believe it's a tragic story emphasizing the fate of a couple during the war.Your choice of words and diction grabbed my attention because you tend to use the right word for the right situation in which you made me feel i am living the moment.
DeleteThe beginning of your story really grabbed my attention and as i was reading the rest of it, i was really touched.Your story shows how a lot of people, including your mothers cousin and her fiance, were suffering from the war and thus were forced to leave their country.Moreover, it was really sad how your mothers cousin died in her fiances arm and how two lovers were seperated because of war.However, i feel like there could be so much more description to this story and it would turn out to be perfect
DeleteDepend on yourself
ReplyDeleteFor every person a mother is the ideal person who gives love and tender without any return. My mother represents the world to me. She is my leader that I always go back to her in difficult period. She gives solutions for every single problem. In addition, she is not only my idol in actions but also I look like her physically.
My mother’s face smelled like a Jasmine flower in spring time. The color of her eyes seems like you are going deep into a large ocean. Her blond hair lightens my eyes by just looking at her. My mother’s face is the only thing that I always wish to see when I am into difficulties and problems.
My mother is a dynamic woman. She loves to work. She is an honest person. My mother is a French teacher who has the best charisma to let the student listen to her while explaining. 20 years till now, my mother still the same dynamic and enthusiastic in her job. She gave me something I can never forget, a moral lesson. She always tells me “depend on yourself, not on the others”. For every action I make and for every decision I take I always refer to what she says.
The most things that make me laugh when I think about my mother is the smell of her hands that always smell DETOL. She is obsessed with cleaning the house every day after coming from work. She is a well organized woman.
I always treat my mother well. I do not remember any time I let her feel sad because she always here for me. I do not regret any moment or any event because I am polite with her and always care about her and let her feel comfortable.
while I was listening to my classmate essay about what his grandmother told him about the war I was kind of thinking why did she tell him? is it to make him a strong man and let him know about war? even him was surprised. I felt that what he said was touching because of the way he read the story and how he explained to Dr lidia how his grandmother was telling him the story. I think that we should know what w3ar is because no one knows if we are going to be in this situation someday.
When Everything Comes to End ….
ReplyDeleteWar! An extremely violent and tragic word. It’s a state in which the economy is disrupted under harsh and severe circumstances in a certain country. It’s a state in which fear and concern dominates, love fades away, and forgiveness ceases! Those are just what I have heard and learnt about war since I personally didn’t acquire any experience with this term and hopefully not. However, my aunt once told me a story that took place during the civil war.
Sam, who was a medicine student, was about to finish from medicine school and graduate with a degree. Like all other citizens, he lived situations full of violence and brutality during the civil war in Lebanon. Additionally, he was known to be a perseverant, hard-working, and an intelligent student. He was passionate for his major keeping in mind that he would become a doctor and help all patients. He was an upright man full of ethics and honor. People loved him and highly respected him.
And there came the day when his life came to an end. He went to his university to attend a crucial class unacquainted that it will be the last class he will attend. “Unfortunately and through the risky moments, he got shot by a sniper when coming back“, cried my aunt. The medical student fell to the ground in present of the destruction and damage of the buildings. She said this phrase with tears in her eyes. She claimed that that was his destiny which no one can change. I felt devastated when hearing this contemptible sorrowful story, and tears burst out of my eyes too.
Sam, the outstanding medical student who was planning for a successful and prosperous future, passed away. Sam, the one whom the society built thriving expectations for, passed away. Melancholia dominated his village all over in present of his parents’ misery and grief. He kept a memorable image in everyone’s mind.
It’s paramount that war is equivalent to people’s suffocation and agony. Sam was absolutely not the only one who had such destiny. A lot shared and encountered the same fate during this atrocious and dreadful era.
Upon scrolling down my classmates' drafts, this one surely grabbed my attention the most. After I skimmed the title, it was not me, it was my curiosity that led me to read the remainder of the draft. "Touching" is not enough to describe this draft, which I believe no word can. First of all, I would like to mention that the draft organization was purely flawless, Karmita knew how to employ every event appropriately. Furthermore, she commenced with defining war while stressing on its negative effects leaving the reader wondering about this obviously despondent story. Nevertheless, she emphasized every now and then on Sam's outstanding nature, as she intended to imply the great loss that the war was responsible for. Last but not least, she used Sam's story as an example to the many agonies that took place during the war, nut-shelling people's adversity. Hence, she clearly got to her point, and certainly to the reader's heart.
