Photo: Nadera Mushtaha

Once upon a time
there were ordinary mornings,
cars driving along the seaside
sunbirds singing from the tops of trees
and doves swaying between the clouds.

Here was a sea full of fish
and a place filled with people.
A woman stood, unsure,
wanting to choose what was most delicious
to bring for her daughter’s henna party.

Falafel, za’atar and zaytoon
sat in dishes on tables above the golden sand
of our beach, for a family and other friends
watching the fishermen,
their boats rocking in the waves.

There were students
walking to school,
sometimes under the rain
and sometimes
beneath the blossoms of trees,
as the voice of Fairuz floated
from car windows.

There were girls listening to the morning songs
and children laughing
as they crossed the roads.

A smell of coffee danced in the air,
bread, qirshalla and cakes.
A wide, white window
and an elder tending his plants.

A grove of olive and orange trees,
a woman collecting grape leaves,
a string of rainbow-colored lights
hanging between the walls
while men, boys and girls, danced dabka
around long tables of grilled meat, maftoul and fatta
for a neighbor’s wedding.

We laughed, we joked, we embraced,
and our grandparents smiled
as they watched us
playing games, taking pictures,
gathering under one roof, together.

Then night came
and catastrophe fell upon us all.
In truth, it started in the morning,
but in our hearts it was a dark night.

Our beach now is empty.
No birds
no natural clouds
no trees
no homes
no families
no grandmothers.
They targeted the roof
that once sheltered us all.

Photo: Nadera Mushtaha