Mind Debris — unootha

BY HALIMA ZAGHBIB

“Khadidja, weren’t you pregnant? Where’s your tummy?”

My grandma’s voice asking this repeatedly echoes in me to this day. Khadidja, my aunt, was holding her one-year-old baby at the time, tears raining down her face, cascading their way down her searing inflamed cheeks.

Everyone thought grandma lost her mind, forever.

Sitting all together in the backyard of my aunt’s wooden framed house, a car’s headlight being our only source of light, each one of us tried to occupy ourselves. I was contemplating the sky, devouring the stars with my barely open eyes. The only positive thing about an electricity cut in the whole city, I thought, was that the stars were more evident than ever, and that made the scenery beautiful. Ironically beautiful.

Convulsive lamentations, sobs, cries… I didn’t understand what was happening.

What did they mean by “None is left anymore”?

Some of my loved ones were beside me, listing all the lies one can tell grandma now that she went off the wall. It was entertaining to see her pray the same prayer seven times in different directions. Or at least, that’s what we, youngsters, thought; because apparently, we were the only ones who found this peculiar situation amusing. Adults were crying, defeated.

Convulsive lamentations, sobs, cries… And my four-year-old self was simply enjoying the sky and stars.

But I understood later that day.

I understood as I’ve seen our building’s wall entirely fissured. I understood when I’ve seen the crowded hospital’s portal stained with blood. I understood when our flat’s door was found wide open although my father swore to God Almighty that he locked it before leaving. I understood when my mother hurried inside, mourning what remained of her porcelain collection – and almost none was left.

I don’t remember if I got blinded by the sudden light or the monumentally cataclysmic sight before me, but I neither recognized my room nor my house. The only thing left undamaged was my stuffed white tiger that I still cling onto when I sleep.

I understood that we escaped death out of the clear blue sky.

Destruction was all my four-year-old self could think to describe.

It was too silent for anyone to say a thing, as if the nature was grieving over our afflictive state of wreaked havoc.

Grandma regained her mind a few days later and I pitied my immature self for having a laugh; because I understood.

When my father’s eyes lost their glaze to say, “The wall we were next to this morning killed my best friend,” and my mother’s porcelain shatters didn’t mean as much as her aunt’s coma anymore; I understood.

In memory of the 2003 Boumerdès earthquake. This piece is inspired from real events. Some details were altered for personal reasons.

Halima Zaghbib (@zaghbib_halima) is an energy ball from the so-historic Algiers who still struggles to know what she wants to do with life. She randomly posts some of her writings on her Instagram sometimes. She is also Unootha’s Life editor.

Edited by Fatima Al Jarman