This morning, Israel’s planes went into a merciless spree dropping bombs into the void on several of its buildings, destroying homes, massacring dreams, and daring to do so under the false narrative of targeting military objectives.
In one of those buildings reduced to ashes, on Camille Chamoun Street, was our house, the living room that welcomed us in April 2022, the armchairs that accommodated our uncertainties, our refuge and our piece of Cuba.
A part of us was buried in the rubble, in the same room where we had worked for more than two years as correspondents in Lebanon; the same first floor room where we installed ourselves seeking to heal the absence of working more than 10,000 kilometers away from home.
A “Marhabá, miiin” (Hello, who is it) pierced through the sound of the intercom in the Hadath neighborhood, opening doors and allowing these two novice journalists come in contact with the best conversations and coffees of the day.
Our conversations would sprawl into the small hours… There was much to understand and learn about this region condemned to live under the pressure of Zionism, but we returned home protected; from the balcony of the American Quarter a hand would wave goodbye.
The apartment had an Arabic living room for conversations with politicians, intellectuals, honest visitors, family parties, and another “Cuban style” room, with wooden armchairs and the traditional decoration of our island, the one that its owners had carried upon with them since 1991, after sharing our lives in Cuba for 11 years.
We never lacked maternal love, the protection of brothers, the affection of uncles and good friends, nor the sorrows and joys shared after seeing the birth of little Omar Camilo and saying goodbye to young Hussein.
The uncertainty of the first days of the war, the loss of Al Mayadeen correspondents Farah and Rabih, and even our colds in the winters, were cured by the warmth of its walls and narrow corridors.
Nowhere else in Lebanon were tabbouleh and fattoush feasted upon in the way they were in its dining room, where we were also accompanied by friends from Latin America and the world, because it was the home of many.
Family photos, faces of loving parents who are no longer here, titles and diplomas of their children, smiles of grandchildren, medals and decorations, memories kept for decades were pulverized by Israel’s war machine.
The history of the peoples of the Global South and their culture of resistance were the decoration of their walls: the images of Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, the bust of Hugo Chávez, the faces of Vilma Espín and Celia Sánchez, the embroidery of our artisans, and Palestine.
Today, Israel bombed Wafy’s home and destroyed a piece of Cuba in the heart of the Arab world.
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