It was a quiet, hot summer afternoon.
The hum of the AC, the lull of routine,
Late mom, Gulene, my sisters, the children - Each busy, each breathing the calm.
I sat in a meeting, halfway across the world,
On a screen, unaware of what was about to unfold.

Then
The ground trembled, like a warning whispered from below.
At 6:00 PM, the kids came rushing in,
“Medz mama, medz mama—baytoutsik!” — “Grandma, grandma, fireworks!!”
Fireworks, they thought—black smoke from the port.
Just 1.5 kilometers away.

Late mom, shaped by war and worry
Guided us to the hallway, instinct and love.
She ran to the balcony—But it was too late.

6:07 PM

The sky cracked open.
Glass shattered. Walls swayed. A massive pressure wave hit us.
And my late mother—my dear Gulene—was thrown into my arms.

One second.
A flash of death.
A rush of survival.
My niece and I forced open the heavy door
To save the rest.
To save ourselves.

My thoughts raced to my father. Was he safe?
I couldn’t reach him.
No calls. No signal. Only silence.

I ran barefoot in spirit,
But in sandals,
Through the wreckage of Jisr el-Hadid
Toward Bourj Hammoud.
The city had turned to ash and was filled with screams.
I slipped. Two strangers helped me up.
We were all broken, all bleeding,
Walking like ghosts through a fallen world.

I found him
My father.
Alive.
Standing, worried, bewildered.
We held each other tightly.
Then we walked
Back to the rubble that once was home.

On the way,
We saw
An old woman,
A boy,
Both soaked in red,
Begging with their eyes.
And I… I couldn’t help.
And that helplessness stays with me.

Yet amidst the madness and the chaos
Gulene stood tall.
She swept the glass from the floor,
Calm. Composed.
She cooked dinner.
Rice. Meat. Salad.
As if to say: we are still alive.

We were among the lucky ones.
Among the haunted ones.
Among the ones still carrying August 4
In every heartbeat,
In every silence,
In every second since.

Peace — Resilience — Resurrection — Growth