hankyoreh

Reem Haddad, contributing writer, she is a Lebanese mother with two children, and a former reporter for Lebanese newspaper, The Daily Star

I have somehow stepped back in time. The crying. The worry. The fears. The war planes. And the horrifying sound of missiles as they fly over the city to hit their targets. An echo of noise follows and our windows shatter. But this time I couldn’t be the child running into my parents’ arms for comfort, as I had been during Lebanon’s 16-year civil war, which ended in 1991. Now, I was the parent, and my own two small children were running to me. The confusion was written all over their faces.

“Fireworks,” I explained to my four-year-old daughter, Yasmine, as the house vibrated with a sudden loud explosion. Yasmine looked delighted as she grabbed the hand of Alexander, her 21-month-old brother. She led him to the window to look for the display of lights in the sky. My husband and I rushed to the television screen and stared in utter disbelief at the images of smoke rising from Beirut’s new airport.

Another explosion and our windows shook. I grabbed the children close to me. The Israelis were hitting Beirut suburbs - home to a huge Shiite population and headquarters of Hezbollah. And then started the shelling of highways.

By then, I couldn’t fool my inquisitive Yasmine anymore. She was beginning to figure out that these sounds were not fireworks.

“Is it thunder then?“ she asked. “Is it going to rain”

Still, I couldn’t tell her the truth.

My own childhood was filled with the sounds of bombs. It took several years of continuous nightmares to finally forget those horrible sounds. I remember promising myself at a young age that my own children would never hear those sounds. And here was my little girl looking at me with fear.

My husband, a journalist, went off to cover the news. I huddled the children even closer to me. The bombing continued. We didn’t dare venture outside.

Suddenly, we were told we were under siege. Israeli warships had spread all along the Lebanese coast, forbidding cargo ships from going in or out. Meanwhile, the Israelis continued to bomb roads leading out of the country to Syria.

Panic ensued. Friends called me and said to rush to the supermarkets to stock up on supplies. I followed their advice and found myself standing in front of already half-empty shelves. I didn’t know what to try to buy. The first priority was milk and diapers. Other people must have thought the same thing, for those were the first shelves to be emptied. I rushed from one supermarket to another trying to find milk. But the Israelis had hit the milk factory in the fertile Bekaa Valley, depriving thousands of children of much-needed milk; barely a few bottles were left on the shelves. I grabbed what I could, but I knew my supplies wouldn’t last long.

The explosions continued during the night. Our home overlooked the Beirut port, and I stared in horror as missiles hit their targets below.

I was living in a nightmare and didn¡?t know how to wake up. Only three weeks ago, we were celebrating Yasmine¡?s 4th birthday. She was glowing. Guests were laughing.

Thousands of tourists had begun to flow in to our city for the summer. Now they had all been evacuated. Few foreigners are left.

***

Four days after the bombing began, the children and I have made our way to the mountains. My husband remains within the heavy bombardment in the south, covering the events. My children and I still hear the planes overhead, and sometimes the windows shatter. I don’t know if we are safe here. I don’t even know if we will make it, or when the family will be together again. And so we remain in the mountains, looking for the invisible rain that follows the sudden sound of thunder.