On the sidewalk, people live
They set up tents
They eat
They drink
They sleep
And at night, when the bombardments start, they sow the seeds of the future in the womb of suffering
Hoping that what is coming will be better
And that a new chapter of the story will begin someday
On the sidewalk, markets spread
Markets become playgrounds
Beans, hummus, lentils
Processed meat that neither satisfies the appetite, nor nourishes the body
It is just a need
Damn the need
On the sidewalk, medical stations emerge
Distributing pills for headache
Painkillers, too
Medicine for cramps that resulted from eating canned food
Some supplements for treating the symptoms of starvation
None of it is curable
On the sidewalk, children sit in a circle around a teacher
Burdened by the worry of securing bread for his own children
He teaches them what they missed in the curriculum
What is the size of their loss!
And how narrow is the sidewalk
On the sidewalk, people get bombed, too
They are injured,
Their limbs are scattered across the opposite sidewalk
Life itself has become a sidewalk
But for those who are far away in this universe
We are nothing but a sidewalk
On the sidewalk, clothes hang
On trembling threads swayed by the wind
Small garments whose owners are no longer there
Or others who grew older
Like aborted childhoods
Men repair the remains of their tools
Rusty screwdrivers, broken heaters, limping bicycles
As if they are trying to fix time itself
Or bring back to life what is no longer alive
On the sidewalk, stories are told in the evening
People gather around a timid fire with little flame
And the tales carry the flavor of first times
The first airstrike
The first displacement
The first house that collapsed
The first brother who vanished
The first time a father wept aloud
And on the sidewalk, a woman stands in her black dress
Like a wall of patience
She sells tissue, prayers, or silence
Every passerby sees a mirror in her eyes
His hunger, his own pain and fear from tomorrow
Then he flees
On the sidewalk, hope is wrapped up into sleep
A child who found no lap to embrace, but that of fear
Suckling from the cold breast of the sky
Weaned by the noise of explosions
A man writes a letter on a piece of cardboard with no address
But hopes his words reach God
A young man draws a non-fading flower on a tent
As tents have become notebooks
And chalks the ink of the last revolution
The sidewalk does not complain
But it does not forget also
On the sidewalk,
The footsteps of those who passed and never came back are marked
On the sidewalk, stakes are driven
By those who chose to stay until the end of the story
Even if that end lies on a sidewalk’s page
Dr. Said Muhammad Al-Kahlout
Psychologist and Writer
23/04/2025
