In a bid to maintain my mental stability for today, I am now sitting on the wooden chair leaning against the trunk of the large olive tree in the front yard of the house where my family and I are displaced.
I am striving to write, but the noise of the buzzing drone penetrates my ears and my skull. The pain in my shoulders and hands, which swell up after every laundry session, aggravates me. Between washing, rinsing, wringing, and hanging piles of laundry that accumulate over three days due to the frequent water cuts, the pain is inevitable. I endure the swelling in the morning, dryness at night, and suffer from an exasperating itch.
I recall my father’s advice in the early days of the war when we could still call each other, urging me not to overthink what tomorrow may bring, and to live each day as it comes, steering clear of excessive worry and analysis. I am doing my utmost to follow this guidance.
My life has taken on this pattern: I wake up in the morning, check or receive the latest news, and I try to stay busy. Many thoughts are crowding my mind: the children, the rumble of bombs, the laundry, the rising number of martyrs reported in the news, the bread shortage, the advancing tanks, announcements of new evacuation orders, lunch, and putting the children to bed.
The bread and bakery dilemma!
Today, this part of the day felt heavier than usual.
My daughter, Lur, who turns seven this upcoming April, (Editor’s note: this testimony was written in March 2024) was upset this morning. She could not comprehend that I did not have any za’atar to bake her favorite thyme flatbread (za’atar manousheh) in the clay oven. So she cried, grew angry, raised her voice, and bitterly asked:
“I understand that we are out of cheese, but za’atar too? Mama, no za'atar and no olive oil? All I asked for was a simple za’atar manousheh!”
What can I do?
As we do every other day, we knead the dough to bake. Lur came along reluctantly after I convinced her not to miss the first hot, puffy loaf, a small consolation for the missing za’atar. We met a little girl at the bakery whose mother was speaking to the other women waiting in line. The child, Leen, was barely five and also displaced from Gaza City like ourselves and so many others here. Trying to distract her from the rumbles of the bombing outside that terrified her, I conversed with her while her mother baked their last ten loaves.
I asked her, “So, Leen, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
Instantly, she replied, “A strawberry.”
I repeated her answer, astonished, “A strawberry?! Is that what you said? Did I hear you right?”
She confidently confirmed, “Yes, a strawberry.”
She furrowed her brows, glanced at her mother, put her right hand on her waist, and said, “Why did you not get me a strawberry? Did I not tell you I wanted a strawberry?!”
Her mother inaudibly replied, “Okay, Inshallah.”
The mother did not glance at her daughter, focused on sliding the last loaves of bread into the oven with one hand. With the other hand, she used a piece of the scarce cardboard, which she had earlier complained of how challenging it was to find, to keep the fire going. She then stood up, balanced the tray of bread atop her head, held her daughter’s hand, and quietly said, “Let’s go home.”
What can Leen’s mother possibly say to her daughter?
How can she explain that nothing is more precious now than a loaf of bread?
How does she tell her that this was their last bag of flour and that she will need to share her loaf with one of her siblings so that the bread can last for a few days?
Would she understand if she is told that the strawberry season is over and the fields have been destroyed?
And what will I say to Lur the next time she asks for manousheh?
Do I tell her, “There’s no more za’atar in the land of za’atar, sweetheart”?
Even if the za’atar returns, will she remember its authentic flavor now that tasteless scentless substitutes have saturated the market?
Nothing tastes right here, and everything is dull.
The days are agonizingly slow after the hundredth day, and they all feel the same.
And the drone still hovers in the sky above my head.
Here I am, searching for clean air to fill my lungs and sustain my breath and endurance amidst all of this. But my search is in vain; the sky is gray from the dust of the bombings and destruction, and the air is polluted from the burning of plastic bags and bottles to light fires and ovens after the firewood runs out.
I need to take long, steady breaths to give my son, Majd — who turned twelve last January — the strength and patience he needs. For two days now, he has been saying, “Mama, I am ready to go a whole week without food, but I just want to go home.” When we were displaced, Majd and Lur were excited for an adventure that they thought would last two days or a week at most. That same night, we received news that our house had been destroyed due to the bombing of the house next door and the one right behind it.
Majd cried for days, and none of us could mention anything about the house without his tears falling and breaking our hearts.
Last night, Lur repeated her usual bedtime phrase, adding a new sentence, “I want to go home. Ramadan is approaching, Mama.”
Lur wants her annual Ramadan lantern, the string of lights with stars and moons she loves, and to eat sambousek! But she does not say or ask for anything; she scrolls through pictures on my phone at night before bed, then turns it off, puts it aside, closes her eyes, and sleeps.
In 17 days, my youngest child, Nahawand, will turn one. It has been five months without fruit or the diverse, nutritious food essential for his growth. During this time, we have gone through five different types of diapers and dealt with various kinds of skin irritations, all while being far from his crib, pillow, toys, and the stroller he loved. On top of that, I have had to switch between five types of formula, eventually resorting to one meant for a one-year-old because his age-appropriate formula became unavailable.
This morning, I am burdened by the deadly routine that has been repeating for 155 days, by my constant evasion of Majd or Lur’s questions about the food I cannot provide or about the return that I keep claiming will be tomorrow, although tomorrow is long overdue. I am also weighed down by my daily hope of waking up to find myself back home. A home I unwillingly think about; its walls, windows, and doors are now gone, and the days of our lives are slipping by as we do nothing but wait for the war to end. I think about the seventh of October, and how it made us lose so much of ourselves.
Two days became five months.
I want to go home.
I want to return to what remains of my home.
