When we cry for help from beneath the ruins of a fragile world

I am not okay. Julia has been martyred. Julia Ramadan, my angelic friend, is gone. She was killed by an Israeli strike in Ain el-Delb, Saida, in southern Lebanon. Why? Because she was armed with beauty, purity, and peace.

I am not okay. Julia has been martyred. Julia Ramadan, my angelic friend, is gone. She was killed by an Israeli strike in Ain el-Delb, Saida, in southern Lebanon. Why? Because she was armed with beauty, purity, and peace.

“Julia, with the curly hair, fair skin, and pretty face." The tragedy repeats itself from Yousef, the angel of Gaza, to Julia, the angel of the South.

They killed her so she couldn't tell me: "I'm proud to be your friend." They killed her so she wouldn't read Surah Al-Baqarah, so she wouldn’t cheer for Juventus, or go to the gym. The malicious drone thought she deserved torment just because she was laughing.

Israel killed Julia Ramadan along with her mother in the airstrike in Saida, Lebanon. Julia spent her last days trying to help the displaced in Lebanon, providing them with food and shelter.

Israel killed Julia Ramadan along with her mother in the airstrike in Saida, Lebanon. Julia spent her last days trying to help the displaced in Lebanon, providing them with food and shelter.

I haven't slept since yesterday. It feels like I'm stuck in a limbo with no end in sight.

I haven't slept since yesterday. It feels like I'm stuck in a limbo with no end in sight. The streets of the southern city of Tyre have turned into a playground for rats, dogs, and cats that have set aside their differences and joined forces. Flies swarm the streets. Some boys call from foreign numbers to play a game with us called "Evacuate the area immediately". It's the curse of technology and artificial intelligence that has transformed a city with a vast and grand space into tiny boxes, allowing us to shed each other's blood so quickly and easily.

Some merchants in Tyre have turned into war profiteers. A pack of local Cedars cigarettes is now being sold for 90 thousand Lebanese liras, up from 50 or 60 thousand. Bread is being monopolized and hoarded, and drinking water has become a dream for our parched throats. A bottle of water is sold as if it is a bottle of crude oil. The overcrowded schools are like organs infested with mold, scabies, hunger, thirst, and children's cries.

“Julia, with the curly hair, fair skin, and pretty face." The tragedy repeats itself from Yousef, the angel of Gaza, to Julia, the angel of the South. They killed her so she couldn't tell me: "I'm proud to be your friend." They killed her so she wouldn't read Surah Al-Baqarah, so she wouldn’t cheer for Juventus, or go to the gym. The malicious drone thought she deserved torment just because she was laughing.

I entered one of the public schools west of the city with Christiane Baissary, a correspondent for Al Arabiya, to conduct interviews, gather information, and convey the people's stories to the world. There, you'll find a "thug" who controls the newly displaced, imposing his authority—a thug wearing a sleeveless shirt. He has thick black hair, smokes, and wears tattered plastic flip-flops. He signals to one person to move away from the camera and to another to step closer and speak.

In war, some, out of sheer helplessness, become thieves of freedom, exerting power and authority over a fragile group of people.

The streets of the southern city of Tyre have turned into a playground for rats, dogs, and cats that have set aside their differences and joined forces. Flies swarm the streets. Some boys call from foreign numbers to play a game with us called "Evacuate the area immediately". It's the curse of technology and artificial intelligence that has transformed a city with a vast and grand space into tiny boxes, allowing us to shed each other's blood so quickly and easily.

A little girl no older than ten entered one of the rooms. Her long black hair was tied in a braid, and she wore glasses. She stared at us and our equipment as we did our jobs. Her big eyes caught my attention, opening a well of tears in me. They stirred a paternal feeling within me. I wanted to hug her, as if she were my daughter or my little sister—me, who never had a sister—but instead, I smiled at her like Adel Imam did in his late '80s movies and waved. She waved back, as if to say, "We'll meet, my brother; promise me that."

