The war took it all away. Things didn’t go out of style. War happened. Big, thick glasses, white socks and knee-length dresses and a time when each picture was art because you had to make it worthwhile. Then war happened. A picture of my mother and father during their wedding day. Cars aligned and drove to my father’s village while Beirut was being bombed. My mother only had lipstick on. There was no time for such luxuries.
Their honeymoon lasted forty days. They toured Europe, the States and even Canada. There was no war there. There, people still smiled in pictures.
The war happened and there is a picture of me being bathed in a little tin basin in a remote village where the bombs hadn’t reached yet. In that small house in that small village, “ ’Ersel ”, there was a well, or rather, a hole in the ground from where one could get water. Water so we can wash the dishes and the floors, water so we can bathe, water to drink.
Pictures of people that are now long gone, my mother pointed out each one: “God rest their soul” she said after every name.
War is so selfish. It made my sisters, when they were six years old, get out of bed, drag their pillows and sleep in the corridor as soon as they started bombing the city after nightfall.
The pictures became less and less. There was no time. Photos developed from being predominantly red to having distinct colors as Beirut turned gray.