DeleteThe nurse in the hospital laboratory scolded me immediately as I entered to get my blood drawn, because I forgot to take off my shoes. She yelled at me again when I asked where exactly I should take them off. I was pretty scared during the entire procedure, since everything I did seemed to enrage the woman. She was slightly overweight, had a bleached perm, and wore orthopedic shoes and earrings that were fashionable in the eighties. I can doubtlessly say that all these are included in the overall uniform of the Russian medical worker at a government hospital. I can also say that you will definitely be scolded numerous times as you’re getting your health check-up. But hey, it’s all for free! You can get a friendly, expensively dressed doctor for money at any time, but not many can afford it with their meager salaries. Russia has made a show of haphazardly balancing on the leftover communism, while desperately clutching onto the capitalist necessity of the modern world. With the collapse in 1991 and an apparently incompetent first president of the newly formed Russian Federation, the government turned into jeopardy and still largely remains in that state to this day. However, everything is changing and things are looking brighter than before (the old generation would at this point start disagreeing).
ReplyDeleteI was put before the historical reality last summer, when I visited the estate where the last tsar of the Russian Empire was ambushed and killed along with his family. The events became almost tangible and this made me feel more competent to converse about it.
Sorry, this is not complete.
When I was listening to Nicole's writing about her grandfather's experiences, I liked her abundant use of imagery. Her style managed to put us all in the situation with all the details without seeming redundant. I like how she portrayed her grandfather's distress. We immediately understood what a reader would naturally: the psychological struggles of the human existence :)
reading olga's story, i couldn't help but feel like i was watching it tske place before my eyes. her use of descriptive details placed me in the government hospital, standing in front of the enraged nurse. i liked the way she developed the idea behind her story, perfectly transitioning from a simple incident to her views regarding communism and capitalism. her use of humor lightened up the mood and showed us readers that even in our worst times, we can still try to take our situations lightly and cope with them in an easier way.
DeleteIn July 2006, it started. You can only hear a fast whistle two seconds before the main event. A whistle that catches your breath and drives you crazy. It makes you look around searching for a shelter, a big hole in the ground, a cave that can fit you, etc… anything to avoid the shell. Then in a blink of an eye you see the smoke and explosion, and even sometimes feel them.
ReplyDeleteThe enemy destroyed all the bridges, radars and even ships heading to Lebanon. In the 16th of this month, I took my bicycle and went from home (in Amchit) on my way to the nearest bakery. That day was so calm comparing it to the ones before. As soon as I finished breakfast, I drove back home. Well at least that was what I intended to do. Luckily on my way back, I had to pass near the military base. It was 9:15 AM when I heard the helicopter of type gazelle. But that wasn’t what made me scared. 20 seconds after that I heard it. A whistle so close that I knew this is the end of me. They wanted to hit the radar of the military base, but instead they missed, and the shell fell on a car parked ten meters away from me. The explosion was so huge that it threw me away along with my bicycle and all what surrounded it. As soon as I hit the ground, the bicycle landed on top of me. The metal cylinder that hangs in the back wheel of my white BMX bicycle strikes my head.
When I woke up, 23 hours later, I was in st. Martins hospital in Jbeil, my sister asleep next to me and my father talking to the doctor just outside the door. No one thought that I would wake up, I heard the doctor saying two words that stuck on my mind, the first was my name, and the second was:”COMA”. I went in a 23 hour coma and woke up with 5 stitches in my head, a fracture in my skull, and dislocated shoulder.
However, with all of my injuries, it was the only time I couldn’t wait to go home back to my family and friends, knowing that it could happen again or maybe worse any time and place. Thus you prefer to have your family with you the moment your down, because they are your legs, your heart and your needs so you would keep going on with your life.
I liked your story and it is so impressing as it talks about war and your experience. I liked the way you described places and events and how you introduced Al Ghassani. Your article is rich in vocabulary. What I also liked is how you described your first time experience of such a fear and what you and your cousin Joe had gone through since the gunshot started. All in all, I liked your article from different perspectives; however, the article overlooked a title. Your conclusion gave me a feeling about you could not own what you had owned before in your hometown, and that what is gone would never come back. Things change with time.
