My father always sends me pictures of our old house.
I miss every corner of that house, where every corner of it carries a story of its own.
I long for the people who once lived there; those who visited it. That house was full of life and laughter, countless stories, and eternal love.
It was built with a lot of effort throughout years of struggle. It is testament to my parents’ dedication and sacrifice. Their concern was always how to create a safe and warm haven for us. They worked without despair to ensure that it remains a nurturing refuge for everyone who called it “home”.
I won’t hide how upset I am when I think of my countless beautiful memories in it. That is causing me a lot of pain me. That is in fact burning my heart.
I return to my dark reality. I recall that moment when I came back to my home alone after losing my family.
I saw the clothes of the martyrs hanging on the washing line, and their blankets still resting on their beds. I saw Lara’s dress hanging in my wardrobe, my mother’s coffee still in the kitchen. The olives she had prepared before the massacre had ripened.
With every step I take up the stairs inside the house, a long reel of memories unfolds, heavy with the sound of sobs torn from the depths of my soul. My body trembles, shaken to its core by the magnitude of what has happened. How I left my home with my mother and the children, only to come back alone today!
It was the harshest scene of my life to go back home alone, burdened with memories and words, yet with no voice left to speak. All that echoes in my mind is nothing but a single question:
How did this house, once filled with all the love in the world, become a graveyard?!
Dima Hani
September 15, 2024
