As is customary, Kareem’s alarm is ringing in his room at 6 a.m.; his head wants to stay asleep, but the alarm insists more and more, ringing louder and louder. His alarm is loud as hell, and my mind annoyingly wakes me up because his room is next to mine.
“Kareem, turn off your alarm!” I shout at him.
“Get up, Lazy Mona Lisa, you have stuff to do,” Kareem says.
He calls me Mona Lisa since my name — Mona — is similar to that of the renowned Italian portrait.
I was not the only one who woke up from Kareem’s alarm. He would share his awakening with the whole house in the early mornings.
He used to go to the club every morning to play football. These were days of war, but he didn’t care. “We’re all going to die; war is no longer the worst option, and the worst option is to stay at home fearing the war outside, preventing yourself from [enjoying] every fun moment,” Kareem would say. As long as football was his passion, life, and everything, he believed nothing could stop him from playing, neither wars nor anything else.
Kareem is standing in front of the mirror beside the front door, touching up his appearance. He is combing his hair, making sure that he will not walk on the street looking messy.
We didn’t expect any bombing from Israel at that moment. We experienced a terrifying night full of heavy bombing until dawn; then, we entered moments of ceasefire that should have extended until the afternoon.
Kareem is now ready to go out, heading to the sports club. He was the only one in that part of our home, while my father, sister, and I gathered in another spot. It was at that moment, as he turned to leave, that Israel breached the truce and started firing fiendishly heavy, unguided artillery shells. The tower suddenly shook, and we heard everything crash simultaneously.
It was our home. It was the part where Kareem was standing. The shells struck behind him as the monster of fire attacked us. My father called out, “KAREEM!” in a very loud voice. Kareem didn’t reply. We couldn’t move, as the bombing wouldn’t stop. The house was filled with thick clouds of smoke. My father kept calling “KAREEM!” louder and louder.
The shelling stopped for a moment. Kareem entered a state of unconsciousness. Seconds later, paralyzed and winded, he called out “Baba” in a low, faint voice. My father ran to him; he ran so fast. And we ran after him.
Kareem was lying on the floor, crawling to reach us, as he could no longer feel his foot. The most important part of his life was shattered to pieces. I stood still; I felt half-awake as I stared at him. I didn’t move, nor could I hear him. Kareem’s alarm clock goes off forever.
