My memoirs during war: “Every time the sun goes down, I am afraid”

When the sun sets over Beirut, fear begins to creep in. Every night, as if our lives are set to a vicious clock, I brace myself for the familiar sounds that have become the companions of our nights: bombs tearing through the southern suburbs of Beirut, a few miles away from where I am. With each explosion, I send messages to my friends, and they share their fears and hopes with me. This has become our new lifeline, a thin thread of words that keeps us connected in a world that is falling apart.

When the sun sets over Beirut, fear begins to creep in. Every night, as if our lives are set to a clock, I brace myself for the familiar sounds that have become the companions of our nights: bombs tearing through the southern suburbs of Beirut, a few miles away from where I am.

One friend wrote to me: “The baby is kicking. It’s as if he senses something is wrong. I don’t know if he’s kicking out of fear, or if I’m the only one feeling it. How can I bring him into this world? Will he even have a future?” She’s waiting for her baby’s birth, not knowing what awaits him. That future, once full of possibilities and dreams, has now become nothing but a fog of uncertainty.

Another friend sent me a message after midnight, her anxiety reflected on the screen: “I woke up drenched in sweat again. The nightmares... they feel so real. I hear the bombs even when I’m asleep. I can’t get rid of them, even in sleep.”

For her, there’s no longer a difference between reality and dreams. The war has invaded our subconscious, turning even our sleep into a battlefield. Even our dreams now are filled with dust.

With each explosion, I send messages to my friends, and they share their fears and hopes with me. This has become our new lifeline, a thin thread of words that keeps us connected in a world that is falling apart.

A friend who fled from another war, hoping to find peace here, wrote to me: “I can’t believe this is happening again. I thought I had escaped. But it’s the same scenario, just in a different place. I don’t think I’ll ever find a place to belong.”

Her words carry the weight of displacement—a person constantly searching for safety and a home, yet finding neither. She escaped one war only to face another.

A friend sent me a message after midnight: “I woke up drenched in sweat again. The nightmares... they feel so real. I hear the bombs even when I’m asleep. I can’t get rid of them, even in sleep.” For her, there’s no longer a difference between reality and dreams. The war has invaded our subconscious, turning even our sleep into a battlefield. Even our dreams now are filled with dust.

The streets of Beirut tell a story that words can’t fully capture. Homes are no longer homes; they have turned into piles of rubble holding memories, dreams, and entire lives. But it’s not just the physical devastation that weighs on us. Every shattered window, every collapsed building, every wrecked car carries the stories of those who lived there. Whole lives are erased in a moment, leaving behind only dust and absence.

We live on fragments—fragments of ourselves—that we stitch together through midnight messages and shared fears. There’s nothing glamorous about survival. It’s messy, painful, filled with doubts. But in those brief moments when we exchange messages, we cling to the faint hope that tomorrow will be free of explosions, free of destruction, and free of loss.

The streets of Beirut tell a story that words can’t fully capture. Homes are no longer homes; they have turned into piles of rubble holding memories, dreams, and entire lives. But it’s not just the physical devastation that weighs on us. Every shattered window, every collapsed building, every wrecked car carries the stories of those who lived there. Whole lives are erased in a moment, leaving behind only dust and absence.

I am not strong. I am scared—terrified, even. Last night, I packed a bag with what I thought was essential: medications, insurance papers, a worthless passport, and my journal that records every fleeting fear. I left the windows open, waiting for the next explosion, knowing that closing them wouldn’t stop the glass from shattering above us.

I kept the TV on all night, an overflow of news narrating a reality I’m living but cannot fully grasp. Today, my body is exhausted from the constant tension, from always being prepared for the next shock, always ready for trauma.

We live on fragments—fragments of ourselves—that we stitch together through midnight messages and shared fears. There’s nothing glamorous about survival. It’s messy, painful, filled with doubts. But in those brief moments when we exchange messages, we cling to the faint hope that tomorrow will be free of explosions, free of destruction, and free of loss.

Shame creeps into me as I write these words. Shame because I fear for my life while hundreds lie buried beneath the rubble of Israel’s killing machine. Their lives, and their deaths, intertwined with my survival. I sit here, terrified but alive, while others are no longer with us.

This is our reality. We live in the “in-between”; between the past and the future, between life and death, between fear and shame. Beirut may crumble, but it’s still standing. And we are still here, though none of us knows for how long. Every night, we exchange messages. We share our fears as we wait for tomorrow, hoping it will be kinder than today.

Shame creeps into me as I write these words. Shame because I fear for my life while hundreds lie buried beneath the rubble of Israel’s killing machine. Their lives, and their deaths, intertwined with my survival. I sit here, terrified but alive, while others are no longer with us.

These are my war memoirs. They are not a story of resilience, but of fear, and of clinging to hope at a time when everything seems on the verge of collapse.

* 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