Pink Smoke

At 5:30 pm, I’m driving home from work. As usual, I get stuck in the infamous Beirut traffic. Always in need of entertainment, I call my husband.

“Hey. I’m on my way home, I need like 30 minutes. Where are you?”

“I’ll be home in 5 minutes.”

“I had a stressful day. Do you want to go have dinner and drinks somewhere?”

“Same. Let’s do it.”

“Santana’s? They have sangrias on Tuesdays.”

“Oh, right, and that chill band… they were so good last time. Can you reserve?”

“Sure, habibi, I’ll call now. See you in a bit.”

After I make a reservation for 8 pm, I play the new episode from a podcast on dealing with anxiety that I recently started listening to. After getting into a hundred arguments with my husband, half of which were caused by my anxiety, I decided to establish an action plan. Mission ‘stop worrying and start living.’ My constant worrying has gotten in the way of a lot of things in my life, but it has affected my marriage the most, especially because my husband is my polar opposite. I’m always buzzing around, even in my downtime, while he’s very mellow and laidback. I have to plan every bit of every day, while he hates to plan anything and just does what he feels in the moment. I hate taking risks or going on adventures, while he literally lives for that.

It always ends badly after I try to make him see things my way and the answer I get is ‘chill out’ or ‘stop stressing.’ Those words catapult me into a whole new dimension of rage. Two weeks ago, I got tired of the vicious cycle we seem to have gotten ourselves stuck in, so I decided to make a few changes and actively try to control my thoughts and emotions.

While I listen to the host interrogate her guest, an expert on mindfulness, I sense a small vibration. I frown. I really don’t have the time to take my car to a garage. I’m alert now, no longer on auto-pilot, and waiting for another sign of car trouble. Just in case, I slowly move into the right lane of the highway I’m on.

At the very moment that I slide into the lane behind a red minivan, I hear a weird whistling noise. I have no time to react, because as I say to myself something is definitely wrong, I feel the car hop, as if the ground beneath it pushed up and then let go. Earthquake.

Adrenaline is pouring into my bloodstream, allowing me to be hypersensitive to my environment. Most of the cars around me have slowed down and some are parking on the side of the highway. Already in the right lane, I quickly turn my flashers on and stop where I am. I open the door to stand outside, where I feel safer, and I hear a boom so strong that one of my ears immediately starts whistling.

My memory registers what is happening before I can understand it. That’s the sound of an explosion. Bomb. It’s a war. Again. I look up aat the sky, expecting to see a fighter jet, but all I see is pink smoke. Since when is smoke pink? Everyone is screaming, but all I can do is hold onto my ear that is now throbbing and giving me a splitting headache. My hands are shaking. I have no idea what to do with myself. Panic distorts my mind and I cannot think clearly. Everyone is running. Should I run? Am I going to die today?

My phone starts ringing. Something clicks in my mind. Oh my God. My family. It’s my mother. I pick up, and I can’t tell if I’m whispering or screaming, but I ask if she’s okay. She’s fine. I tell her I’m fine. How is this fine?

My brain starts to process things again. The memories of trauma and missiles are at the surface now, no longer repressed in some corner of my past. I can’t do another war. FOCUS! I redirect my attention towards myself and this moment. My safety. My family’s. Call and check. I call my husband. He doesn’t pick up. Wait. What?

There’s no way he’s not okay. A different type of fear is now consuming me and it overrides the fear of a war. My eyes shoot open and I ignore everything else as I pull out of my spot and race across an empty highway. I’m five minutes away. I turn my thoughts off. My face is expressionless.

As I get closer to home, the sky gets darker. There is a cloud in the sky, but I can’t see where it’s coming from. Two minutes later, I make a right turn onto my street. I wasn’t prepared for the scene in front of me. There is blood everywhere. There are bodies on the sidewalks, on the streets, under buildings. Dead or alive, I cannot tell. I cannot process details. Do not fall apart. Get home.