ReplyDeleteDark Streets
ReplyDeleteI never liked Sundays, but this one was different. It was cloudy in the morning, no rain, just a lot of clouds. I woke up to answer my phone. It was my friend Ghazi, he wanted to see me. As i got ready i realised that there was nobody home, and that the neighborhood was very calm, i gave no importance to that. He met me downstairs to walk around together, storming the streets of Tripoli. No cars , no people, everyplace is closed, the sky was gray to dark blue, a sun would crack every now and then.
we walked around, talking about stuff any two 16-year olds would talk about. Sudden Gunshots filled the air and explosions of RPG's played no nice symphony, so we started running to places we could hide under. Red, Orange, and green bullets filled, and met in the sky. We kept running until we met a big-muscled, long-bearded, tall, fat guy that started screaming: "get down on the ground, get down or ill kill you" we had to do what he said after he pointed a gun at us. he asked about where we're from, our whereabouts, just getting some identity. we replied to every question as soon as its been asked, with mumbling, shivering voices, repeating every answer twice. we were on the most known street in Tripoli "al kazdoura" and there was no one around, just me, my friend, and this big bulldozer. Our eyes seemed to tear as we looked deep into the man's eyes, we could know nothing about the man, than we quickly removed our sight to the floor and kept staring at it. He let us go for no reason, just like he called us, for no reason.
We rapidly started running away from the man, as our necks would turn with every step we took, to have a look at the man, to see if he is going to shoot, and also so we dont forget how he looks. we finally arrived to an internet cafe where we all used to hang out. nobody was there. It was closed. We were far away from both our houses, and did not know what to do. Why wasn't there anyone in the streets? Why did the guy point a gun at us? what is goin on?
Just as we asked ourselves these questions, 10 trucks each with 10 soldiers, were passing right infront of us. We followed them, They were our only hope. we almost got to Se7et El Nour (Abdulhamid Square), right next to my house, as soldiers told us to stop \, because they were going to a dangerous place. we asked them where it was, they replied: tebbeneh.
We looked at eachother, threw random sentences at eachother out of confusion. we got to the square, to find about three hundred men, along with a hundred envoys. most of the men were long bearded, they were the Salafis.
it was quite a scene. everything was so mixed up, we couldnt understand anything.
A big explosion bursted out into my ears, of which we found out to be a Press SUV.everything was mixed up, and the explosion didnt help us. it turned out to be for new-tv. we didnt know why they set it on fire.
we couldnt take it anymore, we started running towards my place. all the way from the square to my place, still no one on the ground. we raced to the building, called the elevator, i opened and entered.
my mom hugged me thanking God i was fine, she just kept saying her prayers every time i asked her what was happening. Ghazi made no gesture as he looked at my mom, cuddling me, as he thought, for no reason.
later on, she told us everything, the war was back on. the streets of tripoli were full with gangs, grenades all over the place, gunshots literally everywhere. she was quite mad because i left my cellphone home. we were a releifed, we were finally home, ghazi called his parents and everything.
All of a sudden, i heard the sound of breaking glass, ran to my fathers office ,
Your story touched me. The way you were describing it grabbed my attention. It was well explained and detailed. Every step and thought was fairly developed. I could tell what were your feelings because I live in Tripoli too. I feel ashamed to say that we are not protected in our country. I am glad you mentioned what happened with you to let others be aware how scary things could be sometimes.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteWhat a tough world we live in
ReplyDeleteMore than 24 years ago, my parents with my old brother used to live in America. They lived there for 7 years and then when my mother knew she was pregnant with me, they decided to move to Lebanon and I wish they never did. November 4, 1994 was the day I was born. This day was supposed to be a very special day for my parents but instead it turned out to be a disaster. Sometimes I say to myself “If I hadn’t been born, this wouldn’t have happened to my mother.” There are a lot of times where I blame myself for what happened to my mother but then again we all knew it was 90% the doctor’s fault.
While my mother was in labor, her pressure got high and reached 22 and the doctor didn’t do anything to lower her pressure. My uncle, who was a doctor, told my mother’s doctor to do a caesarean in order to avoid any danger on my mother’s life or on my life, however the doctor refused. Therefore, as soon as my mother gave birth to me, she was affected by a stroke and thus went into comma. After a long nine months carrying me, my mother was not able to neither feel nor live the feeling all mothers get when they give birth to their first baby girl. After tough nine months, she was not able to see her new born baby, touch her soft skin, smell her fresh scent, and hold her tiny hands. She was deprived of all that because of a stupid mistake the doctor did. The doctors would tell my father that there’s a huge possibility my mother wouldn’t wake up and that we’re going to lose her. However, my mother didn’t give up on us. She kept fighting for her life and after 48 hours she woke up from the comma. It was a miracle. Even the doctors were surprised that she was able to make it.
