I sit by the window. It’s been so long since I last sat behind these western windows of the house. I steal a moment from the life that I once lived here. I force my memory to bring back the scent of a night, or the voice of the sea, back when it was close. A bit of stolen warmth from a cold March evening which I used to love running after.
My blurred memory
The sound of footsteps on the road feels unsettling at this hour of the night. The night moves with unease. The darkness devours the senses like ravenous hunger.
Who walks without a memory of light?!
The city! The city gropes for itself in the dark.
A scent of smoke rising toward the window.
That always reminds me of despair.
The smell of the night’s smoke draws just one picture: hopeless waiting.
The moments of fear. They are not dead yet!
Fear… Anxiety… Waiting… Tension…
We fail to make sense of what time throws into our laps.
So, we rock it gently… we soothe it.
Beneath the window now, I hear voices gathering, drawn to the sound of Umm Kulthoum’s song:
“Omri da‘a… yeḥsebouh ez-zay ‘alayya”
(My life was lost… how can they hold it against me?)
I only wish time would stop for a moment so I could blame the days for all what has been taken away from me!
I wish the voice would rise higher than all the noise that dares to claim:
The war is over!
Fedaa Zeyad
March 7, 2025
