Mustafa Alismail
crumble . Light up . Screams sound . Armed men emerge . And her voice quivers :
“ My city shut off her lamp Shut up her door Remained at night alone Alone and dark ”
“ LiBeirut ,” by Fairuz
In blood , mine and others ’, I awoke . The sun sweltered above . My back is propped against the mosque ’ s walls . Not sure how I got here . I can see my school in the distance all aflame . Smoke ’ s stinging my eyes . I don ’ t hear screams , but I can almost make out a song . . . Boots approach , so I try to play dead , but the body betrays — lungs gasp for air . The boots stop before me . I lift up my head with excruciating pain to see a figure in green fatigues . The green fatigues of any army . The green fatigues that are stained with the blood of the innocent and the guilty . The green fatigues that were sewn and patched by mothers for their sons to venture off and kill their brothers .
I look to his face ; the sun behind obscures his features . I don ’ t know to which militia he belongs . I don ’ t know in which neighborhood he grew , to which mosque or church , if any , he went . I can ’ t know the face of the man who will end me . But I lift my eyes to where his should be . I let him see the fear , the anger , and the loathing that I pray will haunt him for the rest of his days .
I despise him for inspiring hate in my heart .
I
“ Beirut , From her people ’ s soul , she ’ s a wine From their sweat , she is bread and jasmine So how did she come to taste of fire and smoke . . . ?”
return . The opening in Abu Mazen ’ s fence staring , beckoning me — comforting me . The sky is still blue , so I crawl through .
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