Sedna…Immortalized

Mohammed woke up with a start. His heart was beating wildly and a cold sweat covered his forehead and back. He pushed the covers away with his right hand and sat up trying to breathe slowly. It was a matter of seconds before he realized what had disturbed his sleep. The nightmares rendered the tranquilizers and sedatives quite useless. His body refused to cooperate with the drugs flowing through his system – the stronger the doses, the less sleep the thirteen year-old got.The recurring nightmare was not really a nightmare, in the sense that it was not a figment of his imagination. It was simply the worst scenes he had ever seen, mismashed together in the most horrific way by his over-worked brain and replayed in slow motion. The “nightmares” caught him off-guard. Sometimes, one of the nurses would be trying to feed him…and Mohammed would suddenly see his mother wander through the door. Her face twisted in agony, clutching his three year-old sister close to her body. Sometimes he would hear his father talking just down the hall and Mohammed would call out to him…He would call out in vain.

The first crash was loud and it woke him up. The whole house shook and the window nearest his bed shattered. Mohammed screamed. And screamed and screamed. His baby sister cried. His mother was begging God to spare her children. Abu Mohammed ran into his son’s room and urged him to get out. Mohammed stumbled in the dark. He made it to the street and all around him children cried, women wailed. The noise was unbelievable and the air was clammy. They said someone had died. That’s why there was blood everywhere. A neighbor took his hand and led him to a house down the road. Mohammed never saw his family again…Days later he was transferred to a hospital far from his town. He knew nobody save for the little boy in the bed across from him. The little boy who lost his voice forever. The fright and the shock left him speechless. Imad’s family did not survive the brutal Israeli attack either. He lost his parents and four siblings. The two boys were survivors – though Mohammed did not want to be a survivor. He often wished he was with his parents and Laila. Wherever they were…He never stopped thinking about his house, his room, his friends, the days spent at the river. He remembered how his sister laughed when he got on all fours and bounded around the room barking at her playfully, pretending to bite her chubby legs. He remembered his father’s smell, his mother’s voice…he remembered everything. But every time his eyes drifted to his elbow, Mohammed would frown in confusion. He could not remember what happened to the rest of his arm, or why his elbow ended in a bloody stump…

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“Please join us in front of the Lebanese Embassy on Monday July 24, 2006. We would like to give our condolences and support to the Lebanese people in the form of an orderly, silent gathering by holding candles and laying flowers”

Did anyone else get that text message? I’m not sure the ceremony took place, and I don’t want to ridicule those who attended. That was a sweet gesture – but is it really what Lebanon needs right now? How many lives did you save by laying flowers? Are those candles you lit going to stop the missiles from raining on Lebanon? By standing there that night did you manage to comfort a crying child, recently orphaned? Did your ‘orderly gathering’ feed a hungry family whose possessions and provisions were destroyed by the ruthless enemy?
Yes, you have showed compassion and sympathy. Well done. But think about it. Lebanon – and its people – need more than that. You could have spent that time at home in prayer. You don’t pray? Fine then, donate. Donate whatever you can – blankets, canned foods, clothes, money – to the Lebanese Embassy. You can help and you can make a difference. The question is how…