Mustafa Alismail
crumble . Light up . Screams sound . Armed men emerge . And her voice quivers :
“ My city shut off her lamp Shut up her door Remained at night alone Alone and dark ”
“ LiBeirut ,” by Fairuz
In blood , mine and others ’, I awoke . The sun sweltered above . My back is propped against the mosque ’ s walls . Not sure how I got here . I can see my school in the distance all aflame . Smoke ’ s stinging my eyes . I don ’ t hear screams , but I can almost make out a song . . . Boots approach , so I try to play dead , but the body betrays — lungs gasp for air . The boots stop before me . I lift up my head with excruciating pain to see a figure in green fatigues . The green fatigues of any army . The green fatigues that are stained with the blood of the innocent and the guilty . The green fatigues that were sewn and patched by mothers for their sons to venture off and kill their brothers .
I look to his face ; the sun behind obscures his features . I don ’ t know to which militia he belongs . I don ’ t know in which neighborhood he grew , to which mosque or church , if any , he went . I can ’ t know the face of the man who will end me . But I lift my eyes to where his should be . I let him see the fear , the anger , and the loathing that I pray will haunt him for the rest of his days .
I despise him for inspiring hate in my heart .
I
“ Beirut , From her people ’ s soul , she ’ s a wine From their sweat , she is bread and jasmine So how did she come to taste of fire and smoke . . . ?”
return . The opening in Abu Mazen ’ s fence staring , beckoning me — comforting me . The sky is still blue , so I crawl through .
94
Mustafa Alismail
crumble. Light up. Screams sound. Armed men emerge. And her voice
quivers:
“My city shut off her lamp
Shut up her door
Remained at night alone
Alone and dark” “LiBeirut,” by Fairuz
In blood, mine and others’, I awoke. The sun sweltered above. My
back is propped against the mosque’s walls. Not sure how I got here.
I can see my school in the distance all aflame. Smoke’s stinging my
eyes. I don’t hear screams, but I can almost make out a song . . . Boots
approach, so I try to play dead, but the body betrays—lungs gasp for
air. The boots stop before me. I lift up my head with excruciating pain
to see a figure in green fatigues. The green fatigues of any army. The
green fatigues that are stained with the blood of the innocent and the
guilty. The green fatigues that were sewn and patched by mothers for
their sons to venture off and kill their brothers.
I look to his face; the sun behind obscures his features. I don’t know
to which militia he belongs. I don’t know in which neighborhood he
grew, to which mosque or church, if any, he went. I can’t know the face
of the man who will end me. But I lift my eyes to where his should be.
I let him see the fear, the anger, and the loathing that I pray will haunt
him for the rest of his days.
I despise him for inspiring hate in my heart.
“Beirut,
From her people’s soul, she’s a wine
From their sweat, she is bread and jasmine
So how did she come to taste of fire and smoke . . . ?”
I
return. The opening in Abu Mazen’s fence staring, beckoning Yx�%���Y�ܝ[��YK�H��H\��[�YK��Hܘ]���Y����M��