On the other hand, after she woke up, the stroke had affected the right side of her brain. She wasn’t able to see for a whole day and she couldn’t talk; her mouth was drooped to the right. My mother, today, can’t write with her right hand, nor run, nor wear high heels, and her right side is numb. For example, if she was wearing a ring and it fell from her finger, she doesn’t feel it. In fact, this happened twice to her and she lost 2 gold rings. However, that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that she was able to come back and share this tough world with us because honestly I don’t know what I would do without her.
continued
My mother plays the role of both parents to me; a mother and a father. About 7 years ago, we were told the bad news. It’s like everything bad is haunting us. We knew everything was going to change and things were never going to be the same but we just had to deal with it. Alzheimer. We were told that my father has Alzheimer. The worst part is that there is no cure for this illness. Why does almost every illness have a cure except for the one my father is affected with? There’s only a medicine which slows it down and it really helped in my dad’s situation but the illness is still there and it’s getting worse day by day and my mother is getting affected by it the most. The amount of love and appreciation I have for my mother is indescribable. She’s the strongest woman I have ever seen by the way she handles things. What she went through was really tough and what she’s going through today is even worse but she still manages to act fine and put a smile on her face although I know that deep inside she’s not. My mother is always trapped at home because we cannot leave my father alone and I’m at university most of the time. Wherever she goes she has to take him with her because she’s afraid to leave him home alone and in the very rare cases where she does leave him alone she locks the door and comes back home in a maximum of an hour. She has to feed him, help him wear his clothes, take care of him…She’s his fulltime nurse.
ReplyDelete“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” (Einstein) This is what my mother taught me from life. No matter what difficulties you go through, you must fight for your life and make it worth living. Be strong and never give up on the ones you love because you don’t know whats waiting for you in the days to come. Take every opportunity and show them you love them because you never know when God decides to take them away. And most importantly, life goes on.
He rushed down the stairs behind his wife and children carrying a few snacks and bottles of water. They headed down to the garage. They couldn’t hear each other, not even their own screams. All they could hear were the sounds of gunshots and bombs dropping all around them. As soon as they reached the garage, he called his son to help him carry the sand bags they used for protection. All five of them sat in silence.
ReplyDeleteAt that time, him and one of his sons had to work to make enough money to pay for his oldest son’s tuition. They would leave the house as soon as the sounds of the bombs and gunshots died down. His wife and daughters would wait for them, praying that they would see them again that night.
As my grandfather told me the story, I imagined what it must have been like for my father and his siblings to live through a war. Our house was being renovated at the time. Day by day I would watch the bullet marks on the concrete slowly disappear with every smash the workers applied to the walls. I would watch my grandfather wince with every memory being destroyed before his eyes.
A few years went by, and in 2006 a war started. Living in Brummana though, we were completely safe. Most of the shops moved up from Beirut to Brummana, and it was just like any other summer- maybe even better. The day would go by, and we would be distracted by our petty problems. But at night, we would watch the news and realize that while we were too busy enjoying our summer, there were people in this same country fighting for their lives.
My grandfather would watch the news, then he would let out a deep sight and go to bed. He couldn’t bear seeing anyone go through what he went through. We could all tell that it was a rough time for him. He spent so much time trying to forget the past, only to live in a country that’s never moved on from its past.
I like the character analysis in this story. It brings sentimentality and authenticity to the narrative. The description of events is well written, and also the chronology of what is being said is advertent to characterization. I liked your simplicity in language, it gives leeway to a wider scope in audience and understanding of the subject. Your story and feeling and honesty. It was enjoyable :)
DeleteNicole's story is a proof that when talking about war, one does not need to come up with a lot of fancy words and comlex sentence structures. All it takes is telling the brutal truth of how it happened, which she did pretty good. Lying in bomb shelters, denial of the war at some points and compassion for all of those fighting the war are but some of the reoccuring tragic events of every war. Also the shift from one war to another(consequently the shift from her grandfather's time to her own) portrays the continuity of war from one generation to another and was a nice twist compared to other stories and plots.
DeleteI had never heard such deafening silence before.
ReplyDeleteIt was loud and white and all encompassing.
The only tangible evidence that proved I was still alive was the arresting panic and fear that had drenched my stark body cold.
