notes of a non-combatant

hard boiled eggs

I was running down empty streets, watching the fighter jets pass overhead, their payload falling like raindrops and exploding into clouds of fire that enveloped the buildings around me. Before long, I found myself under one such building, an extremely large and architecturally interesting structure whose upper floors provided a canopy for a large courtyard which I had run into, seeking shelter from the sky and the fire it rained. Through gaping cracks in surrounding concrete buildings, I could see the gray jets crossing the sky, their bombs falling like leaves from trees, wafting to the ground before exploding into giant masses of flame. The screaming jet engines murmured in comparison to the bomb blasts, though I didn’t feel them. It wasn’t long before a random, strange man found me and pulled me into a large, cluttered house. It was a spacious building with large, open rooms, though it had items scattered across most of the tiled stone floor, as though the entire house had been searched through and torn apart. I stayed, wandering from room to room even after the man disappeared, and I remained there for the rest of the evening.

I had a hard time finding my glasses when I finally woke up at eleven in the morning. I put them on the coffee table when I had fallen asleep on the carpeted floor. I passed out well after midnight, without a bed or anything to sleep on. Warm enough for blankets to be absolutely unnecessary, I fell asleep in my shorts and a t-shirt, my back to the carpet and my gaze to the ceiling. That is exactly how I woke up at six in the morning when the sound of my father walking down the stairs stirred me from my sleep. I sat upright and hugged my knees, unable to clear my foggy mind. I stood up and walked over to the love-seat, moving several pillows while trying not to wake my brother, who was sound asleep on the larger sofa. With enough space cleared off the love-seat, I laid down with my feet hanging past the armrest, falling back asleep.

That’s when the planes came, one after another, raining fire over what could only be Gaza City. I had fallen asleep in Silver Spring, but just as my mind has not been with me in my waking hours, my dreams would prove to be no exception. Transported from the safety of the two-seater sofa in America, my dreams took me to the place that my mind has been and will be stuck in for quite some time, leading me through experiences that I have not actually had to live through… though I can and do imagine quite vividly, spending the entire time wishing that I couldn’t.

I spend my days in conversations with wonderful friends, though I am constantly unable to broach subjects that occupy a majority of my attention, always on my mind and hidden behind my calm, blue eyes. We can talk about television or cars, but I still feel stuck in my large, comfortable bed at the Commodore, unable to sleep through the night for the constant artillery that would be pounding the waterfront. Our conversations migrate to such topics as school or work, but I still see myself rolling out of that hotel bed in search of breakfast, eating fruits and hard boiled eggs while the shelling and gunfire blast and rattle in the distance. A constant disconnect exists as I go through the motions of daily life in America, as though I am still stuck in last week and living my life in the Gaza Strip despite not being there anymore.

The people around me have no idea what these experiences have done to me. Similarly, I have only a vague idea, though I feel the disparity firsthand. I don’t recognize the face staring back at me in the mirror as I glance at him between splashes of water to wash off streaks of soap. Besides washing my face, I don’t see myself for what I’ve become. It’s hard to recognize the extremely short hair melding into a similarly cropped and shaped beard, growing across a stretch of olive colored skin. The sharp nose and angled cheekbones don’t look familiar anymore. The disconnect is great but is not just in the present. I flip open my wallet and passport, glancing at the rosy, white skin framed with a blanket of smooth brown hair that would always flow into a halo of curls. The goofy, crooked smile hasn’t left, and neither has the necklace that remains tied to me, but there is a different look in those blue eyes, and I’m not sure if I recognize it.