4 of August 2020
20 days and I’m still reeling. 20 days and I grow tired of people who tell me to get over it. I grow tired of people who tell me this experience should make me stronger. I grow tired of people who tell me this trauma now overrides all my other traumas and erases them. I grow tired of people who expect me to think and function properly. I grow tired of people who ask me why I don’t leave. Seriously? You’re Brazilian! What in the hell are you still doing here? I grow tired of some people who look at me with blank stares. I grow tired of people who weren’t at the heart of it. I don’t blame them, they were lucky, but I grow tired of them because they can’t relate and because I envy their memories that are only reflections of what they caught on the news. I grow tired of being asked to repeat the story and hearing the pitiful oohs and aahs and the infuriating “hamdella 3al salame” or even the more infuriating “hamdella”. Hamdella that you didn’t die. Hamdella it was only a few windows and a couple of doors. Hamdella it’s only your heart that’s broken. Hamdella it’s only your brain that’s broken. Hamdella it’s only constant flashbacks and booming recollections of sounds that were a mixture of screams, car alarms, shattered glass, cries, crying, pitiful moaning, silent sobs, bellowing sobs, glottal sobs, and suffocated sobs. Hamdella it’s only living in a state of constant fear. Hamdella it’s getting used to the idea that you’re not safe even in your own home. 20 days and I grow tired of the collective amnesia. I grow tired of our people’s willingness (or maybe a semblance) to move on. I grow tired of this suffocating grip on my heart and this pressure on my ribcage. I grow tired of my arms going numb and my ears blocking suddenly. I grow tired of catching myself say “rawa2” or “3eyich” when someone asks me if I’m fine. It’s not “rawa2”. Mostly, I grow tired of creating death scenarios for people that I love. I grow tired of my own morbid thoughts. I grow tired of minimizing my pain and I grow tired of seeing my people’s pain. I grow tired of imagining 52 missing dead bodies somewhere in the carcass we used to call a port.