Youssef

Day 4

Mama, I'm hungry. I want to eat.

Don’t worry, my love. I’ll make you some tomato fry.

I went out to the house of Umm Mahmoud, my temporary neighbor, in search of two tomatoes to satisfy Youssef's hunger. I instructed him to lock the door well until I returned. His father was at the hospital, fulfilling his duty, and there was no one else who could go but me. I hurried and prayed to God to protect him for me.

I knocked several times on Umm Mahmoud's door, but no one answered. So, I went to the home of the Al-Miqdad family on the other side of the street, hoping to find two tomatoes for Youssef. I hated being away from him, but there was nothing left to eat in the house. The seven days of war are harder than anything.

How are you, dear? How are your children? I hope the bombing didn’t reach you.

I'm fine, as you can see. God protect us, dear.

I repeated the greeting to Umm Miqdad and asked her for tomatoes. In war, people don't have the luxury of long conversations, as every second could be the last. I took the tomatoes and said goodbye.

Pray for us, dear. The situation is difficult, as you can see. We don’t want to go to UNRWA; the situation there is said to be very tough.

May God protect you and everyone. It’s just a crisis, and it will pass with God's help.

Then, a loud explosion…

All I remember is a black cloud that obscured everything. I was temporarily deafened by the force of the explosion, but one thing occupied my mind: Was Youssef okay or not?

I ran toward the street, struggling to catch my breath because of the dust and smoke. There was a huge crowd at the bombing site, and everyone was screaming and helping the paramedics with the injured. It was as if it were Judgment Day.

Did anyone see Youssef? Did anyone here see a little boy?

Dear, I don’t know. The injured have been taken to Al-Shifa. Go there quickly.

I remembered Youssef’s father, who works as a doctor there. He hadn’t come home since the beginning of the war. I got into the ambulance heading to the hospital. The last thing I remember before the ambulance door closed was that the door I had locked on Youssef was no longer there. I was afraid of dangers from the ground with a mother’s instinct and locked the door. How can a mother protect her child from dangers coming from the sky? Even fear becomes different in war.

On the second floor of Al-Shifa hospital, I saw his father in his green uniform, exhausted from days of war and the non-stop work shifts. He had dedicated his life to the people in response to duty.

“Youssef, Youssef…” I couldn’t say more than his name. He understood the reason for my presence. People don’t come to the hospital for leisure.

The search for Youssef began: “Youssef, seven years old, light-skinned and beautiful.” That’s how I repeated it to everyone I met, whether a doctor, journalist, or patient. It didn’t matter. All I wanted was to know Youssef’s whereabouts.

After searching several floors and rooms, I grew tired. My legs tried to lift me, but my fear was heavier, so I collapsed on the nearest chair.

While his father continued searching, Youssef's life flashed before my eyes. I was blessed with him after years of marriage. He was a blessing in my life, beautiful like the moon, and his presence compensated for all my hardships. I named him Youssef, and I raised him with love. Every day of my life was a new joy, watching Youssef grow before my eyes. He started playing and speaking, and this year was his first in school. It was hard for me to part with him for eight hours a day. I waited for him by the door every day, welcoming him with a hug and his favorite tomato fry.

“Leave me alone,” I heard Youssef’s father say with pain. I leapt toward him, shouting, "Maybe it's not him!" I tried, but he was his father and knew him. A father can never be wrong about identifying his child.

A mother’s intuition told me: it’s over. I wanted a final farewell, but they wouldn’t let me. They wanted me to keep his beautiful image in my mind—Youssef with his light skin and curly hair—before the missiles disfigured him.

I don’t know who I’m writing to, but my grief as a mother is beyond translation. How can I express it? How can I explain the years of patience waiting for Youssef? Youssef was the gift that compensated for my deprivation. But now, who will compensate for my loss of Youssef?

I raised him with love. I deprived myself to give him, endured pain and suffering so he could live like a normal child, like your children. I locked the door to protect him, but he and the door are gone. How can a mother protect her child in war?

I used to wait for Youssef at the door every day when he came home from school. How can I wait now when Youssef is no longer here?

Youssef left this world hungry.

The story of Youssef’s mother.