My mom says care takes a lot of time. 

[ Written with the support of the Global Narrative Hive & Published by GNH]

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From my small apartment in Brussels,  looking at an interesting bit of a public park, there is a middle-aged man who brings a big bucket full of soapy water and  a makeshift instrument that, after being  dipped in the bucket, can produce huge  bubbles in the open air, sometimes, and  depending on the weather, catching some shades of the rainbow.

In one of my two screens, the news of  Israel bombing Lebanon is continuously running, and through my only window, this guy is standing in the park making gigantic bubbles; the contrast bothers me. I have closed my curtains, but working behind  them bothered me too. I now open my curtains only if he is not there.

When the threat to evacuate three densely populated housing zones in Beirut came out, I called my mom. Our house is adjacent to one of the threatened areas, but with enough distance not to panic. But with enough distance that I almost see in my mind’s eye where my mom will be  sitting when the warning air raids start, or when the actual  raids start. 

I remember during the 2006 war, I saw my mom muting  the TV’s sound during one air raid that shook our whole  house so that she could hear the effect of the rocket clearly,  leaving me dumbfounded. That is my mom, the queen of  original character. 

On that very first call, when I asked her what the plan was,  she paused for a bit and said the plan was to unfreeze the  Manteh plate that had been sitting in the deep freezer for  months and to quickly cook some leftover yogurt in time  for dinner, catching me off guard. Not the plan I have in mind.  

I had thought about telling her more about this guy at the  park, because my observations absolutely entertained my  mom. They aren’t really observations; they are significantly  altered sightings that amuse her. But her nonchalant atti tude toward the imminent threat and danger she and the  rest of the country face made me change my mind. Now my  mom and the guy in the park are behind the curtain. 

Yesterday, someone shared a post by a psychotherapist about this particular dilemma: to experience different realities at the same time. I know I rolled my eyes at it as I was scrolling through posts offering logistical information about donations, food parcels, and some shitposting about  the current political situation as comic relief. That is my only duty as someone who is outside. 

But I tried to look for it again because I couldn’t sleep. My body was wide awake way beyond midnight, even though  I took my sleeping aid, even though I had Al Jazeera Live’s  analysts gently whispering to me to sleep in the back ground like always, even though I had closed the curtains  so well that no light came out to bother me. I couldn’t  sleep. My body couldn’t sleep, and I was racing through  people’s stories and posts. I was thinking that if I can find  that post again, I could read it in full to understand wheth er my body is acting out because of this two-realities thing,  and then still roll my eyes at it again. 

When the USA and Israel bombed Iran earlier this month, it  was around 2:00 AM in my time zone, and I had woken up  because my nose was blocked and congested, and I wasn’t  breathing well. I also needed to pee because I drank too  much tea before sleeping, and I hadn’t closed the curtains  well enough. Sometimes these cracks of light come in and  wake me up, and I get so bothered that I started taping the  edge of the curtains to the wall. That dawn, I pumped some  vessel-opening medicine in my nose to open it, and I firmly  reattached the curtain edge to the wall, and I slept again,  only to wake up a few hours later to this shitshow. As I  opened my curtains on that very first day of the war in Iran,  confused and slightly but silently panicked, I was surprised  to see it was a sunny day. I closed my curtains quickly. 

I guess, even before anyone shot any rockets anywhere, I  knew the war would start again in Lebanon, not that it real ly ever stopped. It never does. When it started, I didn’t have  strong feelings about whose rockets landed first. When my 

grandparents became the sole survivors of both their fami lies in 1948, it wasn’t because anyone threw anything. That  much will always be clear to me. There is a very annoying  activist who pops up in my feed, wanting to know what the  plan was to launch six missiles at Israel that morning, even  when 83 children had been killed so far. And she pops up  in my feed wanting to know why six rockets were launched  on Israel that morning, two weeks into this, 686 dead so far  in Lebanon, some of them are families that never woke up,  never saw the next day. 

I call my mom often in these circumstances. Rarely is she  in the mood to talk, and often she asks me straight up,  “What do you want?” because she is very busy taking care  of things. She says care takes a lot of her time. I don’t get  far in understanding what this care looks like. I tried the  other day to pretend that I didn’t take a hint and asked  her if the windows are kept open and what measures she  is taking to make sure—when they crack from the sound of  bombing—nobody gets injured. She says that she is leaving  the light curtains down to catch the shards of glass. So I  take the hint and hang up, hearing her midway pumping up  the sound of the TV. 

I’ve become a voyeur of some sort inside my friends’ group  chat. I watch them as they share the logistics of this war:  the sound and smell of it all, who needs to move from what  neighborhood, who can get one drink early before sun set for some normalcy, before Israel starts the slow burn  doctrine of the mass destruction of Beirut’s suburb, making  sure people in the city and the surrounding towns sleep on  the sound of Israeli rockets shredding homes to pieces, and  ultimately to wake up and discover who is dead.