Moments later, a piercing resounding sound began to fill the black void I was enveloped in, followed by a shrill cry.
At first, I didn’t understand.
Who was screaming?
Was I imagining this?
And then it dawned on me.
As a pair of sturdy arms wrapped around my fragile body, and held me in a way I knew my father only could, I understood that the high-pitched scream was coming from inside me. Inside my chest, out my throat, and into the open space.
I wasn’t imagining this.
My father held my head in between his shoulder and neck, and gently whispered it was going to be okay, it was all going to be okay.
As he held me, and as the adrenaline pumping through my veins began to dwindle down, sensation was restored.
I could finally feel the dampness of my cheeks from the tears; the dampness of my clothes from the sweat. And in spite of my father’s safe embrace, a cold chill ran through the shallow layers of my skin.
I felt cold. Chilly even. Not the sort of chilly brought on by the weakened wisps of the cool air on a warm spring afternoon; cool air that rushes and gently caresses the sun kissed skin of you face and neck, and blithely plays with the loose strands of your tied up hair.
No. Not that chilly.
The sort of chilly that runs cold panic from your heart down deep to your bones; a panic that tingles down the length of your spine and makes you shiver.
“Where are they?” I asked my father in a voice that seemed foreign to the one I had come to know as my own.
“Where are mommy and Fadi?!” I asked him once more.
The situation I described here was the aftermath of a bombing during the civil war in Lebanon. My mother, father, sister and brother lived underground, under our house in Brummana. This narrative was written in the perspective of my sister. At the time her and my brother were both six and four years old respectively. My father had found her first, and then they’d moved through the debris and rubble to find my mother, Janet, and my brother, Fadi, hidden in the bathtub.
This work of writing was not completed, I’d wished to go on about how the neighborhood has changed, and how the children that grow up there now will never know what had happened, that had permanently affected and shaped the lives of four individuals. That house will never be just a house to my family. It’ll always be the place flooding with memories from a past they wish to never relive.
A brother to live for
ReplyDeleteDuring the journey of our life, we sew these remarkable unbreakable bonds with the dearest people around us, bonds we would never trade for the world. It starts from our birth day with our beloved mother until the ones with those closest friends we make for life. Personally, one of them touched me considerably and helped in shaping what I am today: my relation with my brother.
My older brother who was, has been and always will be my idol on all levels, professionally, educationally, ethically and physically. Those deep blue eyes revealing a great deal of smartness has always captured my attention whenever he was discussing an issue or making a joke. His attractive tallness, humor and knowledge were for me, an 11 year old little girl, qualities I would like to find in my soul mate. He meant a great deal for me as a kid and I never stopped admiring him for being my brother, friend, father, teaser sometimes and icon. My dependency on him grew over time whenever I needed help in my school work, or an advice concerning my parents. And what a slap in the face I received when I knew my charming brother was travelling abroad due to the retreating state of our country, especially economically. Feelings of enormous abhor and anger ran through my skin and I accused Lebanon for the loss I was experiencing. I remember that day in 6th grade when I wrote an incredibly elaborated poem about what I was going through. I can never forget the tears of my mom running on her soft cheeks when reading my painful words; she actually kept it with her till now. During those long years separating us gradually by mind and soul, I must say I grew up for real.
The departure of my brother was one of my early life shocks that led me to maturity. It made me realize not everything I desire will happen and at some point I must apprehend what losing meant to appreciate what I have. Of course, my dependency diminished eventually but still my brother remained one of my most adored male models I’ve ever laid eyes on. And now as I participate in raising his children, I hope one day I will make a family of my own with a man resembling my brother.
“The convoy of cars escaping from Marjeyoun has been bombed.” , that was all they wrote on the bottom screens of some T.V. channels.
ReplyDelete“I can’t talk now, we’re hiding in trenches away from the road” , then a series of those annoying beeps, that was all my mother heard when she tried contacting my father who was in that convoy on that dreadful night of the 2006 war with Israel.
At that moment I had a flashback of the last time I was walking through the lively streets of Marjeyoun. It was the first week of July, which I devoted –like every other year of my childhood- to selling tombola tickets for the upcoming Saint Elijah fair. How happy people were to be reminded about this occasion! The commotion and hustle in Elie’s Bakery sort of kicked me out, but he assured me with that warm smile of his, “I’ll buy some tickets later! “.
