Alexandre Najjar

'Happy Mother's Day, Mom!'
In Lebanon, Mother's Day falls on the first day of spring. This is not a coincidence. I place a kiss on my mother's forehead.
'You are my sunshine,' she says, squeezing my hands.

She takes the bouquet of roses that I hand her and walks towards the dining room. Sitting in the corner of the living room, I observe her - I know her every move by heart! My mother... I am always afraid of losing her, of no longer being able to see her eyes. During the war, I was constantly watching her, protecting her, not only out of love and devotion, but also because my own equilibrium depended on hers. One May morning - how could I forget? - my mother left the house to do some shopping at a supermarket that was three hundred yards from our house. I had my nose in my books; I responded to her farewell with a nod of my head.

A half-hour later, an extremely violent explosion shook the entire city. The windows of our house shattered. I threw myself flat on the ground, my hands clasped behind my neck.
'What was that?' my father asked, getting back up.
We looked at him, dazed, unsure where the explosion had originated. Taking his courage in both hands, my youngest brother went to find out what had happened. He returned shortly after and told us, his voice tight with emotion:
'A car bomb... Apparently it exploded near the supermarket!'

'Mom!' Without thinking, I rushed out of the house.

In the distance, wreaths of smoke swirled in the sky. I raced the three hundred yards to the location of the explosion. 'God, let her have changed her mind at the last minute... Let her not have been hurt... Let her still be alive...' Out of breath, completely distraught, I arrived in front of the supermarket. The sight before my eyes petrified me: a thick, black cloud of smoke had swooped down on the area; here and there, there were charred, overturned vehicles; everywhere, traces of blood, scraps of flesh, fragments of glass, rubble... Ambulance drivers and firemen scattered in every direction. Cries, groans mingled with screeching sirens. I approached an emergency rescue worker:

'My mother is in there!'
'Get away from here!'
'How many casualties?'
'One hundred thirty-six!'
'A car bomb?'
'A Peugeot set to explode during peak shopping period...'
'Please, make sure my mother is safe and sound!'

The rescue worker took down my mother's name and went to check with the ambulance drivers to see if she was on the list of casualties. The few minutes that I had to wait for the 'verdict' dragged on forever. So, my mother's life depended on chance, on a name on a list! The entire war is the very image of this tragedy: a vile lottery. After this episode, how could I not live in fear? And how could I bear a grudge against those who, terrorized by these infernal machines, refuse to return to this country?

'She isn't on the list.'
The rescue worker's reply was like a deliverance.
'Thank you God, thank you!'

I headed home at a slow pace.
On the steps of my family home stood my mother, her hands on her hips:
'Where were you, you thoughtless fool?' she yelled indignantly. 'You scared me to death!'

  email this article     print-friendly version
Last modified on October 19, 2005  | © Telegram 2005