Lifelines

There was a time when discussing war with others often revealed a lack of empathy or awareness. Today, however, war has become a prevalent topic—amplified by media and transformed into a global conversation. It is nearly impossible now to remain uninformed about conflicts happening around the world. Yet, the most profound battle is not just the one fought on the ground; it is the internal war—the way our fear of war evolves as our responsibilities and life circumstances change.

The harshest war—or at least what I thought back then the harshest—was when I worried my husband would not make it back from work. I can’t remember how many springs and summers I spent imagining him lost in the rubble of Beirut since war in my country usually starts in either of these seasons and ends with the end of it. His recklessness and disregard for the bombs and bullets that orchestrated our lives made me resent him. Maybe that was where it all started—love manifested in the amplifying worry of losing him and hate brought about by his recklessness for his life. And yes, war strikes at the core and kills the sincerest of feelings.

But war subsided, and we managed to build a family: two happy girls, unexpected blessings who, at the time, I thought ruined my peace and changed my life forever. It took me years until I realized they weren’t the chaos that destroyed the marriage, it was war. War killed the love, draining us of the last drop of compassion and empathy for each other. Today, and twenty years later, when I think back on our first and last argument, I remember him saying, “I feel there’s a wall between us.” And I can’t help but ask myself: How has war demolished every wall around us, yet still managed to build this one between us?

With time, the cold winter nights and storms lingered beyond the season. Spring arrived, yet it remained cold. Summer came, but the chill persisted. It seemed as though we were trapped in an everlasting winter.

And war returned. This time, I didn’t fear for his life. I feared for my girls. I wanted him to live of course; I never hated him and never will. It’s just that my daughters’ lives, my mother, my sister, and my brothers mattered more. He was still on the list, but down at the bottom.

I remember the plan I had in case the bombing got closer: I would hide the girls under the dining table and lay my small frame over them, hoping that if the blast hit us, I would shield them and save their lives. I didn’t care if the entire world collapsed—I just wanted them to live.

I didn’t understand trauma back then. I was too young. Years passed, and we escaped the land of war. We started over: a new house, new furniture, new jobs. What we did not foresee was that we had unconsciously packed war in our smallest suitcases and brought it along. If you have ever witnessed war, you must know one thing for sure: war is the easiest to pack. You may even find it within the folds of your passport—it lingers.

I’ve had my share of war. I’ve seen people die on the news and down the same streets my father drove through to get us to school every morning. I’ve had my share of fleeing our home with my parents and siblings to safer streets. I’ve had my share of escaping with my husband and children to my parents’ home. And I’ve had my share of fleeing the truth of how and why the marriage broke.

 I still remember the fear and it comes back in dreams of war. I still cry over my father and blame him for dying, I cry for my lost country, and my marriage. I cry, but no tears run down my cheeks anymore.

 I lament the times I blamed our broken marriage on us. It was never us—not his coldness, not mine, not another woman, not the disagreements, arguments, or the random decisions. Our marriage and us were the victims of war. I hold her responsible. It stripped us of everything we built, of every brick, of every dream, of every sigh of hope and relief. It broke us forever. It was the harshest of wars.