Sunday 30 October
3.55am I am barely able to sleep. My body is aching. I cannot even determine which part is in more pain than the other. I am just exhausted.
“The connection is back! The connection is back!”
I hear these words coming from my sister who is sleeping on the couch. In less than two seconds, I am up, my phone in hand, checking to see if what she says is correct. The connection is really back.
My adrenaline kicks in and suddenly my sister and I – and the host family members outside – start sending messages and calling our loved ones.
“I thought I would never hear your voice again,” my friend tells me, crying. She says my call is the best one she has ever received in her whole life. I know she has received better ones, but I can imagine the fear she and all our loved ones must have felt.
Checking my WhatsApp, I find many messages starting with: “Even though I know you cannot read my message, I want to tell you that … ” from many people. Some mention how much they love me, others how scared they are, and others speak of seeing me after the whole thing is over. I reply to all of them.
My other friend, even after talking over the phone, keeps sending me messages. We speak about how worried we are feeling. Then, at the end, I send her a message: “Regardless of everything. I am extremely grateful that the connection is back. The situation hasn’t changed, and our misery is ongoing … but the connection is back!”
8am I can’t go back to sleep. I go to the toilet, the door is open yet I hear a sound coming from inside saying it is occupied. It is one of the children. The grandmother tells me that since the situation started, the oldest grandchildren have been keeping the toilet door open and the youngest won’t go unless one of her parents, or her grandmother, is with her.
10am Manara the cat is slowly getting better. Unfortunately, we still don’t have the chance to give her the injection she needs, but my sister is giving her an antibiotic for human children. She is eating, her ears are clearing up, and she is sleeping a lot.
While she is cleaning Manara my sister notices some new scars. The cat will miaow loudly when she touches a certain part and, after checking it, we find another mark under the fur.
My sister is worried sick about Manara. She says that, as well as all the medical care she requires, we also need something to strengthen the remaining eye. She bases this on her previous experience with another cat.
I try to be realistic: “We are doing the best we can. We need to take it one day at a time.”
I wish Manara could tell us what her story is, who hurt her and how deep her suffering is.
11am I am with Ahmad getting some vegetables and a torch, when I see one of my best friends, walking in the street. He was the one who asked me to help him find a new place to stay since his aunt’s house is hosting more than 70 people and there is no more space for anyone or anything.
Unfortunately, I was not able to help him. I am very happy to see him, I wave at him and and we hug. In the past, every time I saw my friend I would compliment his nice outfits. This time, he looked very bad, his clothes were not matching and didn’t fit his body. He was tired. He was not well.
I introduced him to Ahmad, saying that he is one of my best friends in the whole world, and introduced Ahmad to him as “one of the people who kind enough to host us”.
We speak for less than a minute, he says he is OK. I tell him I am OK. Both of us are not OK.
I leave him after we both say we will meet after this all ends and have a nice cup of tea by the sea. I keep walking with tears in my eyes.
Later, I send him a message: “I was so happy to see you. Seeing you was the best thing to happen to me today (well, the second best after getting the connection back). Until we meet again, my friend.”
3pm Ahmad is reading stories to the children. He is sharing a story about a chicken that did something and then started singing. It was clear that the children have heard the story before since they were contributing to it and singing with him.
Everyone in the host family begs Ahmad not to sing because he has a terrible singing voice. I tell him there are many amazing, good qualities about him; he is positive, kind, and he helps everybody. Having a good singing voice is not one of those qualities.
8pm For the hundredth time, I am repacking the bags to get everything in place in case we need to leave again. My sister points out that this time, I do not care about my laptop nor other things I used to see as a priority.
10pm My emotional ability to continue writing is strong, but my physical ability is not. When I was buying the torch this morning, I asked Ahmad if he thinks we will reach a stage where we go back to using candles, if we can find any.
Just like a candle, I feel that I am slowly fading … my body is losing its strength. I have no energy left.
I am writing, but everything I write is a drop in the ocean. Like Manara, I feel only a part of me is expressing the pain I am going through, yet there are many left voiceless. I wish I could let out every emotion and experience and thought I have. I wish the walls could talk to share the fear we’re living in between them all night.
I wish the sky could talk to share everything it witnesses: people roaming the streets not knowing where to go or whether they will have food for the next day – or whether they will be alive.
I wish the mirrors could talk to share the tragedy on our faces that is adding so many years to our actual age. I wish someone could hug me and tell me it is over.
