Majzoub 1

Aya Majzoub

Ms. Sakellis

ENG4UV-01

20 July 2022

Buried Memories

There was chaos. A cloud of thick dust surrounded us. The stench of gunpowder burned

my nose and the surrounding smoke filled my lungs as I struggled to hold my breath. I clutched

my father's hand tight as we approached the scene of rubble. There was no cease-fire declared,

but we knew there wouldn’t be another attack in this area for now. Not after all the destruction

that was already caused. New war machinery was being tested on the opposing side - vacuum

bombs. As a result, an apartment building in Al Sanayi neighbourhood, along with over 250 of

its residents, were impacted. I remember the patches of blood that will forever be painted in my

mind. The disarray of people, panicking, crying, trying to help, and looking for survivors. The

sirens of ambulances still ring in my ears. Eventually, we were pushed away from the area so that

the authorities could do their job. The scene was traumatizing and mortifying. A sight a

ten-year-old boy should never see. However, it was a moment that grasped my memory forever.

Like a video recording in my head, I still see it flash before my eyes.

My life grew apart from that building, like a flourishing maple tree. Canada welcomes me

into its secure arms. I find a woman who takes over my whole world, who has a special light in

her eyes that brings me warmth. She has a certain humbleness that makes me suddenly grateful

for everything I have in my life. Her name, which dances joyfully on my tongue, is Lina.
 Majzoub 2

Only a few stars peek out of the clouds to shine their enchanting light in the cool, elated August

air. The patio chairs and fire pit greet us warmly as we sit, chat and cry tears of laughter.

Suddenly, Lina’s face falls from something I say. It’s the mention of my hometown,

Beirut, a once beautiful city in Lebanon. Then, the air turns heavy as she tells me the story of her

parents and her grandparents.

* * *

My parents, barely escaped from the belligerent, terrorizing war in Beirut in 1980, with

me, a frail infant, not even two years old. The experience they lived through was like a vicious

nightmare that never seemed to end. They had been suffering the war for years, praying that each

cease-fire would declare an end to the war. However, the end was imaginary. The burning fire

raged as more weapons fueled it. My mother was only seventeen when she married and eighteen

when she had me, she needed the warm blanket of her mother supporting her. A child could not

take care of a child. Most of the relatives on both sides of my family lived on the first floor of an

apartment in Beirut. My father’s oldest brother fled from the mess and moved to Canada, his

prosperity serving him well. He’d agreed to sponsor my parents so that they could move to

Canada as well. Though, his prickling greed wouldn’t bring my mother’s family with her. My

mother was forced to leave her family behind, with the doubt of survival. My grandmother

reassured her daughter, whose eyes were welling up with tears. Having children alters your mind,

your perspective. If dancing with death is the sacrifice needed, nothing will fall in between a

mother and keeping her child safe.

 Majzoub 3

Nothing but five hundred dollars remained in my parents’ pockets. They sold everything,

including my mother’s wedding ring. My mother might have been upset about the band, however

at that point, her love was tied to keeping her family safe and not to a simple piece of jewellery.

Settling in Canada was like climbing a mountain without shoes. My parents struggled but

eventually worked their way up. What my mother was unaware of was that there were greater

torments, waiting to impale its claws. Two years after their departure from Beirut, my mother

received a phone call that landed her in the emergency room. Two vacuum bombs hit the building

that housed twenty-three of her relatives. My mother lost her whole family in a matter of

seconds. She was alone. She had nothing left. She was only twenty-three years old. Too young to

lose her mother. It was too much, exceedingly overwhelming. The most appropriate reaction was

to faint. Breaking down in tears was not enough.

That dismal day in Beirut, my grandfather was playing cards on the balcony, my

grandmother cooking in the kitchen. One of my three uncles was resting in the bedroom with his

wife who was nine months pregnant. So many lives lost, undeserving. The story of a written

future, burned before the first chapter even began.

A special box in our basement holds all the letters, photos and cassette tapes of voice

recordings sent back and forth between my mom and my grandmother. The memories are buried

deep. Each time they arise, the burn of the terrorizing fire - the war - and the anguish fills my

mother’s sweet, loving heart. August 6, 1982 was an indelible day. A day that we remember each

year, reflecting on the sorrow, the heartache.

* * *
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The words Lina was articulating sound so familiar yet so foreign. She chokes back sobs

and wipes her tears as she carefully arranges her story. Then, like a bomb, it hits me with

realization. It’s the same apartment building I visited all those years ago. I am overwhelmed by

the memory, however, there is a different feeling of distress. I see it through Lina’s teary eyes.

The tightness in my chest is unbearable and I can’t help but shed a few tears as I pull Lina into

my arms. The night is silent, except for the crackling fire. I remember that today is August 6th,

2002. My mind flashes to twenty years ago and the image of the horrific tragedy plays back in

my mind. I was there at that very scene. I make the connection, my past is connected to Lina’s

past.
 Majzoub 5

Works Cited

Manuel, Fouad. Interview. Conducted by Aya Majzoub. July 19, 2022.

Manuel, Lina. Interview. Conducted by Aya Majzoub. July 19, 2022.

Majzoub, Marwan. Interview. Conducted by Aya Majzoub. July 19, 2022.

Manuel, Odette. Interview. Conducted by Aya Majzoub. July 19, 2022.

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