The War Inside
5th entry - Motherhood & Pregnancy in Wartime Series
*The number of ceasefire violations has now surpassed 100 and will probably continue to rise long after I’ve written this.
December 1 2024
They agreed on a ceasefire on November 26th, after relentlessly and mercilessly bombing the entire country and capital on the same day. At 4 am, they “stopped.” Except they haven’t. They’ve continued bombing the South and firing at civilians returning to their villages, violating the so-called agreement 62 times* already. I can’t help but feel we’ve preemptively celebrated this “ceasefire,” claiming the war is over. It’s far from over. It’s just changed its face.
And still, we’ve booked our plane tickets to go back home. The idea of returning should bring relief, but instead, there’s a knot in my stomach. I’m scared of feeling scared once I’m there. Falling into the same anxieties that plagued my every thought or move. I know others are braver than I am. But for me, returning home feels tainted. They’ve stolen the comfort it used to give me, and I hate them for it.
Our friends, who never left, message us asking when we’ll be back, saying, “yalla, it’s fine.” I wish I shared their enthusiasm, felt the same certainty. But I don’t. It feels like a lie, built on a ceasefire that means nothing. I wish I could pack my bags, return to that life as it was, but it isn’t the same. And I don’t know how to make it be.
I feel guilty that I have a home to return to when so many others are left without. I open the baby monitor app, the camera still fixed on the place we once lived, and stare at my home. It looks the same, probably even smells the same. But everything else is completely different. How do I go back to a place that no longer feels like mine? How do I reconcile the person I was before the war with the person the war has forced me to become? I don’t know if I can. My home is there, but the life that once lived in it feels distant.
My friend reminds me of a quote from a book we both love: “The memory of this city will pursue you, and you’ll die of sadness.” I only now understand what it truly means. It’s not just about memories, but the weight of what’s been lost. Those memories turn into ghosts, lingering in the places we once called home.
And haunt me they do, reminding me of all that’s changed. But still, I have Imad and the baby growing inside me. I have to be their shelter and their soldier. So maybe we stay, maybe we go. I don’t know yet. I just know we have to keep moving forward, one step at a time.