I met her on Facebook, as another friend who used to “like” my statuses and links I shared on the public wall.
When Rabi’ died I sent her a message on Facebook, I had a breakdown and I had no idea why I sent her the message.
I met her at Rabi’ mourning ceremony the next day. It was the first time we meet. It was the first time I see her. I stared at her with admiration, looking at her choice of clothes, her undone hair, she was carrying her huge laptop that must be ages-old. “I am sticking with her,” I told myself.
She didn’t stick back. She left me alone in the ceremony, she left me because that’s the right thing to do at these situations. You leave people at times of need because there are more pressing issues in Syria.
Then Bassel died three days later. I don’t want to go there yet.
A month later I sent her another message on Facebook inviting her to drink Arak with me and a friend. She gladly accepted the invitation and that night a huge argument occurred between both of me and Lulu, and my friend, who for some reason thinks 14 March people in Lebanon are authentic in comparison to 8th March guys. I loved Lulu’s politics that night, I was proud of myself for assuming to have good judgment on people.
Then I started seeing Lulu in demonstrations for the coming two months. We held hands and shoulders. We sang and danced in the streets among tens of other protesters. She started to become part of my life and imagination.
Barzeh is under shelling.
The same Barzeh we used visit to demonstrate and carry our weird banners, whose activists and families protected us from regime raids, that Barzeh, the smiles and unexplainable feelings, are all under shelling.
I called Lulu on the phone: “Barzeh, Lulu! Barzeh!”
I was in Jdeidat Artouz that night trying to have a normal date, but I met Lulu 30 minutes later in central Damascus, along with two doctors and we went together to Barzeh.
An activist from Barzeh was coming to meet us at the entrance because snipers are all over and he knows how to get in safely.
But the sniper hit our truck anyways, I was holding Lulu’s hand. I was making sure she’s safe with me, I felt that night that my responsibility is to keep this woman alive. That God sent me to keep her alive.
I follow her wherever she goes. I listen to her anger, disappointments ,passion, and how she talks about love.
I continued to be her bodyguard for the next three months. These three months of being underground, from a friend’s place to another, we were raided, we were held in checkpoints, we were under shelling in so many places, but we were not the same.
All this affected me. I was scared most of the time, I was scared that I am losing something, something very precious that I have always took it for granted; humanity.
I did not want to be tougher. I feared being tougher than this. “Being human is all I have,” I told myself. I cannot be human if I continued living like this.
Or that’s what I convinced myself of, in order to leave.
I left my inspiration, my strength and my discovery.
And I will do it all over again, make no mistake. I will do it all over again to leave you again.
Facebook messages are all I am getting from you. Everyday.
Today I complete my 32nd year. And all I wish for is for you to remain alive till I see you again. And since I know you very well, I know you..
I know that you’ve always been the revolutionary I couldn’t be. And if I was a little bit like you, for a moment, it was just for you.
Here’s to Lulu and to all Syria’s courageous and unknown revolutionaries! Here’s to popular revolutions!
3 thoughts on “Lulu”
missing good people in life seems like we have nothing to but to continue struggling for their and following their way , this thing makes us proud of believing their ideologies and thoughts .
sorry for what happened to Lulu , HOPE SYRIAN will be free sooner or later and definitely she ‘ll be pleased.
You know what, I always say that I don’t want to put my love ones back in Syria in difficult situations, they went through enough poverty and humiliation in their lives. So I wander all around many places talking about Syria using an alias so no one would recognize me. But my love ones are more brave than me, they are inside and they do everything in their powers to aid and reach out. I am proud of them and more sad because I need to shrink to not drag any attention to them. once, I read that a Hummingbird after death just vanish, nothing is left behind, no bone nor feather, and I hope that one day I will vanish too and my pain and sadness vanish with me.
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