The city of Tyre today is consumed by silence, by need, by the conflict between resilience and survival, between one camp surrendering to rumors and another that believes in staying safe at home.

The city of Tyre today is consumed by silence, by need, by the conflict between resilience and survival, between one camp surrendering to rumors and another that believes in staying safe at home. Hearing the sound of a missile from 300 meters away is not easy. Seeing the city’s coastal promenade covered in debris and rubble is not easy. Descending into fear and terror as Haj Haitham—who is already terrified–shows you a fake message to evacuate the neighborhood is the kind of hell even Dante doesn’t know of.

Hearing the sound of a missile from 300 meters away is not easy. Seeing the city’s coastal promenade covered in debris and rubble is not easy. Descending into fear and terror as Haj Haitham—who is already terrified–shows you a false message to evacuate the Nabi Ismail neighborhood is the kind of hell even Dante Alighieri doesn’t know.

Last night, I evacuated my father's pharmacy. Half my books are there, since my library can't hold the rest. I grabbed two novels: "Lolita" by Vladimir Nabokov and "Madame Bovary" by Gustave Flaubert, and my laptop, so I could practice my resistance by writing.

Ten minutes after I arrived home, five airstrikes hit areas near my house. I was able to narrowly escape death for the 10th time in one week. "Death is our honest lie," as Mahmoud Darwish put it. But this love now I give to my beloved Shayma, in doses from afar, just to stay alive. In a few hours, I will declare my engagement to her under the rocket fire. To declare your love for a woman who loves you with all your madness, anger, creativity, and sorrow is a powerful force against Israeli drones hiding behind an old, decrepit iron dome.

Ten minutes after I arrived home, five airstrikes hit areas near my house. I was able to narrowly escape death for the 10th time in a week. "Death is our honest lie," as Mahmoud Darwish put it. But this love now I give to my beloved Shayma, in doses from afar, just to stay alive. In a few hours, I will declare my engagement to her under the rocket fire.

To declare your love for a woman who loves you with all your madness, anger, creativity, and sorrow is a powerful force against Israeli drones hiding behind an old, decrepit iron dome.

I write today to mourn my shattered composure—because Julia is no longer with me. My “teddy bear” is no longer here. She flew to the beyond to teach the clouds how to forget their grudges. I write because my vendetta against Israel is growing, and because the Yasser Arafat within me has come, carrying an olive branch in one hand and a rifle in the other.

I write today to mourn my shattered composure—because Julia is no longer with me. My “teddy bear” is no longer here. She flew to the beyond to teach the clouds how to forget their grudges. I write because my vendetta against Israel is growing, and because the Yasser Arafat within me has come, carrying an olive branch in one hand and a rifle in the other.

I write because I have chosen Abu Ammar (Yasser Arafat), with all his flaws and virtues, as a resistance leader. I placed a large portrait of him in my room—because I want life above all else. I write because I cry for help from beneath the rubble of a fragile world—a world where I love intimacy, the paintings of George Grosz, the music of Vivaldi and Beethoven, the poetry of Chawki Bzeih and Amjad Nasser, the songs of Majida El Roumi, the resilience of Khalil al-Wazir and Abu Ammar.

I write because I have chosen Abu Ammar, with all his flaws and virtues, as a resistance leader. I write because I cry for help from beneath the rubble of a fragile world—a world where I love the music of Vivaldi and Beethoven, the poetry of Amjad Nasser, the songs of Majida El Roumi, the resilience of Khalil al-Wazir and Abu Ammar. I write because I love Shayma, my displaced beloved, and my patient mother, and my father, the resilient pharmacist holding strong in his bombed-out city.

I write because I love Shayma, my beloved currently displaced in Batroun, and my patient, educated mother, and my father, the patriot, resilient pharmacist holding strong in his bombed-out city. I write to lift the rubble off me, to free this place from the armored silence and the specter of suffocation.

* The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author’s and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Raseef22