The Cursed Monday

September 23rd, 2024. Paris, France.

I woke up at 6 a.m. to a deluge of messages from family and friends, sharing harrowing news and images of sudden, heavy bombardments in southern villages. I scrolled through the chats, trying to comprehend the chaos unfolding back home. My WhatsApp was flooded with urgent messages: “A strike just hit Abbessieh,” and “Several strikes on Jowaya, Shernay, and Berj Rahhal…”

Among them was a message from my 13-year-old niece, who corrected my mother when she mistook the sounds for the usual sonic booms. “No, it’s a strike,” she explained, teaching her how to differentiate between the two.

Fear gripped us all. It felt like we had entered a new phase of the war. Yet, at that moment, the situation seemed relatively manageable, as airstrikes were primarily targeting the outskirts of the villages. I checked in on everyone, reassured them they were safe, and went back to sleep. After enduring 11 consecutive months of bombardments and sonic booms, I had become accustomed to the chaos.

I woke up again at 10:30 to start my day, excited to explore the vibrant streets of Paris, as I was visiting some friends.

At 11:30, while preparing my morning coffee, the relentless notifications from WhatsApp pierced through my thoughts. The number of strikes had skyrocketed from around 40 to over 80 in less than one hour. No village or city in the south was spared, regardless of its distance from the borders. People were in shock, paralyzed by fear, struggling to comprehend what was happening or decide on their next move.

Then came the chilling news: a civilian house, just 50 meters away from my parents' home, had been targeted. Our neighbors; people we had known forever. In that instant, reality set in: they had to flee immediately. But fleeing had become a privilege. With neighborhoods being bombed, fear of stepping outside loomed large everyone was terrified of being hit, either accidentally or intentionally.

I stayed on the phone with my family, the sounds of distress ringing in my ears, breaking my heart into pieces. At that moment, I lost control over my own reality. I started crying in the middle of the street next to the Louvre. My nieces were crying, my mother was shaking, and my father was traumatized. It took two agonizing hours for the bombardments to subside, and then began their traumatic journey: 12 hours of torment for a distance that usually took just 40 minutes. The escalation of events was unforeseen, people were unprepared to flee. They were caught in a wave of panic as the whole region sought safety. 

The roads were clogged with cars and people, all fleeing at once. People fled without any belongings, food, or water. Some ran out of gasoline and were forced to continue on foot. Children cried out in hunger, while supermarkets along the highways, if they could be found, were stripped bare within minutes. 

My cousin's voice trembled as she told me, “My one-year-old son hasn’t stopped crying; he needs food.” My heart ached for him. Desperate, my cousin began knocking on car windows, pleading for any morsel to feed her little one. We adults were starving, imagine a one-year-old child. 

They reached halfway to their destination in 12 hours, enduring conditions and panic that no human being can or should live through. I was terrified about the survival of my 75 years old dad, who suffers from heart problems. After arriving at 3:30 am to Saida, they decided to stay at an acquaintance's place, to continue their horrific nightmare the next morning. 

That Monday weighs heavily on the hearts of southern people. Those who fled under the bombardments, and others who were in safe areas, but watched their loved ones and hometowns face destruction in the blink of an eye.

Since that Monday, tragedies are still ongoing. Traumas remain processed. Everybody feels like a Zombie, as they describe. No one is able to answer the most painful question: “How are you?”.