I imagine that I am a robot. I drive slowly. I see the ‘obstructions but I do not truly see them, just enough to move safely around them. When I spot the building we live in, I can’t control myself anymore. I start screaming, and I can’t stop. The top part of the building is on fire. We live on the floor underneath the last.

I slam the brakes and run out of the car, still screaming, but I am now screaming my husband’s name. I stop in front of the elevator for a split second and then I run up the stairs, taking one step at a time because that is all my muscles are capable of. Still screaming, although I can’t even recognize my own voice. I don’t even form the words that are coming out of my mouth. “PLEASE, GOD. PLEASE, NO.” I repeat these words like a mantra.

I reach our floor and I can feel the heat. My mind tells me to stop, to take a minute to prepare for what I’m about to see. My heart pushes me through the door. I’m inside. There’s glass everywhere. There is smoke, but I can still see.

“BABY? BABY! ANSWER ME! WHERE ARE YOU?”

I hear him coughing. My heart leaps. I move through the wreckage of what used to be our living room as if I’m navigating an obstacle course: under the big bookshelf that is usually stuck to the wall and over the shattered television. The soil from the pots that held the plants that we grew with love is scattered everywhere. Wrinkled photographs are littered across the rug.

“ARE YOU OKAY? I CAN’T SEE YOU!”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t hear anything other than fire cackling and people screaming outside. The fire is coming from the kitchen. I can see it now. The huge window that we broke down the wall for has completely fallen inwards, frame and all. That debris is the only thing preventing the fire from spreading, but it won’t be long before it does. My skin is prickling from the heat. I rush across a spot that is clear of glass and when I look up from the ground, I see him. He is in the corridor that leads to our bedroom. He is stuck underneath a closet.

“OH MY GOD. I’M HERE! I’M COMING!”

I run to him, not even slightly worried about getting ripped up by shards of glass. I don’t feel them, but I know they’re there, imbedded into parts of my body. I kneel down next to him and hold his head in my hands. His eyes are closed. I don’t know how I’m functioning. He’s still breathing. I slap his cheek repeatedly, softly but firmly. He doesn’t open his eyes. I feel hotter all of a sudden. I look behind me and I see that the fire has made it out of the kitchen. One of the carpets is now on fire too. I fight the urge to throw up.

“BABE. WE HAVE TO GO. OPEN YOUR EYES FOR ME. COME ON.”

Nothing. I put his head down gently and I bend down to hook my hands underneath the closet. I scream as I lift it slowly, but I can’t pull it all the way up. I need him to move.

The idea comes from nowhere. I start singing his favorite workout song, but all I can do is scream the words without any melody. “It’s the eye of the tiger… rising up to the challenge … LALALALALALALA… THE EYE OF THE TIGER!”

As I keep doing this, I nudge him with my foot. A few moments later, his eyes suddenly open.  

“BABY, STAY WITH ME OKAY? CAN YOU MOVE?”

He processes my words slowly and he nods. He takes a breath and then starts to wiggle out from underneath the closet.

“Hurry!”

I can see the pain on his face and it breaks my heart. He keeps going. Once he’s out, I let go and the closet slams onto the floor. I help him get up. I can tell he has fractured or broken bones everywhere. It’s like he doesn’t know how to walk anymore. I’m supporting almost all of his weight. I don’t know if I can get to the door. The smoke has gotten a lot denser and the fire is now spreading quickly.

“We have to go. Now.”

He nods and squeezes my hand. We move slowly. Just one step takes every bit of energy I can muster. I think of what happened. I still have no idea what happened, but the terror is in my heart. The trauma is fresh. I think about how many times I have been through something like this. I think about the wars, the bombs, the attacks. We were supposed to be getting ready for dinner. We were supposed to be enjoying our night after a long day at work. Today was supposed to be another normal day. The rage starts to build in me and it pushes me forward.

We will survive. We will survive. We will survive. We will walk out of this apartment, and once he is healed, we will walk out of this country that is cursed and destined for tragedy after tragedy.