My next heading was the town’s central market, but before I reached the end of that downhill road leading to the market, the high-frequency barbaric sound of an F-16 missile barged in on our peaceful and cozy commotion. Deafened by the sound, I shivered and fell on the ground as the earth was still quacking and window shutters were still chaotically slamming the walls. As I fell to the ground, I was thankful that I was still quivering -and able to hear myself breathing -on that hot pavement under the burning summer sun. While a couple of kilometers away and through the thick dark cloud of smoke you can see the meters-wide pit, which the missile caused and the wreckage of a few surrounding houses. But your imagination goes to murkier places where that pit is now being filled with blood of the surrounding dead bodies.
I was offered a ride home, and on the way there I told that kind man –doing all his best to remain calm, as the surrounding village are still being bombed- to honk the car horn when I spotted mom panicking and asking random people about my whereabouts. As the car pulled in behind the house, we directly we directly went down to the family supermarket just below our house. My father was serving customers with all four hands, those who are now shopping to be ready for the war, however my father did find a way to keep hold of his Marlboro cigarette between his lips. He could be spotted easily in the biggest of crowds with that shiny bold head of his. As I reached him through the crowd, I kept hearing it again and again: ”How long is the war going to be this time ?!”. For some reason people asked my father that question, his response was a calm and quiet puff of smoke, as he returned the cigarette to his mouth and turned his back to see which shelves need to be refilled with food supplies.
I don’t really recall looking into dad’s eyes as he waved us goodbye, on the eighteenth day of the war, luckily it was not the last time I was going to see him. My mother was taking us away from the South, away from the war in that overly packed 1983 Volvo. How brave she was on that day and even after every call from my father to inform us on the most recent bombings of roads and bridges; roads which we passed 15 minutes earlier.
War spared no one, yet back then when I was 11 years old, I might have been grateful that my name wasn’t Ali or Mohammad living in South Lebanon. But they were my friends. My mother –an elementary school teacher- still see children wail and cry every time an enemy F-16 is doing flight maneuvers over our skies.
To the world Elie is just another number to add to the death tally; but to me he was the one who didn’t have the time to live and buy a tombola ticket, maybe he wasn’t so lucky after all !
During bloodshed
ReplyDeleteIt was brutal , destructive, filled with anger and hate. Lebanon was no longer the emerald of the middle east . The foolish citizens fought day and night . Day after day , the friction got stronger and fire was generated , destroying all the beauty of the heaven on Earth . Between all the people included in the war , there were ones who had no benefits and wanted nothing from it.
My family was one of those people who closed the door of the home and stayed in their praying for this end and nobody is hurt. In my grandparents’ house they felt safe and secured. That never stopped the cruel war from penetrating the walls , as a gunshot broke into the walls and passed by uncle’s ear . It was a miracle, probably because of all the praying. In one of these dark days , armed men walked into the house and attacked my family ,but my family managed to escape , except my father who hided in the closet .
The reason for the survival of my was my grandfather who was the head chief of the police department . He was a strong tough guy who was raised in the mountains , working in planting fruits and selling them . He had his gun everywhere he went , since he had a lot of enemies due to his position in the government . My grandpa has green eyes like most of the family and bright brown hair. My grandpa is 75 year old in age and he is still in shape , we go to the gym sometimes . He is still a working person , owning a company and still providing an income to the house .
My grandfather smells nice actually, it is probably because my uncles always get him expensive perfume from Belgium . he has a lot of perfume that he gives them away immediately for anyone. Sometimes he smell like olive oil , because it is part of his job, and this smell is nice cause it resembles the true smell of the koura nature .
This is my grandpa the hero of my family , and till now did not retire from that , since he is there whenever someone needs him whether a relative or a friend . He is my hero and I always relate to him when I’m in a certain situation .
Black Blood
ReplyDeleteNovember 17, 3 a.m, the emergency bell rang violently at the red cross station where i was spending my night. That night heavy sectarian clashes erupted in Tripoli, our neighbour city: As usual Bab El Tebenneh and Jabal Mohsen were having their monthly deathmatch.
Wearing my bulk helmet and an obese body armor, i jumped quickly into the 'war' ambulance. The 10 minutes distance seemed infinity to us. We felt that it might be our last night alive.
