As I was carrying a bag from the grocery, a man approached from behind, “Sir, do you need help?”
A scrunched forehead was my only reply, “For what?” I asked.
“Your bag must be leaking. Is that pork blood?”
“No. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘯.”
October 7th – I just lost my wife in the brutalities of this dry land, but I must make dinner for my child. The day was yet to be another agony — excruciating, if I must elaborate, as I checked on our fridge, our food supply was out. History was repeating itself; genocide reigned its glorious torment, but of an innocent man such as I was, 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦.
I was out and about in my reverie when the kettle whistled, and a loud bang seemed to wake the neighborhood, yet everybody shrugged, “Just another day.”
At seven in the evening of the same day, I heard my son twittered, “Papa, a new rocket was made!” thrilled by the sound of the lift-off.
My ingenious son loves rockets – an ambitious astronaut. We heard another launch, perhaps a bigger one this time, and in the next hours, it would probably return — anticipating the enormous payback of explosions, I sat by the porch. This dry-segmented land, I would never imagine the thousands buried, and the unending thought lingered, “𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯-𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦-𝘢𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘪𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦? 𝘖𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥?”
Another sound of explosion rang, shaking me to the core as if I was not immune to the unending tumult.
“Papa? Nona’s roof…” I did not even let my son finish his sentence. Rushing without any slippers on, all I could think of was my poor mother. The lady who has nurtured my growth, the very one who has made me this loving father, would soon perish at a snap of a finger. Right before my eyes, I was merely a son – a bystander at the least. A witness of our very turmoiled roots, an onlooker of the uncertainties tomorrow holds; again, 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦. I was about to drag myself into that burning house, thinking I could save even some of her ashes, the best I can do to pay homage to a life sacrificed; then my tracks halted when I realized the alarm had not gone off. No. No. Please, no. 𝘐𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦.
As I turned my head, all I saw was the crumbling of the pillars of our house to segments and debris, “My son! No…not my son!”
Distraught, I immediately ran onto the pile of gravel; lucky, I would call it, I saw his almost sunken fingers. As I dug up the large fragments of rocks, my tears began to pour incessantly.
I could not imagine what scene to behold, “Allah, spare me my son’s life,” I uttered meekly on my knees. Scooping out the mixture of cement, dust, and splashes of blood with my bare and bruised hands, my stomach churned at the sight of a nightmare that would haunt me forever. A nauseating appearance of a dismembered arm, I vomited. Legs trembling, exhaling as deep, I continued excavating. There came another, “My poor son, my son who has not seen more of the belle this world holds, but was left with pure miseries of my false hope.”
All my fault – it must be my fault. He was a child, just a child who had faith in his father’s affirmation. That tomorrow might be a different day – the sun arising on a new horizon and stars embedded in the clear night sky. That we would inhale the freshness of the morning breeze, not the grains of powder from the shower of bullets, but again 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦.
Later that evening, the neighborhood became calm. No. A better way to put it, the neighborhood fell silent again. Fear remained instilled among the living as if their only purpose was to welcome their deathbed. It was too silent, deafening to an extent, but the thought of the lives I lost lingered in my mind – loud if I described it. My hand moved on its own, pounding my head while I was all crumpled up on the side of the remnants of gravel. A blow of cold air whispered through my ear, “𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.”
𝘚𝘵𝘰𝘱. 𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱, 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯.
Wailing, I turned my head to the side of the road, and I saw his remains. A rolling piece of a white, empty plastic with the Deli logo was swept near me. A thought popped, “I need to give my son an honorable burial.” And yet, the closest to a decent coffin was this plastic.
Trying to look for an abundant soil with signs of life of trees and grass, a man approached from behind, “Sir, do you need help?”
A scrunched forehead was my only reply, “For what?” I asked.
“Your bag must be leaking. Is that pork blood?”
“No. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘯.”