A Tale of Two Cities

I stare out the window to the burnt Ficus leaves wilting under the scorching sun as I rock my baby daughter who I have scooped up in my arms. The cooling wind of our ceiling fan blows from its lips and wipes all traces of sweat from our follicles. Once her eye lids comfortably sink into the cushions of her lashes, I gently lay her down onto her cloud-like mattress. I stare at her face for many minutes thereafter as she lies still, peacefully resting her innocent little soul.

She squeezes her baby and sprints through the tumbling rubble. Large puffs of smoke forcefully seep into their lungs, so she hides her child inside the torn fabric of her blackened white blouse. After searching endlessly for a safe spot, she finally finds one and crouches under the rubble of yesterday’s fallen apartments to steal a moment of rest for them both.  

We both co-sleep with our children that night just like every other.

I pull my pillow up close next to my daughter to hear her little snores and like a lullaby I’m cast into a reassuring slumber. Sometimes I suddenly wake up in tremors and jump on top of her body just to check that my delicate 3 week old is still alive. I place my finger under her nose to feel a gentle breeze that ebbs and flows and then fall back into a deep and cosy restful night.

She rolls up her scarf and lays her baby's head gently down while she herself takes up a humble space on the hard and dusty ground. With one arm around her daughter she thanks God that they are both still alive for another day and begs for their safety in the coming days. She doesn't know how long this luck will last but she's grateful for every single drop of it. Every moment with this tiny soul is all she needs to feel at home.

We both toss and turn as our dreams steal us away from the reality we have been residing in for the last bucket full of unforgettable days.

Some nights after feeding I lay awake looking at the peeling paint and cracks in the roof and feel annoyed at the conditions we have to live in with this small child now in our world. I had so many plans and expectations all through those 9 months, but alas, I had to compromise and give up on so much. I wish my husband would do something about it, isn't that the man's job after all, to be Mr. fix-it and all. My body is still sore from giving birth that I barely have the energy to move 10 feet from one room to the next accompanied by these sleepless nights, having to wake again and again to feed this child is truly exhausting. Having to do it alone is the worst. My husband says he has to go to work during the day so needs his refueling  sleep. Though, to be fair, there is the odd night here and there that he will silently tip toe to our daughter like a ninja avoiding being caught and rock her over his shoulder like she's on a rocking horse till she's settled to let me get those extra few winks in.

Some nights she lays awake looking at the roof of stars above, twinkling and glistening in the near distance. How stunning the world can be and what a beautiful place God has given us all to live in. If only we could learn to share and care for the environment and each other more, she thinks to herself. Tears sink into her ears and form little overflowing pools as she prays for a better life for her newborn. Widowed, this single-mother now has no one left to comfort her in those cold and rumbling nights. She can hear some bombs falling in the distance, but thankfully the low-level pops signal to her that they will not meet them anytime soon. The aftershocks however haven't left her bones and nothing besides these little lanterns of hope and a small backpack of a few essentials the Aid workers were able to drop off a few days ago can sympathise with her in this moment. She recalls that they will need a refill soon, so this can't be their safe haven for long. Who knows where tomorrow will lead, but despair has not yet entered her heart as she looks forward to embraces from all those who care for humanity. A ceasefire is coming, I just know it!

For just a handful of hours, the noise dies down and the Earth becomes still.

In the morning, I'm awakened to the stinging noise of car sirens outside my window, which sound like a bee has gotten trapped in my ear hole. Urgh. I slide the curtain away and notice an ambulance parked up in front of the neighbours. I hope all is ok. I rush back to my daughter. Still sound asleep. Thank God she didn't get disturbed. I can have breakfast in peace before I have to wake and feed her. I decide to put my feet up on the sofa and watch some Telly with my great English breakfast and a sweet cup of coffee.

Both she and her baby are awake at the tip of dawn. She sees smiles on faces running past her. She hears the serenading song of the ambulance the aid workers who have arrived. They are nearby. She races in the same direction as the passersby. Her baby wrapped in an old scarf around her chest. Their rumbling bellies speaking to each other.

"We are nearly there my dear, perhaps today God will bless us with a way out of this country. I love my land but I'm desperate for your safety even more. Perhaps one day we'll be able to return and I can share the beautiful memories of my childhood and growing up here. If there's anything left to show you, that is."

I turn on the tv and a national news channel shows live footage of an aid truck being bombed. Innocent men, women and children as well as foreign aid workers have either lost their lives, been mutilated or brutally injured by the shrapnel and remnants of their surroundings. Bodies lay disfigured, dismembered and splattered in blood and burnt skin. Their lives will never be the same again. Do they have families still alive? I wonder if those loved ones will even know that they are gone or if they will be able to find their bodies? It's so sad. I wonder when this war will end?

I suddenly hear my daughter crying. I flick the TV off, drop the remote and hurry to feed her before getting on with the rest of my day.