Before entering Kobbe neighborhood, the driver, my team leader callsigned Casper, dimmed the headlights: Sniper shots were landing around us. Gunpowder's fresh odor infiltrated the ventilation shaft, it was my first sense of war. Impacting RPGs interrupted the mysterious darkness of the power outage. Through the window i could see red tracer bullets taking a long journey into the black sky. The moment of truth was there. A voice through the noisy radio transferred to us the injury's address: It was just on the demarcation line, the death line. As we reached the place, a distant echoed voice called us. An old wrinkled woman, holding a 2-year-old baby with fresh tears on her pale cheek, prayed us to come into her miserable shelter. The only thing that i could do when i passed over the threshold, is feeling the poisonous humidity that lived with the family. The old woman, whom i forgot the name, guided us through a tenebrous alley: There a 54-year-old man "Ali" was lying in a blood bath: A hateful bullet sheared his stomach, dripping blood intensively. We did our life-saving job: I applied a bandage while my teammate 'Turbo' was preparing the stretcher. We took Ali, accompanied by his wife, to a nearby hospital, where he recovered from his severe injury.
It was a shocking night for me. My first experience of war was soaked with blood, the blood of a father whose only fault was closing the window to avoid sniper sights. That night changed my life in an bizarre way. It made me feel the twilight of war, of the dark blood.
In really enjoyed reading your story. The fusion of misery, war and courage was noticeable and it somehow accentuated your writing style with the personal touch of feelings you added while describing. The bloody scenes, the courageous persona you represent and the whole imagery of war and fear was well described and detailed. Your story touched me mostly because these sorts of conflicts in Tripoli are familiar to me. And one more thing, I can't but salute you for the amazing work you did that night.
DeleteThank you Jad for your lovely comment.
DeleteThe unfinished painting.
ReplyDeleteHer fingers itched. The cheap "pastel" tickled her white skin and tinted it with a fusion of cold colors. The painting stood still on the tripod in front of her. A fine-looking woman sitting gracefully on a wooden bench, surrounded by flourishing blossoms and an orchard of green grass that shined like jade. She seemed to be waiting for something, or someone maybe. However, the unfinished angle of the drawing left wide space for imagination.
She was about to attack that precise part of her drawing. Was it the secret lover she was willing to draw? Was the woman in the painting expecting her prince charming who would come and join her in this enchanted setting? Or was the bench left to welcome fowls and nomad birds?
She held her black pastel and cuddled the thin paper with the touch of an artist, when suddenly; she heard a gunshot followed by a scream.
When she first heard the gunshot, she made no reflex. The hunting season was at its best at this time of the year but the crying she perceived made her perplex. She kicked the tripod and ran to the door and before she could reach the door lock, it happened.
An explosion erupted and then, as if the entire cosmos felt the shock, there was a moment of silence.
The universe shivered.
As soon as the shockwave exhaled its last breath, lights went off and deafening screams rose in the dark.
That’s how my mother began the story of her miserable journey during the civil war. It was the first time she shares such a touching incident that happened in her life. One she taught she had forgotten… but never did.
Frightened, she began to scream when a firm hand grabbed her by the shoulder. She felt safer as the hand seemed familiar. Her father was there, she felt protected.
In a short time, they managed to escape from the house. Rushing footsteps followed them and as she turned, she saw her mother and sister running towards them, terrified.
A bomb had exploded in their neighbor's house that was suddenly surrounded by scary shapes of big men carrying guns.
My mother overheard the news the previous day. She knew that the religious conflicts in the country were getting more serious but she never imagined that an isolated village like Rahbeh would ever witness such an abomination. Such a horror. Such a misery.
(I've chosen the first part of the draft due to character restriction. The story is to be continued.
Sierra Leone at War
ReplyDeleteSierra Leone also known as the “mountain lion” is located in West Africa. It’s enriched with beautiful landscapes and mountains green as ever. Each beach is unique and different than the other. The water is calm and blue, the breeze would just blow through your hair so calmly and smoothing. The people are so generous and peaceful, living a calm and carefree life. Even though it’s a huge country almost everyone knows everyone there. The Lebanese had a tight community. I was raised and lived my whole life there. Sierra Leone was my home, my land, until my home became at war.
