The front steps to Shoug’s home, as seen on on a particularly difficult day during the war. Photo: Shoug Mukhaimer

I ask myself this
when the sky turns red,
when a mother screams for her children,
when the sea whispers,
“There’s life beyond the horizon.”

But I ask it, too,
when a lemon blossom blooms through ash,
when a child laughs in the rubble,
when the olive tree in our garden
leans toward me, softly saying:
“Stay”

My heart is rooted here
in narrow alleys,
morning rushes,
the sound of my sibling’s footsteps,
and the warmth of home
that no war could erase.

Still, the war returns,
and everything collapses.
Even me.
The thought of leaving creeps in
through smoke,
through silence,
through the eyes of those who’ve lost everything.

Is wanting safety betrayal?
Is staying just another kind of loss?

Some days, I dream of running,
other days, I hold my ground
like an olive tree in a storm.
Each time I imagine walking away,
my heart pulls me back.
I am buried in this soil,
fed by memory.

Even if the gate opened tomorrow,
could I leave them behind?
Could I carry this guilt
and still breathe freely?

I don’t know the answer.
Maybe I don’t need one yet.
Maybe all I need
is a moment,
a breath without bombs,
a sky without fire,
to hear what my heart
has been trying to say all along.