by MELISSA AJAMIAN
My fellow citizens are already cleaning up, doing the job that the government is supposed to do
I am writing this on a dust-covered laptop. The keys are jamming. I have been ruminating over each sentence, unsure as to why I agreed to write this piece.
4 August 2020. Two days prior, I had celebrated my 34th birthday. I had been battling debilitating depression and had been isolated for days. My friends insisted that they come see me, and I was finally starting to feel better – dare I say, even a little bit hopeful. The pandemic was not going to stop me. My devalued salary was not going to stop me. I was determined to be happy.
That day, 4 August, began like any other day. I woke up, made myself coffee, prepared breakfast (the usual peanut butter and jelly) and even placed some fruit on my tray. I read the news and checked my emails. I even checked my Tinder app and flirted up a storm. Tuesday was looking good.
Around noon, I got on a Webex meeting with my colleagues, and we discussed business as usual. I had lunch, tried to nap unsuccessfully, and hopped into the shower. I decided to sloth around a little bit in my bedroom, naturally drying in a blue bathrobe that a friend had left behind. All of this seems so mundane now.
Around 6pm, I heard strange, loud sounds. I got up from my bed and made my way to the living room. I opened a window and popped my head out. I was intrigued and scared. Were we being bombed? What fresh hell was this?
All of a sudden, there was a blinding light; an earsplitting sound; a strong, circular, concentrated, broiling blast of air. It slapped me across the face and blew me backwards. I don’t know which of my senses reacted first.
Around me, my living room exploded all at once. A window in its entirety, glass and all, slammed against the wall, shattered into a thousand pieces, and came to rest on my couch. It took my cheap IKEA lamp down with it. The curtain tore off and flew across the room; the TV unplugged and fell face down. Both balcony doors blew open, like a scene from The Exorcist.
Shards of glass, thousands of little pieces, embedded themselves in the wall behind me, in the floor and in the furniture. I am not sure when I started running towards the front door. I am not sure whether I screamed; everyone tells me that I must have. I must have.
Yellow, orange and red
Barefoot, I ran over the glass with no regard for my own skin. I ran to my front door, which was blasted open. I hysterically pushed it closed. I ran to my bedroom, stood, looked around. I was bewildered. What does one wear in a situation like this?
I ran my fingers and my hands over my body and my face. I was not injured. Dear God, I was not injured. I ran down to my neighbours’ apartment, screaming. What happened? My elderly neighbour, a witness to Lebanon’s many wars and civil strife, was shrieking in pure hysteria. Her daughter, carrying a baby, was crying unrestrainedly. I had not cried yet.
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