Wake up! Wake up! I opened my eyes and woke up to the sound of my mother screaming. “We have to hide”: she said. It was on an afternoon day. I was about 10 years old, living with my parents. My mother grabbed me immediately and took me to the dining room. I was so confused and scared for I did not know what was going on, but all I could hear were gunshots and people screaming. As we laid there in hiding, all I could think of was how we are going to survive, when the rebels are outside killing people. My mother sat there beside me, trying to comfort me, but how do you really comfort a 10 year old in a situation like this? While I was hiding under the table I approached the window out of curiosity to see what it was like outside. Outside where it’s not safe filled with blood and tears. As I peaked at the window I saw a black woman running for her life with her little baby rapped behind her back. The woman suddenly stops, takes the baby off her back and hugs him. I was just sitting there and so confused and lost to why is this woman hugging her baby instead of her running and saving them both. All I see next was the woman placing her child on the floor and just running. It was then that it struck me and everything made sense. Death! Death is what happened to the poor child. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Such a sad image to be stuck in a 10 year old’s head. Next thing I felt was a huge and tall man grabbing me it was my father. Taking me away from the window so I don’t get shot at. I hugged him, I was so scared and emotional but I felt safe in his arms. Then suddenly all we hear are men screaming loudly and banging on the door. My father looked at my mother, the way he looked at her made me sure that danger was heading out way. He told her to take me to the room because the rebels are in our house.
Battle
ReplyDeleteI used to hear my parents speak of war over and over. They used to remember every second of it and every detail as if it was yesterday. I used to hear my father’s stories since I was a kid. Over the years, I thanked God that I was born after the disastrous battle that happened in our country. War lasted 30 years and it somehow affected my parents both positively and negatively.
My father was still not married when war started, yet he still managed to fall in love and get married. During my parent’s wedding day, the only road that lead my mother to church was bombed. My mother along with her family never gave up and somehow managed to reach the wedding ceremony at time. When the wedding was over, both my parents went back home and realized that their eight story building was targeted by the enemies. The place that was supposed to be home has now become ‘hell’. My father was the first to enter the apartment and insisted that my mother stayed out. Till this day my mother describes the feeling of devastation that she felt at that moment. It was a confusion of feelings, being safe in the arms of my father, yet feeling the sorrow of a destroyed shelter.
Over the next few years, the same exact scenario was repeated seven times. My father’s reaction would be calm as if he got used to being targeted. He always offered my mother refuge, which she always refused. It was a strong moral, social and emotional bond that joined my parents. No matter the stress they lived, my parents had an oath to stay together no matter the difficulties. War destroyed our home one time after the other.
The enemy killed everyone including women and children and my parents could feel the danger growing. Once my father was asleep and suddenly woke up to the sensation of hot metal through his pillow. He woke up to find out that a sniper had targeted him during his sleep. The bullet missed his head and went through his pillow. From that moment on, sleeping which was considered the only escape from the brutal reality was targeted by the enemy. Normal daily life activities were targeted too. As my mother was doing her laundry one day, she realized that a bullet had pierced the wall behind her, yet she managed to keep her calm.
They both stayed and never once retreated. And after the countless years of war, my parents became immune and resistant and lived normally as if war never existed. They were more that satisfied with what they had and their only hope was love and determination.
Orange blossoms Will never smell the same. As I take a walk between the orange trees,the scenes of war Replay before my eyes. To some people, war was for months and years, but for me, it was only for 5 min.
ReplyDeleteIt was 2 am, everyone Was asleep, a calm village,a loud voice of a little cricket echoing in the silence, and me...only me, awake, admiring the beautiful space of darkness.
And then it happened. How? I don't remember...it was sudden and scary. No time to think, I could only see the window's sunscreen falling and a quake under my nude feet. I immediately carried my little sister without waking her up cz I didn't want to scare her and then I ran to the living room. I couldn't see anything that moment. I was suddenly in a silent movie. I could only see my parents running toward me and speaking words that I couldn't hear. They took us to my grandparents house which was only few steps away from our house, but they wanted to make sure we are all fine. My grandparents were acting weird, like nothing happened! I can say they got used to it. No harm was caused, only the sound of the bomb hitting a nearby mountain called" Jabal terbol". But eventhough nothing happened to us, the whole thing was fritening. My parents and my grandparents laughed, a 5 min of war was simply like a thunder and few rain drops, but for me it was a different case. I felt that these 5 min were the end of the world, how could they even take years of war and 5. Min drove me crazy?! Since that day "akkar" changed. I still have my childhood memories carved in its Trees and sky and even the sweet summer breeze. But whenever I walk between the orange trees I don't enjoy their exquisit odor anymore, their smell is now a reminder of the past, these blossoms arena longer blossoms of oranges....they became blossoms of smoke.