On the second anniversary of August 2: Warmth... in the homeland!

Text by the author: Mona Al-Shafiei. I felt something strange moving in my chest on this beautiful, sunny morning. A faint obsession was slowly growing deep within me, its pulse shared with the one trapped within the walls of my room. I rose, prepared my coffee, as if performing a daily ritual that never fails. I dressed for the day, packed a part of myself into my bag, and then went out to search for myself in the city park. I tried to walk, to run, to outrun the weight residing in my legs, but exhaustion was faster than me. On my high stool, my corner that knows me, I sat... and let my eyes feast on the greenery cascading like old tenderness, and on a blue sky lightening its burden with passing clouds. Life began to creep toward me with the quiet of the morning. I opened my book, read... then read again, as if the words passed through me without touching me. My pulse trembled, my insides contracted, I closed the book, and surrendered to the scene of life. There, an old woman was knitting her warmth with the patience of years, while her old man stole glances at her, smiling a trembling smile that resembled a whole lifetime of love. My eyes were fixed on that smile. Suddenly! A distant voice: “John... John... Johnny.” A girl running, a hand waving, a heart dropping to the ground to embrace another heart. I averted my gaze. I returned to my book, devouring some of its pages in escape rather than reading. Then... a child’s scream! A mother running, gathering her little one from the ground, wiping away the dirt with a kiss, and returning him to life with her tenderness. He returned to his play, and I remained with my pulse. The pounding in my chest intensified, and I pressed my hand against my heart, as if trying to return it to its place. But the world did not stop. Girls whispering, laughing, and passing by... their whispers held a language that could not be translated. Children running about, and a young man sitting on the ground reading with a tranquility I did not know. I opened my book for the third time. But pain had taken hold of me before I could. I screamed... silently. I climbed the ten steps, each one heavier than the last. My bag in hand, and my book clinging to me like the last witness. I opened the door with a force unlike me, the book fell, I picked it up, and entered. I turned on the light, but the apartment remained dark. A darkness not seen... but felt. I lay down, as cold seeped into my joints. I pulled the shawl over me as if borrowing temporary warmth. I closed my eyes, but something inside me was awake, in pain. I opened my eyes, removed the shawl, and sat up suddenly! There, in the depths of chaos, a decision gleamed. And lights burst forth in my soul. The pulse was freed from its prison. It leaped toward me and whispered: “Warmth... is in the homeland.”