I’ve not seen him since last week. The  giant bubble man is gone, and we have had  three sunny days here. I know because I  keep looking out the window, and I’m very  vigilant about his presence as the main  reason I work behind closed curtains. But  he is gone now for three days, forcing me  to look at a reality that is unbothered by  Israeli warplanes, where I live, behind the  curtains of m

My mom says care takes a lot of time.  ^{Sara Abou}Ghazal

From my small apartment in Brussels,  looking at an interesting bit of a public  park, there is a middle-aged man who  brings a big bucket full of soapy water and  a makeshift instrument that, after being  dipped in the bucket, can produce huge  bubbles in the open air, sometimes, and  depending on the weather, catching some  shades of the rainbow.

In one of my two screens, the news of  Israel bombing Lebanon is continuously  running, and through my only window, this  guy is standing in the park making gigantic  bubbles; the contrast bothers me. I have  closed my curtains, but working behind  them bothered me too. I now open my  curtains only if he is not there.

When the threat to evacuate three densely populated  housing zones in Beirut came out, I called my mom. Our  house is adjacent to one of the threatened areas, but with  enough distance not to panic. But with enough distance  that I almost see in my mind’s eye where my mom will be  sitting when the warning air raids start, or when the actual  raids start. 

I remember during the 2006 war, I saw my mom muting  the TV’s sound during one air raid that shook our whole  house so that she could hear the effect of the rocket clearly,  leaving me dumbfounded. That is my mom, the queen of  original character. 

On that very first call, when I asked her what the plan was,  she paused for a bit and said the plan was to unfreeze the  Manteh plate that had been sitting in the deep freezer for  months and to quickly cook some leftover yogurt in time  for dinner, catching me off guard. Not the plan I have in mind.  

I had thought about telling her more about this guy at the  park, because my observations absolutely entertained my  mom. They aren’t really observations; they are significantly  altered sightings that amuse her. But her nonchalant atti tude toward the imminent threat and danger she and the  rest of the country face made me change my mind. Now my  mom and the guy in the park are behind the curtain. 

Yesterday, someone shared a post by a psychotherapist  about this particular dilemma: to experience different 

realities at the same time. I know I rolled my eyes at it as I  was scrolling through posts offering logistical information  about donations, food parcels, and some shitposting about  the current political situation as comic relief. That is my  

only duty as someone who is outside. 

But I tried to look for it again because I couldn’t sleep. My  body was wide awake way beyond midnight, even though  I took my sleeping aid, even though I had Al Jazeera Live’s  analysts gently whispering to me to sleep in the back ground like always, even though I had closed the curtains  so well that no light came out to bother me. I couldn’t  sleep. My body couldn’t sleep, and I was racing through  people’s stories and posts. I was thinking that if I can find  that post again, I could read it in full to understand wheth er my body is acting out because of this two-realities thing,  and then still roll my eyes at it again. 

When the USA and Israel bombed Iran earlier this month, it  was around 2:00 AM in my time zone, and I had woken up  because my nose was blocked and congested, and I wasn’t  breathing well. I also needed to pee because I drank too  much tea before sleeping, and I hadn’t closed the curtains  well enough. Sometimes these cracks of light come in and  wake me up, and I get so bothered that I started taping the  edge of the curtains to the wall. That dawn, I pumped some  vessel-opening medicine in my nose to open it, and I firmly  reattached the curtain edge to the wall, and I slept again,  only to wake up a few hours later to this shitshow. As I  opened my curtains on that very first day of the war in Iran,  confused and slightly but silently panicked, I was surprised  to see it was a sunny day. I closed my curtains quickly. 

I guess, even before anyone shot any rockets anywhere, I  knew the war would start again in Lebanon, not that it real ly ever stopped. It never does. When it started, I didn’t have  strong feelings about whose rockets landed first. When my 

grandparents became the sole survivors of both their fami lies in 1948, it wasn’t because anyone threw anything. That  much will always be clear to me. There is a very annoying  activist who pops up in my feed, wanting to know what the  plan was to launch six missiles at Israel that morning, even  when 83 children had been killed so far. And she pops up  in my feed wanting to know why six rockets were launched  on Israel that morning, two weeks into this, 686 dead so far  in Lebanon, some of them are families that never woke up,  never saw the next day. 

I call my mom often in these circumstances. Rarely is she  in the mood to talk, and often she asks me straight up,  “What do you want?” because she is very busy taking care  of things. She says care takes a lot of her time. I don’t get  far in understanding what this care looks like. I tried the  other day to pretend that I didn’t take a hint and asked  her if the windows are kept open and what measures she  is taking to make sure—when they crack from the sound of  bombing—nobody gets injured. She says that she is leaving  the light curtains down to catch the shards of glass. So I  take the hint and hang up, hearing her midway pumping up  the sound of the TV. 

I’ve become a voyeur of some sort inside my friends’ group  chat. I watch them as they share the logistics of this war:  the sound and smell of it all, who needs to move from what  neighborhood, who can get one drink early before sun set for some normalcy, before Israel starts the slow burn  doctrine of the mass destruction of Beirut’s suburb, making  sure people in the city and the surrounding towns sleep on  the sound of Israeli rockets shredding homes to pieces, and  ultimately to wake up and discover who is dead.

I’ve not seen him since last week. The  giant bubble man is gone, and we have had three sunny days here. I know because I  keep looking out the window, and I’m very  vigilant about his presence as the main  reason I work behind closed curtains. But  he is gone now for three days, forcing me  to look at a reality that is unbothered by  Israeli warplanes, where I live, behind the  curtains of m